I wasn't very far into the story when I became so immersed into it, I knew a novella just wouldn't do. The character, Addison Lockhart, is gifted in ways that make it easy for me to create a series just for her. I will keep on writing my other series, of course, but I am having a lot of fun with this. I am about 20K into it, and with discipline on my part, I am hoping to have it out by February 2013. But for now, I hope you enjoy chapter one!
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Addison Lockhart
watched the cab dart back down the country road, leaving nothing but a small dust
cloud in its wake. She squeezed her eyes
shut, taking a deep breath before spinning around on the heel of her boot. When her eyes reopened, she wasn’t prepared
for the image before her. The house was
much older than she thought it would be.
It was dingy and needed work—a lot of it. Several of the wood shingles were missing
from the exterior. A piece of railing on
the left side of the porch had been partially ripped off, its jagged pieces forming
splinter-worthy spikes. Still, there was
a sense of grandeur behind the tattered facade—something regal in the
architectural beauty of the domed turret and multi-gabled, steep-pitched roof. But even with all of its flaws, none of the
windows on the house were broken, not even the magnificent stained-glass one in
the center of the top floor.
The property surrounding the Queen
Anne style house was heavily wooded, its thick, mature trees stretching over
the back of the mountainside. Addison
stood silent and still, taking it all in, hoping she’d made the right decision
in coming here. An owl sounded off in
the distance, making her aware of his presence.
She glanced into the trees, knowing he could see her, even though she
couldn’t see him.
Addison
looked over the acreage to the house next door, noticing what appeared to be
the pitch of a roof peeking through the trees.
There was a good distance between the two houses, which was exactly what
she was looking for. Peace and quiet. Serenity.
No horns honking, no traffic jams, no sirens…just the faint sound of
water coming from what she assumed was a nearby lake.
One week earlier Addison had been
seated in a stuffy lawyer’s office, only half-listening to the man on the
opposite side of the desk as he rattled off what had been left to her according
to her mother’s will: money, jewelry, the autographed record collection that
she’d never been allowed to touch, and a house.
A house?
And
not just any house.
“I
don’t understand,” Addison had said. “My
mother owned a house in the country?”
The
lawyer simply nodded, his eyes scanning the document for additional
information.
“But
my mother never mentioned it to me before.”
The
lawyer gazed over the rim of his glasses, staring at her like she was a child
who asked too many questions. “From what
I understand, it was the home your mother grew up in. Are you sure you’ve never been there before?”
Addison shook her head.
“Says
here your great-grandmother owned the house outright,” he continued. “It looks like it has been passed down over
the last two generations from mother to child—the child always being a female.”
Addison
slouched back into the sofa. “My mother
was an only child, so was I. There
wasn’t much of a choice.”
“Well,
I suppose you could just deed it to your father if you don’t want to bother
with it,” the lawyer suggested. “Or you
could sell it.”
Addison
snapped out of the memory and stared back at the house again, wondering why it had
been abandoned for so long, forced to deteriorate year after year. If no one wanted it, why hadn’t it been sold? It seemed a shame for such a thing of beauty
to go to waste.
She
placed a foot on the front porch step, testing its durability by tapping it
with the toe of her boot a few times until she was confident it wouldn’t cave
in when she applied more pressure. When she
felt certain that it would hold her weight, she stepped forward, continuing the
ritual on the next step and the next one after that. She made it onto the porch and walked to the front
door, stopping to notice a metal nameplate that had been drilled into place over
the mailbox. It was too grimy to read. She looked around, seeing nothing she could
use to clean it off. She pulled the
sleeve of her sweater over her hands and wiped the nameplate down, reading the
words aloud: “Grayson Manor.”
Addison
reached into her pocket, pulled out a key ring, and inserted the largest of the
keys into the door. It clicked,
unlocking instantly, but when she pushed against the solid mass of wood, it
didn’t budge. She tried again, this time
ramming the side of her body into the door, shoulder first. It hopped forward an inch, but it still wasn’t
enough. She backed up, gripped the
handle, and tried again, this time with more force. The door swung open, almost flinging her to
the floor in the process. But she didn’t
mind—she’d gotten what she wanted—she was in.
The
inside of the house was as run down and charming as the outside. Addison expected to find rooms full of
furniture with sheets thoughtfully placed over the top, preserving their
integrity. Instead pieces were
haphazardly strewn about in piles, many of them broken. The place appeared to have been looted—maybe
more than once.
Off
to one side was a kitchen, but it didn’t look much like one. All of the appliances were missing, and the drawers
and cabinets contained nothing but layers of dust and rat droppings. Addison ran a finger across the front of a
cabinet door, wiping the dust off on her jeans. The dark walnut cabinetry was simple, yet
refined and beautiful.
She
left the kitchen and entered a large, open living space with wood floors. The room reminded her of a dance hall and was
large enough for a banquet or a large party.
A trio of sullied chandeliers was suspended from the ceiling, the one in
the center being far more grandiose than the others. It may not have been what she expected, but with
a lot of restoration work, she could create the house she’d always wanted. A house she could call her home. It felt good to finally be alone. The only problem was: she wasn’t.
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