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highway that would take me even closer to the lake. The highway here was more scenic, lined with a couple of rural towns and then long patches of oak trees with nothing to interrupt them. It was odd how familiar it al seemed, how recent the memory. Final y, I reached a stop sign, so faded by the sun it was almost pink. Below it was another sign, black and rectangular with white lettering that read, Welcome To Woodland Dunes.
    I didn’t hesitate. I stepped on the gas and crossed the threshold. I was back.
    3
    I passed Franklin Park, a wide plot of green land fil ed with benches and swing sets and a white gazebo. On the other side of the park lay the softly lapping waves of Lake Michigan. After the park, there were smal cottages on either side of the street.
    Soon, the houses became larger and grander, the old section of Woodland Dunes. I pul ed over and checked the slip of paper where I’d written Del a’s address. I’d never been to her house before.
    The street that Del a lived on turned east, away fromthelake,andcoursedthroughthewoods.This was where people built homes when they couldn’t afford to live near the water, and as a result, the homes became smal er and closer together again.
    Del a’s house was a trim ranch with brown aluminum siding and a smal , unfinished wood porch with a lone rocker. An old blue station wagon was parked in the driveway. I pul ed in behind it.
    I climbed out of the car, not even pausing to check my face in the mirror or grab my purse. I hadn’t seen Del a, the woman who’d been housekeeper and nanny to my family, in more than twenty years, but suddenly I couldn’t wait.
    There was no bel , so I rapped on the screen door, which rattled back and forth in its casing.
    An older Hispanic man dressed in jeans and a golf shirt opened it.
    “Is Del a home?” I said.
    He gave me a kind smile. “Are you Hailey?”
    I nodded.

    “Wel , hel o. I’m Martin, Del a’s husband. I met you years and years ago, but you probably don’t remember.”
    “I’m sorry, I…”
    “Don’t be sil y, you were a little girl. Del a wil be so happy to see you. She went out to the store. Wasn’t sure when you’d be here. Would you like to come in?”
    I tried not to show my disappointment. Now that I was there, I was impatient to talk to Del a, to find out everything she knew and remembered, but I couldn’t bear the thought of making smal talk in the interim.
    “Actual y,” I said, “I haven’t been to Woodland Dunes in a long time. Maybe I’l just drive around, go by our old house. Do you know who lives there now?”
    Martin looked a little surprised. “Oh, no one lives there. Not for a while. They cal it the Marker Mansion, after the family that original y built the house at the turn of the century. It’s been converted into a cultural center for the town.”
    “So I could go inside?”
    “Sure. They’l even give you a tour.”
    I thanked him, promised to return in an hour, and headed for my car.
    After a five-minute drive, I turned the corner and came face-to-face with the house, the image of my early childhood—its gables, its sloping black roofs, its wide dormered windows on the second floor and the tal oaks and pines that surround the house like a cape. I parked in a large concrete lot that used to be part of the front lawn.
    Turning off the ignition, I stared at the house, taking in the Victorian shape and the broad porch with its white wood railing. The house was dove-gray instead of the creamy yel ow that my parents always painted it, and there were tal bushes where my mother used to plant flowers. Otherwise, the outside looked much the same. It had resided in my memory for so long, a memory I didn’t often visit, that it was strange to see it in person.
    I got out of the car, and as I approached the front steps, I saw a smal iron sign that read:
    Woodland Dunes Cultural Center.
    Formerly The Marker Mansion. Built 1905.
    Tours Daily 10:00, 11:30, 1:00.
    I glanced at my watch. I was