Chapter 1
Branna Lind sighed and melted into the seat of the Realtor’s car. She sipped sweet tea; its refreshing coolness flowed and revived her sinking spirits. She offered silent prayers of gratitude. One for the drive-thru, two for the break from climbing in and out of the car as they house hunted, and three for her hair.
The car’s air conditioning fluttered her new short style. Though it had shocked Momma, Branna was thankful she’d taken the risk. Given the sheen of perspiration that covered her skin, long hair in May’s humidity would have made the day even more miserable.
She and Meredith were once again in route to tour yet another house in the small, north Florida town. Day three, and into her eighth hour of house hunting in Lakeview, never had she imagined finding a place to live would top the total-drudgery list. The growing number of rejects doubled her despair. Would she find an acceptable house in a town this size? What kind of a hole had she dug herself into this time?
A home had to be special. A place that called to her the moment she walked inside. A place that said she belonged. Like Fleur de Lis, her family’s antebellum home in Mississippi.
“I’ve got one last place to show you today,” Meredith said briskly. “I’m thinking this one might be what you’re looking for.”
Turning to face the window, Branna rolled her eyes. Before pulling up to each property they’d visited, Meredith had raised her hopes with that phrase, only to dash them every time.
“A ranch in a quiet neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. If you’re interested, I’m pretty sure I can manage a lease-to-buy option, which might be the perfect scenario for you.”
“Cozy,” Branna said breathlessly. “That’s all I want.” It had been her mantra from the start of the hunt. Something had to materialize soon, otherwise room 203 at the mom-and-pop motel by the interstate would be her address of record. That wouldn’t look good when she started her new teaching job at the community college.
“Even though you told me that, cozy means different things to different people. Each property we’ve looked at had a charm of its own. You bring cozy to it.” Meredith grinned as though she’d cleverly discovered the answer to the problem.
“Yes, well, you may be right.” Branna tried to keep defensiveness from her tone, certain that the places they’d seen so far fit Meredith’s definition of cozy, but definitely not her own. Besides, any display of rudeness would not accomplish her mission, and she was grateful for Meredith’s time.
“This one isn’t far from the center of town and only two blocks from the lovely trail around the lake that you like so much,” Meredith told her.
Branna reflected on the worst offenders. The cold modern condo at the country club could only scream cozy to a felon who missed cinderblock walls. The country house had soaring ceilings. If it had mumbled cozy to her, she would’ve have heard it echo, echo, echo, like in the Grand Canyon.
That old yellow Victorian...a truly odd experience. The house, barely a quarter of the size of Fleur de Lis, came with the exact baggage she sought to escape—repairs. No doubt, it had potential to grow into something grand, however, her brain began immediately calculating a list of needed improvements and tracking the ka-ching it would take to make them.
And that was after viewing only the outside. Who knew the condition of the interior? She’d live in a popup camper before tackling a project like that.
Though, in fairness to Meredith, that showing had been an unscheduled stop. The battered white pickup in the driveway prompted the Realtor to investigate. The property was one she owned.
While that detour from their planned list of houses was mostly a short pause in the schedule, that momentary hiatus had caused her to pause repeatedly since then. She rubbed her right hand, the one he’d touched. Why did the man with the battered pickup, a man with whom she’d only shared a casual handshake—a guy she wouldn’t know in a line up—keep popping up in her mind?
Would Mr. Rough-Around-the-Edges buy Meredith’s place? If so, did he have a clue about living in chaos? Which was his future if he bought that Victorian. It wouldn’t take a French-Quarter-sidewalk psychic to predict that living in a remodel was madness. There were enough reality shows on TV to prove her point. Calamity was the norm for the duration of any home-improvement project.
A spark of regret nipped her conscience.