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"The girl sat in a corner, just a few yards away. She leant against the pink-and-silver papered wall, hugging her knees. Her hair was darkish blonde; her voice sounded tired. She wore a white t-shirt that was too big for her. The face peeping through the curtains of her hair was a girl's, but she definitely had the eyes of a woman — guarded, even hostile. Angique didn't remember seeing her before at the Club."Are you new in here, honey?" I guess so."The answers were short and non-committal. It annoyed Angique, as she had done nothing to give this complete stranger a reason for hostility. She had come to the Club in the wee hours of the night. It was something she did more often, having worked late. She just needed a glass of something and the Club was always open. She thought it was one of its main attractions. She liked sitting here, sipping and thinking in the middle of the night — sometimes chatting with another night owl, sometimes alone. Tonight she thought the room would be. .. ! The lyrics of that sweet old country ballad from the 1930's came drifting back on Memory's Tide as I started to write this story ... hence the title.June Richardson wrapped her arm protectively around her daughter's shoulders. They stood watching a lone rider riding away from the wagon train. A few minutes later, he was just a small speck on the distant purple horizon."Mommie, do you think he'll ever come back?" I don't know, Honey," her mother replied honestly."Will we ever see him again?" Maybe someday," the mother replied, scolding herself inwardly for shading the truth.How can I tell her that Emmett Lacey is a tumbleweed? Sarah misses him now, but in a week or two she'll no doubt forget all about him, June thought, trying to give herself some justification for the half-truth she had just told her daughter.Times Passage...The Richardson family located on the outskirts of the Barbary Coast section of early San Francisco, where they put down roots. Later, even after the death of.
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