• If you'd ask us now about Camille Reese, you'd find an uncommon silence amongst an anxious group of women. We all remembered the first day she'd moved in. It was a day long awaited, for as soon as the aged 'For Sale' sign was uprooted from its place in the rough soil at the front of the lot, we knew someone had finally taken interest in the monumental, vacant house which stood proudly in the background. The only residence which had graced it within the prior three years was the unkempt, grabby fingers of ivy winding up the old, regal beams. It was an aged Southern charm that, with work, could glow in the vivacity of its past colors.

    The woman herself was a classic work. The neighbors and I gathered about the block to observe her from the moment she slipped one pale leg from the driver's side of the moving truck. Beneath a warm beam of morning light her milky skin shimmered with an ageless boast. Her hair was something like a cheap champagne, with highlights of golden framing her round, happy face in a shaggy bob. We drew closer to introduce ourselves with merry words of welcome and hands heavy with baked goods, as neighbors do. Upon closer speculation she looked somewhat disheveled, with dull amber eyes which seemed to embrace a suppressed flame. It was clear now why she chose this house, why Camille Reese--she spoke her name quickly, nervously--had selected the mature Southern treasure.

    We were very curious about her, actually. She left the house many times, sometimes returning with paint cans and draperies, other times merely with papers, but never with company. We'd detected a sort of isolation with Camille that we couldn't quite place to a meaning, but nevertheless we invited her many times to join us in the mornings, to sip a bold breakfast roast and speak of the happenings of the day before. Camille never joined us. She was polite, very polite, with a heavy grin and an aggressive shake of her head, and she'd assured us she simply had too much to do that day. And so, we accepted that our neighbor, who'd taken on the smooth deterioration of the long-vacant lot, simply did not wish to chat.

    One day, however, one of us from across the street had noticed there seemed to be someone visiting Camille. That day, we'd met like all week days, huddled on a crisp morning of an early-Autumn Thursday. Two silhouettes danced in what we guessed would be the parlor--had she made any progress, any who? We now observed the charm of a house, and it seemed to be shaping up, if only a little. The paint was still peeling and the shrubs still untrimmed, and indeed we'd expect this to be done when she'd moved in. But how long had it really been? Weeks? Months? Silhouettes became figures now, as she carefully opened the front door to dismiss her company. He was tall, quite hardy, his hair short and his expression stern. He was the first visitor we'd ever seen enter the house of Camille Reese, and the only.

    His silver sedan became more and more common, as did Camille. In fact, this is when she began to join us in the mornings. The first day was a surprise, as she happily flitted across her yard in a mustard-hued sweater dress, to greet us that morning. We'd forgotten her previous disregard and welcomed her neighborly, and we found her to be quite pleasant company. She kept her hair in a flip now, tidy and womanly, and sparkling golden eyes always signaled her delight. It was only moments before we'd learned of the man, Edward Rose. We learned a lot from her. He was a good man, a hard-working man, a settled man, as settled as the tarnished ring worn hesitantly on his fleshy fingers. But, Camille was happy, and we were settled with that.

    With more frequent visits from Edward came a vibrant home, a house which quickly was becoming one to boast of. Seasoned siding was revived with a fresh coat of a light, flattering cerulean. Untruly hedges obeyed a heavy trimming and willingly invited company upon the pristine walkway. The house now stood blissfully upon its lot, proud and beaming, as was a very merry Camille, waving from behind honey curtains. We reveled it as it grew, and sometimes we stopped in our steps to admire the love and care which was much overdue for the old Southern monument.

    It was when we noticed the grass began to reach out amongst the pebble walkway we knew. The driveway was desolate, as did seem the house, for the lights were seldom active. We knew she was inside. We knew Edward was not. His little silver sedan hadn't graced our suburban streets for many days, and since the first Camille had not joined us for coffee. We'd called once or twice, only to be delivered to machine. One of us even knocked, but she must have been busy. For weeks after we merely poked our heads from over our secure picket fences, eyes amongst an unyielding row of pallid wood, peering at the dismal Southern charm that had once been a growing pleasure.

    We saw her once, actually. It was approaching evening, and she'd found peace on a decrepit rocker amongst the porch. She was watching, but what we could not determine, as the only reflection in those dark, sorrel eyes was an empty canvas of solitude. She seemed wrapped in a blanket of a dress, something of a plum color. I can't say for sure of the rest of us, but intrigued I watched from the security of my kitchen, my finger tipping the blinds so that I may behold her, Camille Reese. I feel they did, as well. But we'd tried to speak with her, and it must have been we'd all had the same idea to leave it well enough alone. We'd concluded Edward Rose had finally found value in that tarnished gold band amongst his fingers, and indeed we left it at that.

    It was a Sunday. The clouds would not break to suit another crisp morning of sunshine, of hope. Even so, all of us, the bothered neighbors of our quiet suburban street, left our houses that day. It was around the same time, our contemporary heels clicking amongst the cement of the sidewalk, that we gathered like a family of deer across from the house of Camille Reese. The authorities were bothered as well, and we gave them all the information we could, and they left us with that. But we knew. They removed her body, her cold, pale body from the house with a protective white sheet to shield her from our sad, inquisitive stares. We'd known, not then but from the moment we saw the flashing lights, that Camille had no longer considered herself a neighbor, that she'd relinquished her duties to her neighborhood and her house, her Southern charm. We'd also known, that perhaps, only perhaps, if we'd approached her that day, she'd reconsider us, reconsider her quiet life on our quiet suburban street. The thought was fleeting as they carefully, and slowly, lifted her body into the ambulance.

    If you'd ask us now about Camille Reese, we would bite our lips in respect. She was a victim, of what we can not be sure. But presently we know, and we will always know as we evaluate the aged 'For Sale' sign replanted in the front of the lot, that Camille Reese rose and fell with the house of hope.