The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (that summer book .txt) 📕

to have it back so that would be her first stop. After the tailor’s, it was on to the jewelry story to pick up Marc’s watch. Finally, to the dry-cleaner for her own dress, a red backless number that required an extra month of spin classes and weeks of nothing but lettuce and rice crackers just to zip it up.

Jill rounded the corner, feeling her mood lift. She loved shopping and the Village Green was one of her favorite places to go. The streets were quiet, and sturdy oak trees cast the road in dappled shade. Despite the warm September days, the nights had cooled, and the leaves were just beginning to change. Bright spots of orange and yellow spattered the trees on the avenue, providing a preview of the glorious fall color to come.

As Jill turned the corner from the parking lot onto the wide sidewalk on the main road, she happened to remember a comment Ellie made once, about how all the women in Jill’s world looked the same. Scanning the shoppers ahead of her now, Jill wondered if her friend had a point. Most of the women here did look the same, wearing tennis whites or black leggings, with their blonde hair pulled back in slick ponytails. Their casual appearance gave the impression they’d come from the tennis court or the yoga studio. But it was their jewelry that gave them away: diamond stud earrings as big as acorns and wedding sets so polished that they practically glowed in the sunlight. These women wore expensive jewelry with a casual disregard that Jill had never understood.

Between the tailor’s and the jeweler’s was an authentic Italian deli. As Jill approached the open door of the shop, she was greeted with the unmistakable scent of real deli: spicy garlic and crusty bread, fresh parm, and marinated olives. She’d ventured inside once or twice when Marc was out of town, and the subs were the best she’d ever had. She paused for a moment to breathe it in and remember exactly the sandwich she’d ordered—salami and provolone with sautéed peppers and onions, dripping with olive oil and vinegar and dusted with oregano and red pepper flakes. Jill’s stomach rumbled just thinking about it.

But now wasn’t the time, so she kept walking.

Marc’s birthday party was tonight, and she had a dress to get into. Months of hard work and deprivation wasn’t going to be wasted on one deli sub.

The jeweler buzzed her in, and Jill approached the counter, feeling the deep pile carpet underfoot and the chill of air conditioning on her skin.

An older man emerged from the back office. “Mrs. Goodman, how nice to see you.”

“Thank you, Joseph. It’s nice to see you too.” It still made Jill uncomfortable, addressing an older person by their first name. Aunt Sarah would have been horrified, but Marc said retail workers expected it. So she did.

“You’ve come to pick up Mr. Goodman’s watch?”

“I have. Did you have any trouble with the inscription?”

Months before his birthday, Marc had picked out a watch for himself and tasked Jill with “running out to get it.” But the watch was in demand and impossible to buy. Marc had placed himself on half a dozen waiting lists around the country, and his impatience grew as his birthday approached. So it was serendipitous that the little jewelry story in the Village Green telephoned to say they had secured one. Marc had texted the words he wanted engraved and asked Jill to pick it up in time for his party. She’d balked at the price—the watch cost more than the entirety of Jill’s student loans—but Marc had insisted, and he’d always been sure of what he wanted. Who was she to deny him on his birthday?

“Trouble? Not at all,” the man said smoothly as he offered her a chance to examine his work before wrapping it up.

The truth was that Jill had forgotten what inscription Marc had ordered, she’d been so busy with her portfolio and the Brockhurst interview. Even so, she nodded when she saw it and thanked the jeweler for his time.

On her way home, Jill chose a scenic route, through the leafy streets of the older neighborhoods in Summit, though it meant a longer drive. Traces of fall emerged here and there. In a few weeks, the canopy that shaded the neighborhood would be awash in deep red, bright orange, and golden yellow, and the afternoon sunlight filtering through would be bright pops of color. Maybe she could come back with her camera, photographing whatever looked interesting and adding the best images to her growing portfolio.

But she didn’t have time.

Jill might not have a paying job, as Ellie pointed out, but that didn’t mean she was any less busy.

Too soon she came to the stoplight that marked the boundary between the older neighborhood and the development Marc had created, and the effect was still jarring. She remembered what the land had looked like before Marc developed it, and if she were honest, she had preferred it before. Marc had ordered bulldozers to raze old growth trees and dump trucks to fill in the duck pond. They’d brought in heavy machinery to scrap away the topsoil and laid down ugly gray gravel and parked construction trailers where flowers once grew. Neighbors hated it and threatened to sue. As a peace offering, Marc had promised to plant new trees, double the number his company had removed, and that seemed to satisfy them. But three years later, the seedlings he’d planted still required regular watering, and Jill suspected it would be decades before they grew tall enough to cast shade.

The light turned green, and Jill continued to the home she shared with Marc.

The house was built on a hill, above the rest of the neighborhood, and was clearly visible from the front gates. She’d been stunned when Marc first showed it to her, overjoyed to call such a place home. Eight thousand square feet. Seven guest bedrooms, each one en suite