IT WAS PRETTY MUCH AS HE REMEMBERED.

The population was larger; a couple of new subdivisions had opened north of the town limits, but the main street had stayed the same — well, almost the same. Several new businesses blossomed along the strip; a noisy video and electronics store, another using a reproduction of Titan's, Venus of Urbino to tout the spiritual benefits of organic health food, as a representation of results to be achieved.

A smattering of boutiques extolling fashions of various items, their superficially arty facades prominent among the older, original shops. Everet Polasky's grocery store still sported its droopy awning, providing shade for the crates of produce stacked in front of the windows. And the pharmacy was as antiquated looking as ever, with large dusty jars of herbs and specimens, decorating the sculptured glass display window.

The bus slid past the Fawn Do Hair Salon, stirring memories of Darlene and a long ago, passionate night in the park. There was a new sign out front, proclaiming the addition of 'The BeauTy Cosmemporium', and he gagged mentally over the name.

A silver Porche Spider bounced out of the lane beside the bank and rocketed off up the street, a head of thick blonde hair whipping in the air from the passenger seat as it passed. Melaine Braithwaite, he thought; another memory, somewhat ruefully jarred awake. The bus slowed and pulled to the curb just past the Ashton Hills Playhouse, and he got off, standing for some time after it left, to gaze at the site of his traumatic initiation into the world of theatre.

The walk from Main Street to his aunt's brought another flood of memories, which in retrospect, seemed foolish and some even comical, but at the time, had been terrifying. He hesitated as the house came into view, wondering if coming back had been the right move. When the letter arrived, forwarded by Virginia Adair, the Toronto Press theatre critic, his first instinct had been to ignore it, a spontaneous reaction brought on by guilt.

Since leaving Ashton Hills nearly two years past, he had not called or written to his aunt once. The veneer of success that had driven him to the city proved too thin to withstand the machinations of big city theatre; Nigel simply wanted to write plays. Instead, he found himself caught up in a mélange of politics, back scratching, and a series of humiliating meetings and interviews.

Despondent and angry—mostly with himself—he retreated to an existence of daytime odd jobs, and nights spent bemoaning his lot in the anonymity of darkened movie houses. Then the letter arrived. It contained no pleas for contact, no words of worry or concern, just a terse message informing him of the upcoming, twenty-fifth anniversary celebration for the Ashton Hills Playhouse. Signed, V. Moss.

The property looked exactly the same; the flowering Dogwood was larger and a little scruffier looking, the tulips had bloomed and died, their brown stems still loitering across the front of the porch. The roof trim had received a touch-up, but there was paint flaking from around the windowsills, evoking a parallel to the wrinkles of old age.

He mounted the wooden steps and raised the massive old knocker, letting it fall with a remembered thunk. About to knock again, the door suddenly opened, and Victoria Moss stepped back, a hand fluttering limply to the front of her blouse.

"Well slap me silly . . ." She appraised him in silent surprise for a moment, and then shaped a formal smile. "Come in, come in." Taking his arm, she drew back into the hallway, pushing the door shut and giving him in a perfunctory hug.

"Victoria. How have you been?" They broke apart, and he watched her scuttle down the hall, waving him to follow. When he reached the atrium, she was already twisting the cap off a bottle of beer and thrusting it at him.

"To an unexpected surprise," she piped, slugging a mouthful from her own bottle. She grabbed his arm and steered him to the glass table where they had shared so many meals; the ritual of a welcoming greeting completed.

"Sit down and take a load off." Her eyes sparkled, on the edge of tears he thought. "How was the adventure in the big city?"

"Victoria . . . look, you have every right to be upset with me." He blocked her protest with an upward palm," I left here confused, disappointed and- and- I don't know . . . morally bankrupt. All I know is that after spending a year and half in Toronto I finally realized just how naïve I'd been." He twisted his beer bottle on the table and fell silent.

"You could have called – or written." Her tone was a mix of reprimand and sympathy. Nigel took a few small sips from the bottle and smiled wryly.

"I know. I'm sorry." They sat silently, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the positive tick of the ancient wall clock. Victoria plucked at the button on her sleeve considering whether to reply. "I wanted to call . . . I just- I just didn't . . . couldn't." he added.

She sat up straight taking a deep breath and finished her drink in one long swallow, pulling herself out of the chair and ambling out to the kitchen. "I just made this, this morning," she said, returning to the table and setting a piece of apple pie in front of him.

"These from your neighbour the spy?" He gave her a grim smile referring to his first mistaken introduction to the apple variety.

"Yes," a warm chuckle, recalling their first meal together, "some things don't change." She sat down and leaned her arms on the table, fingers clasped. "Why did you come back, Nigel?"

*****

The sound of traffic was noisier than he remembered, but the smells of the late flowers, and trees, through his open window spawned a familiar comfort. He lay in his old bed staring past the angle of the window at the black, night sky, replaying his uncomfortable reunion with his aunt.

They had talked well past midnight, gradually resolving the awkwardness and eventually regaining a small measure of the humorous banter once shared. Nigel recounted his disillusioning experiences in the big city, and Victoria gave a summary of the changes around Ashton hills. When finally forced to respond to her question about returning, he confessed a need to revisit some things he felt he'd left undone, some emotional baggage that needed unpacking. Victoria's response bordered on frustration.

When he left, two years ago, for the city, she had hashed out all the pros and cons of what they had done, and how they both had achieved their goals. The guilt he felt justified, she said, was patently ridiculous, yet here he was again, whinging about how he still felt. She'd snarled a disgusted good night and gone to bed, leaving him sitting alone with his misery.

Now he lay in bed staring at the night and wondering why he came back. Exhaustion overtook his quest for answers, and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.