all her old questions might somehow find new answers. Wasn’t going to happen. The returned letter Aunt Lauren, Mom’s sister, hadn’t even bothered to open made that much clear.
She halted halfway up the brick path and pulled the For Sale by Owner sign from underneath her arm. Grass and dirt gave way easily when she pressed the metal stakes down, using the wedged heel of her ankle boot to push the sign into place.
She took a step back, resolve or maybe relief filling her sigh. And then, a smile. Because she was being dramatic. Sam would make fun of her if he were here. Mara and Marshall would laugh. Lucas would stand by, quiet as ever at first, but then he’d most likely be the first to ask if she was sure she wanted to do this.
“Yes, I’m sure.” The wind hushed her whisper.
But Paige must’ve heard it anyway. “Um, if you’re, like, having a moment or something, I can wait back at the car.”
A laugh pushed free. “I can’t help being theatrical. It’s in my blood. My mom was an actress back in the day.” Before she’d married Dad and settled into her role as a senator’s wife.
Jenessa hurried to the entrance, balancing her box in one hand and with her other, plucking a key from the pocket of her maroon skirt—a perfect match for the scarf taming her near-black waves. The moment she opened the door, the familiar scent of Mom’s old lavender perfume wafted over her. Stupefying, how it managed to linger even after all these months.
Paige’s gasp accompanied the sound of her steps as she followed Jenessa.
“I’m telling you, Parker, don’t let the foyer fool you. It goes downhill from here.”
“The floor is marble.” Paige set her box on the antique accent table near the bottom of the open, winding staircase.
“And ridiculously cold in the winter.” Jenessa draped her jacket over the stairway banister, then moved into the sitting room. With its pale blue walls and gaping windows bordered by paisley-print curtains, it was the most formal of all twenty-four rooms.
The most cluttered, too. Mom and Dad had loved their things—figurines, books, travel souvenirs. A mess of carelessly packed boxes edged up to one wall.
“Jen, this place is . . . it’s . . .”
“Prim and overly decorous?”
“Elegant and incredible.” Paige was already moving through the room, skirting around the pearl-hued, tufted chaise lounge and craning her neck to take in the tray ceiling. She crossed into the music room, where the only thing more impressive than the floor-to-ceiling white bookshelves on the far wall was the grand piano in the corner.
Paige’s gasps trailed from room to room—Dad’s mahogany wood-paneled study, the adjoining library, the dining room with its waist-high wainscoting and crystal chandelier, family living room, spacious kitchen.
She could understand Paige’s awe, she supposed. The house itself was in good shape—modern enough for daily living, yet awash with the kind of character that came only from age and craftmanship. It just needed a thorough purging and some homier touches.
Finally, they passed through the French doors that led into the sunroom at the back of the house. Orange sunlight poured through generous windows, skimming over the surfaces of the wicker loveseat and glass table.
For the first time since they’d stepped into the house, Jenessa grinned. “Did you finally run out of gasps?”
“Maybe words, too.” Paige’s gaze was fixed on the expansive yard—two acres of land including Mom’s once-glorious flower gardens, a riot of color in years past, complete with a quaint stone path and a fountain, currently nonfunctional, in the center. A thicket of ancient, craggy trees bordered the property.
And there at the back, nestled in the brush—the little caretaker’s cottage with the pretty blue shutters and matching flowerboxes Aunt Lauren used to fill like clockwork each spring.
Paige turned to her. “I can’t believe you’re really going to sell this. It might be a little messy but—”
“A little messy? Paige, this house is like a massive garage sale gone wrong.” Maybe she could hire someone to sort through everything or organize an auction or estate sale. She’d need to do something about the overgrown gardens, too. The broken fountain. That tree that had fallen down during the tornado of 2014 and crushed the shed.
Huh, perhaps sticking that For Sale sign in the ground had been a little hasty. Still, it was the symbolism of it all. She might feel differently about the whole thing if the family legacy hadn’t crumbled years ago. If she wasn’t the