Page 1 of One Lustful Summer
Chapter 1
Maggie
“This can’t be right,” I whisper to myself as I take a few steps forward. I make a full circle in the driveway, waiting for someone to run out of the woods to tell me it’s all a joke like the old MTV show. But there is no Ashton Kutcher and no camera crew.
I look at the house number barely hanging onto the wooden pole of the porch; the numbers staring back at me, proving that I am in the right place. The biting Texas wind whips my hair in my face, the ends a sharp sting to my eyes as I try to avoid tears while staring at my new—and frankly terrifying—new home. Perched atop a hill overlooking a field of wildflowers sits the farmhouse. Though in person, it’s not so picture perfect. There’s not much truth in the pictures from the online ad.
Overgrown weeds choke the foundation, broken windowpanes expose the house to the elements, and weathered wood with peeling paint reveals the house’s neglect. This wasn’t the new start I had envisioned. I had to escape the relentless pressure from my family and the bitter sting of my broken engagement. This is supposed to be my new start, the beginning of my life, the life I’m going to make on my own. But this, this is a disaster.
Don’t cry, don’t cry. I will myself to hold it together. I’m meeting the local realtor here in the next few minutes to get the keys. When she shows up, I’ll just have to tell her it was amistake, that I would like a refund. Could you get a refund on a home purchase? I know you can’t, but one can ask. No, this was my making, and I wanted, no needed, to see this through.
It was impulsive, reckless even, but it was a decision I made on my own. A decision that I was going to have to live with. A learning opportunity, as my Nana would say.
One minute, I was scrolling through real estate listings, drowning my sorrows in a sea of overpriced apartments and cookie-cutter houses. The next, I was clicking “buy” on a farmhouse that needed a little TLC in a town I’d never even heard of.
Paulding, Texas. It sounded like something out of a dusty old Western, a place where tumbleweeds rolled down Main Street and everyone knew everyone else’s business. And now, here I was, surrounded by the very real, very overwhelming evidence of my questionable decision-making. I could hear my mother fussing about how I’m quick to make a decision based on emotion and not using my brains before I go off and make a decision. Her hands clutching the pearls around her neck as she looks at the other ladies in the county club for sympathy.
My family had suffocated me. The relentless competition, the constant striving to be more of what they wanted me to be and less of who I was. The shallow relationship that would have bound me to be the next generation of a Stepford wife—it had all become too much. I needed to escape, to find a place where I could breathe. A place where I could rebuild myself, brick by weathered brick. But the reality of the task before me is far more daunting than I’d imagined.
The farmhouse has a certain sad beauty, though. Beneath the layers of neglect, I could see glimpses of its former beauty. Tall windows, a few of them broken, suggest large rooms inside. The large wrap-around porch, once bright and welcoming, now has a weathered look with peeling paint andbroken railings. The overgrown garden, though a challenge, whispers promises of vibrant blooms and bountiful harvests. There is something about its quiet strength, the way it seems to be patiently waiting for someone to breathe life back into it. Something that resonates with my own need for a fresh start. But how will I manage it all? Where would I even begin?
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires had me spinning on my heels. I watched as a white full size SUV pulled up behind my black hatchback. I watch as a pair of cowboy boots hit the ground and watch a beautiful woman emerge from behind the open door.
“Maggie,” she calls out, as she holds her hand above her eyes to block out the sun. She looks like what I envision as the typical southern woman. Average height, with long blonde hair in beach waves, a white tank top and straight, wrinkle-free boot-cut jeans over cowboy boots. What every cowboy wants.
Then there is me, five-foot nine, board straight brown hair, and the clumsiness of a new-born foal. Not what every cowboy wants.
“Hey, Lauren, right?” I ask as I make my way towards her.
She meets me halfway, a huge smile on her face. “The one and only.” She quirks as she holds out her hand.
I take her hand in mine and give the courtesy handshake. “Nice to meet you,” I tell her. It’s the truth. It’s nice to meet a new face out here. But now I’m about to wipe that smile off her face. “Listen, I don’t know how to say this in the best way. But this is not what I was expecting.”
And there it is. The smile drains from her face. But I’ll give her credit. She’s quick to fix her reaction. “It needs some TLC, that’s for sure.” She shifts on her feet, staring out at the house and grounds. “How much of the property have you seen?”
Her question catches me off guard. There’s hope in her voice, like she’s a magician waiting to surprise you with the finalact. “Just what we see here. I’ve been too unsure of this … all of this,” I wave my hands towards the house at a loss for words.
“Okay, so let’s do this. We can take a quick tour. I want you to hold all judgement until the end.”
“Is there a magical armoire that will lead me to a better place?”
“It’s no Narnia, but it can be your own special escape.” She answers with a smile.
I internally give the air a fist bump. I know, lame. But no one ever catches some of my references to classic literature. “Right on, show me what you got,” I reply with my first genuine smile since I’ve been here.
Lauren takes off to the right side of the house, and I follow. We pass by overgrown bushes I am certain at one point bloomed beautiful flowers and gave a sweet scent to the air around. I imagine colorful buds that opened in the sun, and becoming a haven for bees and birds.
The windows on the side of the house are still intact, but covered in a hazy grime of dust and forgotten webs. The creamy gray color now replaces the long-gone white paint on the split and crumbling trim around the glass.
We crest the back corner of the house and I’m in complete shock. My feet stay rooted where they are as I take in the scene before me. It’s a complete one-eighty from the front of the house. The back porch has a few years on it, but I can tell from here that it is more structural sound than the front.
“What is this?” I question out loud. It’s a different world back here.
Lauren chuckles as she takes the few steps up to the porch. “This is the beginning of your new place.” She taps on her phone for a moment and then takes the key book that is locked on the back door handle. I watch her punch in a few numbers and the lock unlatches, and she catches the keythat falls out. “Let’s take a look,” she suggests as she looks at me with a smile, excitement dancing in her features.
“Let’s do,” I answer as I take the stairs and meet her at the door. Excitement thumping through my veins as my vision changes with this new development.
Chapter 2
