Gravel crunched as the taxi pulled up to a white Victorian with a wraparound porch trimmed in gingerbread fretwork. The driver shifted to park and met Ashley’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You sure this is the right place? It looks abandoned.”

Now there was a euphemism. Ashley peered up at her childhood home. Creepy was more accurate. The house could have been the set of a horror movie. The white paint was cracked and peeling, and the wooden clapboards sagged in several places. But the shabby facade was nothing new. She’d grown up hearing her mother complain about how expensive it was to maintain the rambling house. Cheryl had never bothered to do more than the most basic repairs.

What was different was the utter…emptiness. Even when Cheryl had been between jobs—or husbands—she’d still put flowers on the porch or a mat by the door. There was nothing like that now. Grayish cobwebs clumped around the spindles. Although the daylight was fading, Ashley could see a thick coat of dust on the porch. Over a dozen windows stared down like rectangular, black eyes.

“Uh, miss?”

The driver’s voice pulled Ashley’s attention away from the house. “Yes?”

“I asked if this is the right address. It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here in a long time.”

She dug in her purse for the fare. “Yeah, it’s the right place.” She handed the driver a twenty and a few singles. “Guess I have some painting to do this spring. Keep the change, please.”

“Thanks.” He unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door. “Here, I’ll get your bag.”

Ashley got out and waited while he pulled her suitcase from the trunk. The house loomed against a purple sky streaked with wispy clouds. Overhead, the first stars winked into existence. She’d forgotten how beautiful twilight was in Texas. The harsh city lights of L.A. made it impossible to see the stars.

A gust of cool air swirled around her legs, raising the fine hairs on her arms. Should have brought a jacket. San Antonio’s proximity to the Gulf meant it saw mostly mild winters, but Prattsville was just a little too far north to escape the cold. Locals probably wouldn’t bother with coats or sweaters, but it had been seventy degrees in L.A. that morning. She tugged at the three-quarter length sleeves of her boat neck shirt.

The driver plunked her bag at her feet. Before he got in the car, he jerked his head toward the house next door. “When you paint, you should do something like that. I hear people will pay big bucks for these old places when they’re done up nice.”

Ashley followed the direction of his gaze. Whoa. He wasn’t kidding. She’d been so nervous about her homecoming, she hadn’t noticed the neighboring property. There were a handful of Victorian homes on the street—most of which had seen better days. For as long as she could remember, the house next door had been a run-down rental that had housed a succession of tenants. The owner was an elderly woman who lived with her daughter in Laredo and rarely visited. That had apparently changed, because the house was transformed. It was the same Queen Anne style as her grandmother’s home, but someone had replaced the slate-tiled roof and repaired the sagging porch. And where the siding had once sported a dreary gray paint, now there was an odd but satisfying mix of tan, blue, and red. The color combination should have clashed, but somehow it worked. The front door was stained a dark cherry red, and a large green wreath nestled against the old wood. The place was gorgeous. Whoever had done the renovations must have spent a fortune.

The taxi driver tipped an imaginary hat. “Well, you have a nice night, ma’am.”

“You too.” Ashley waited until he backed down the driveway, then made her way to the side door by the kitchen. Her heart sped up as she placed her hand on the knob. The door’s small window reflected her face as a pale oval. During the flight and the forty-five-minute drive from the airport, she’d avoided thinking about the inevitable confrontation with her mother. Now that it was upon her, anxiety flooded her veins. Putting it off wasn’t going to make things easier. Better to just get it over with. Like ripping off a Band-Aid…

The knob didn’t budge. She tried the door again. Locked. She put her head against the glass and cupped her hands around her face. The kitchen was dark, as was the dining room beyond it. At least she had some time to think of what she was going to tell her mom. Sighing, she stood on her tiptoes and felt around the trim at the top of the door. Thankfully, the Victorians had designed their homes to keep in as much heat as possible, which meant the doorways were lower than those in modern houses. After a few seconds, her fingers bumped against something solid, and a skeleton key clattered to the ground.

“Gotcha,” she said, scooping it up. She unlocked the door and was immediately hit with a wave of musty air. She flipped the light switch near the doorway. Overhead, the fluorescent light flickered to life, bathing the kitchen in anemic yellow. She took a few steps inside and pivoted in a slow circle. The countertops were bare. On the wall above the window, a single nail showed where a clock had hung. The old walnut buffet still dominated one wall of the attached breakfast room, but the table and chairs were gone. She went to the fridge, but she already knew what she’d find when she opened it.

Empty.

Wherever Cheryl Thompson was, she definitely wasn’t living in this house.

An avocado-green telephone sat on the counter, its long cord bunched in a thick knot. Ashley tossed her purse on the counter, then grabbed the receiver and punched in her mom’s cell phone number. “Come on…pick up.”

On the fifth ring, Cheryl’s airy soprano echoed over a bad connection. “Hello?”

Ashley sagged against the counter. “Mom?”

“Ashley?” Static crackled. “Why are you calling from Grandma’s number?”

“I’m in Grandma’s house.”

“What?” Alarm laced Cheryl’s voice. “Why?”

“I, um, wanted to surprise you.” Ashley curled her finger around the phone cord. “Surprise!”

There was a pause, and she could almost hear her mother purse her lips. “Well, I’m obviously not home, Ashley Ann.”

“Right.” Ashley waited. Silence stretched on the line. She wound another curl around her finger. “So, where are you?”

“Oh.” Cheryl laughed. “You’re not going to believe this, but Greg and I eloped!”

What? Greg… Greg… Ashley squinted as she tried to match the name to a face. “The guy who fixed your computer?”

“Ashley Ann.” Cheryl’s voice took on a scolding tone. “He’s a computer programmer. He builds…oh, what do you call those little square picture things on your phone…”

“Apps.”

“Yes! He builds those.” The words cut in and out as interference buzzed over the line. “His business has really taken off in the past year.” In the background, a long, low horn sounded.

Ashley flexed her finger. The cord wrapped around it in tight green coils. “That’s great, Mom.” She tried to make her voice light. “Were you going to tell me about the wedding?”

“Well, of course. I tried to call you a few weeks ago, but your cell didn’t seem to be working.”

“Yeah, I’m…” Ashley stood up straighter. “I’m doing one of those technology diets. You know, where you don’t look at social media and stuff for a while.”

Another pause. “That must be a California thing,” Cheryl said. Her tone made it clear she really meant “stupid thing.”

“Uh huh.” Relief made Ashley slump against the counter.

“Anyway, it’s not like we planned on getting married,” Cheryl said. Another horn split the air, its tone as mournful as an elephant’s trumpet.

“Where are you? It sounds noisy.”

“Grand Cayman. We’ve been here two days.” Her voice drifted away, as if she’d turned her head. “That’s actually the ship’s signal to board.”

“You’re on a cruise?”

“Of course. How else do you think we got here?”

“But you hate the water.”

Cheryl laughed. “Yeah, well, Greg is crazy about it. And the Dramamine makes drinking more fun. We got married on the ship—at sea, actually.” The connection improved, and she sounded winded—as if she were walking. “I couldn’t have been more surprised. One minute Greg was on one knee proposing, the next minute we were standing in front of the captain exchanging our vows. Isn’t that neat? I didn’t know sea captains could perform marriage ceremonies.”

“And funerals,” Ashley muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ashley pushed away from the counter and paced to the middle of the kitchen. The phone’s cord tugged at the receiver she held against her ear. “About Grandma’s house—”

“I sold it.”

Ashley tightened her grip on the receiver. “Are you serious?”

“Six months ago.”

“You sold Grandma’s house? Why would you do that?”

An edge entered her mother’s tone. “Because I got a good offer. Because it’s a money pit. In case you haven’t noticed, Ashley, the place is falling down.”

“But it’s… Our family has lived here for generations.”

The edge sharpened. “Since when do you care about that? Every time you’re in Texas, you can’t wait to leave again.”

Words stuck in Ashley’s throat as dozens of memories flooded her mind. She’d grown up in this house. Had watched cars pass on the street below from the attic window. Had stubbed her toe on the broken tread on the second step of the main staircase. She knew every hidden corner, every secret alcove. Knew how to jiggle the handle on the upstairs toilet just right so it wouldn’t run all night. She dropped her gaze to the cracked, worn linoleum. There. A faint reddish circle marked the spot where she’d dropped a whole can of spaghetti sauce. Yes, she hated Prattsville, but the house was special.

It was hers.

Grandma Winnie had left it to Cheryl, but Ashley had always assumed it would eventually fall to her. It was old and broken down, but it had good bones. It just needed someone to peel off the layers of age and neglect.

Static buzzed across the line. Another horn rang out. Cheryl cleared her throat. “Listen, I have to go. The ship is leaving, and they don’t wait for stragglers. If I’m not on board—”

“Wait.” Ashley gripped the receiver. “I came here thinking… I mean, I was going to stay here for a while. At Grandma’s.”

“What do you mean? Like for a visit?”

Under any other circumstances, Ashley might have laughed. Cheryl made it sound like Ashley had just announced she was taking up taxidermy or thinking about robbing a bank. “Yeah. I thought it might be nice to be home. Temporarily.”

“Well, the house isn’t mine anymore, hon. I signed the papers months ago.”

The dull beginnings of the headache Ashley had felt in the airport returned. “Who bought it?”

Cheryl’s voice grew muffled again. “The same man who bought the Addison place next door. Tall. Quiet. His name is Smith—”

A horn blast cut her off, the sound so loud Ashley pulled the receiver away from her head. When the noise died away, Cheryl’s words broke up as static crackled. “—have to go.”

Ashley stuck the phone against her ear. “Mom?”

“—I’ll call you later.”

“Wait! Do you have his number? Mom?” There was a click, and the line went dead. Ashley looked at the receiver, then whirled to the counter and pumped the hook switch. As soon as she got a dial tone, she punched in Cheryl’s cell number again. The call went straight to voicemail. “Dammit!” The curse echoed off the barren walls.

Ashley tossed the receiver in the cradle, leaned over the counter, and put her head in her hands. What now? She was stuck in Texas with no place to stay. She had eight hundred dollars in her bank account. That would buy her a ticket back to L.A., but what happened when she got there? Pia’s dad owned their apartment, and Ashley had always paid month to month. Even one month’s worth of rent would drain her savings. She couldn’t let her reserves dip below five hundred—one week in L.A. and that money would poof right out of existence. Her furniture refinishing business brought in cash, but it was unreliable. Some months she had so much work she couldn’t keep up. But for every busy period, there were times she went weeks without a project.

Her stomach growled, interrupting her thoughts. She straightened and put a hand to her middle. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She’d had a soda on the plane, even though the calories were terrible for her diet. Well, there’s one perk of not having to audition. She’d always heard the camera adds ten pounds. To hear casting directors talk, it was more like twenty. Being short made it worse. She just didn’t have the room to hide extra weight. Whenever a restaurant waiter brought out the free pre-dinner bread, she drank water and concentrated on her cutlery or the tablecloth or anything to distract her. It was a miracle she hadn’t developed an eating disorder. Food wasn’t her enemy—more like a casual acquaintance she had to be careful not to get too friendly with.

The overhead light flickered. She pushed her hair away from her face and blew out a huff of air. Food was the least of her worries. Right now, she was officially homeless, and the only thing she knew about the house’s new owner was his last name.

Smith.

Ashley snorted. Like that information was any help. She went to the sink and tried the taps. Lukewarm water poured from the faucet. She gathered some in her palm and drank it. As she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, she looked out the tiny window above the sink. Her gaze snagged on the house next door. Cheryl had said the same person had bought both houses. And someone had obviously put a lot of money and effort into that one. That meant he was probably living there, right? He might be willing to let her rent Grandma’s house for a bit.

Her heart sped up. She grabbed her purse and left the kitchen, excitement pumping through her veins. What was that old saying? When God closes a door, he opens a window. She flew out the back door. Or, in this case, another door. Grinning, she made her way across the lawn.

So much for an open door. Ashley stared at the lacquered front door of the old Addison house. The cherry-colored stain was so shiny, she could see her own blurry reflection in it. She’d stared at herself for the last five minutes as she knocked and pressed the doorbell. The green wreath trembled under her latest round of raps. She dropped her hand and stepped back, head cocked for any sound from within.

Silence.

If the Smith guy lived here, he wasn’t home right now. She looked around the porch, which was painted the same crisp tan as the siding. The last rays of the dying sun threw long shadows over a pair of wicker sofas with dark-green cushions. It would be so nice to sink into one right now. She’d left L.A. before lunch, and weariness hung around her like a blanket. Across the lawn, her grandmother’s house rose from the ground like a decaying tooth, its white paint marred by dirt and neglect. Goosebumps pricked her arms. It was nearly dark. The temperature must have dropped another ten degrees. She glanced at the red door, slung her purse strap across her body, and headed home.

As the grass crunched underfoot, her mind whirred with thoughts. What to do next? She had no place to stay. No job. She didn’t have food or a car—

She stopped in the middle of the lawn. A car… How could she have forgotten? As the sun disappeared on the horizon, she hurried the rest of the way across the lawn and headed toward the small, freestanding garage at the back of the house. Her grandmother had stopped driving after an unfortunate incident with a stop sign, but she’d never allowed Cheryl to sell her car. She’d insisted on renewing her insurance and registration, even after she’d fallen one too many times and Cheryl had panicked and moved her to an assisted living home in Laredo. “I want to know it’s out there if I need it,” Grandma Winnie had said, a stubborn look settling over her features. Exasperated, Cheryl had parked it in the garage and thrown a tarp over it. An older model Buick, it only had a few thousand miles on it, since Grandma had never driven farther than church or the local grocery store.

Ashley entered the garage through a side door. As she fumbled for the light switch, she muttered, “Please, please, let something go right for me today.” She found the switch and flipped it on.

Yes! The unmistakable outline of a sedan sat under a dusty blue tarp. She picked her way around stacks of boxes and tugged the tarp away. Dust motes whirled, forcing a cough from her lungs as she popped open the door and stuck her head inside. “Keys, keys, keys,” she chanted, mentally crossing her fingers.

And there they were. Her grandmother’s keyring—a miniature cowboy boot with “Everything’s Bigger in Texas!” printed down the side—dangled from the ignition. She leaned farther inside and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Slowly, the fuel gauge climbed past the middle hatch mark. Not only did she have wheels, she had half a tank.

She withdrew from the car and did a little victory dance, the rubber soles of her knock-off Sperrys squeaking on the concrete. Her predicament had just gone from dire to hopeful. Optimism flooded her, and the start of a plan formed in her mind. She’d drive into town and grab enough groceries to get through a day or so, then she’d return to the house and wait for the mysterious Mr. Smith to come home. Surely he wouldn’t mind letting her stay for the month. She’d offer to clean up the house, or maybe even refinish some of the furniture squirreled away in the attic. She was an actress. She could talk anyone into anything.

She walked to the garage door, unlatched it, and pushed it up. The hinges squealed as it locked into place. She eyed it for a second to make sure it was going to stay put, then slid into the car and put it in gear. As the big car rolled onto the gravel driveway, she relaxed into the leather driver’s seat and flicked on the radio. Upbeat country music filled the cabin, the lyrics about cruising down a back road and blowing through stop signs.

Grinning, she turned up the volume and lowered the driver’s side window. The cool air soothed away the last of her headache.

Finally, her luck had turned.