Startled eyes turn to face me, and my mind confirms what my heart already knows. I would recognize those gentle green eyes, dark eyebrows, the strong chin covered in sexy scruff and shaggy mane anywhere. Isaac's back in town. He is just as beautiful...
They say if the walls could speak, they would tell a thousand stories. The Malcolm Estate is so steeped in history, it could tell more than most.
Its roots stretch back to 1621 when my great, great, great something grandfather Sir Thomas Malcolm sailed to America. He was originally slated to come on the Mayflower, but he had family matters to attend to, so he sailed the following year on the ship Fortune. He built this house for his sweetheart in Lexington, Massachusetts in 1645.
I've lived in this house with my father and sister (and now niece and nephew) for most of my 30 years, and know every nook and cranny of it. It is a handsome brick Colonial, with nine front facing windows, black shutters and brilliant flower beds that dot the veranda. Years later, a portico was added, making it even more charming.
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As much as I adore my home, I love the gardens even more. Depending on who's within, the house can sometimes be loud and noisy, even hostile, but the gardens are a sanctuary of calm and reflection.
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Usually, that is. Today, I feel little peace as I weed the flower beds and shake the soil loose from the tender roots. I feel just as uprooted as the plants.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check it. It's a text from David.
Well? Are you in?
I am flooded with equal parts hope and dread.
It is a way.
It's the only way I see right now to save my family's home, but it's a long shot. My fears are too strong to attempt this on my own, and if I try, I will be undermined by reminders of my place, of my limitations. I can only attempt this if I am away from here, and even then, it won't be easy for someone like me, someone who prefers to live quietly in the background rather than draw attention, someone who has failed more than once.
The cell phone buzzes again. You have to hand it to David. When he wants something, he's persistent.
C'mon. You know you want to do this.
He is wrong. I don't want to do this. I want it done for me. I want someone to step in and see the brilliance of my ideas and execute them without me having to beg or compromise. But fairy godmothers don't exist, unless they come in the form of pushy friends pushing me outside my comfort zone.
