She looked at the binoculars.
“Oh no.”
Margaret laughed.
“I forgot I still had these.”
Camille took the second coffee.
“What are you going to do with them?”
Margaret considered.
“Birdwatching?”
Camille stared.
“For real this time.”
They both laughed.
Margaret packed them.
On moving day, half the block appeared.
Sanjay carried boxes.
The Lopez teenagers moved furniture.
Lorraine brought sandwiches.
Camille stood in the driveway organizing people as though she were still running federal operations.
Margaret watched her.
“Some habits really don’t go away.”
Camille pointed toward the moving truck.
“Get inside before I assign you something.”
Margaret smiled.
Before leaving, she walked across the street one last time.
The pool glimmered behind the house.
Jazz played softly.
Almost exactly like the afternoon everything started.
“I’m glad you bought this house,” Margaret said.
Camille looked at her.
“That is a very different review from the first one.”
Margaret winced.
“I deserved that.”
Camille smiled.
“Yes.”
They stood quietly.
Then Margaret asked the question she had avoided for years.
“Do you forgive me?”
Camille looked toward the street.
“I forgave you enough to know you.”
Margaret waited.
“I don’t know if forgiveness needs to be more dramatic than that.”
Margaret nodded.
“I’ll take it.”
Camille shook her head.
“That is still your problem.”
Margaret laughed.
“Fine.”
They hugged briefly.
No cameras.
No neighborhood post.
No audience.
That felt appropriate.
After Margaret moved, Camille occasionally received postcards from Colorado.
Most contained mountains.
One showed a bird sanctuary.
On the back, Margaret wrote, Using binoculars responsibly. You’d be proud.
Camille laughed and placed it on the refrigerator.
Years later, after Camille had moved again and Willow Creek Lane belonged mostly to younger families, the story still circulated among longtime residents.
The details changed.
Some versions said Margaret called 911.
She had not.