This story begins, as many others do, with a "Once upon a time." Whether the "happily ever after" follows, remains, as yet to be seen…
Once upon a time there was a young woman named Lolita Brown. She lived just outside the small village of Lacock in Wiltshire; a picturesque little inhabitance that time seemed to have almost forgotten. Every week, an eighteen year old, brown haired, blue eyed Lolita would ride her bike into town with the excuse of visiting the modest local library, where she devoured books with rapidity and yearning unparalleled by any other in the close-knit community.
The townspeople called her scholarly. They believed her head was in the clouds. She simply nodded her head politely at their compliments and their criticisms. After all, this was a small town, and if Mrs. Humphrey thought she should put down her books and try to find herself a husband like a good girl, she was entitled her opinion. And if Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, the owners of a small antique store, thought Mrs. Humphrey should stuff it, well, they were entitled to their opinion as well.
What no one, apart from perhaps his mother, the widowed Mrs. Williamson saw, was the ulterior motive Lolita had long since had in her weekly two-mile excursions to town – her son, Jamie.
Like clockwork, Lolita tied her bike up in front of their family owned bakery, walked down the rode to the library with her arms full of books, and reemerged two to five hours later with a brand new pile of treasures, waiting to be read.
Mrs. Williamson watched from the window of her husband's life's blood, as the girl braved the heat, the cold, the snow, and the sun for the sake of her precious books. And on the days when her dear Jamie wasn't slaving away in the back, learning to manage the business that would one day be his, she watched the dopey smile smear itself across his face. She watched her beautiful blonde haired, blue-eyed son trip over himself as he sprinted out the door, following the lovely Lolita, simply for the honor of carrying her many books. And if Lolita's cheeks grew pink, and her smile wider at the attentions of her son, Mrs. Williamson had the decency to avert her eyes and allow the young lovers their privacy.
James Williamson was twenty years old on the cold November day he finally plucked up the courage to ask the fair Lolita out on a proper date—though courage may hardly be the proper word for it. It wouldn't be until after their wedding that his friends, and in fact, the majority of the townspeople would allow him to forget the way he stuttered his way through, and eventually barked out his admiration for her. In the years to come, he would simply ruffle Lolita's hair, and say, "It was my charm that won her over in the end."
They were married young, at the ages of twenty-one and nineteen, after he botched the proposal by accidentally dropping the ring to the ground on her nineteenth birthday, in clear view of all their friends and family.
He, of course, turned well and truly scarlet. Lolita simply pursed her lips to keep her smile contained before quirking her head and in her most studious, inquisitive voice said, "I don't suppose you had something you wanted to ask me, did you Jamie?"
The first two years of their marriage were filled predominately with happiness, interspersed with the occasion quarrel, and in a devastating blow, the sudden death of James's mother came only two weeks before the couple's second year anniversary—only a fortnight before they discovered Lolita had been pregnant, but had miscarried due to the stress Mrs. Williamson's death had brought the family.
The couple soldiered on through their losses, and came out loving one another all the more. By the time they were in their early thirties they had had three more miscarriages, and had lost both of Lolita's parents, one to cancer and the other to heartache. Having given up the idea of ever having children of their own, they instead poured all of their love into their bakery, and the village children who adored both the middle-aged couple, and the free biscuits.
But then, miracle of miracles, they were gifted with one last chance, when at the age of thirty-seven, Lolita fell once more pregnant. She was put on bed rest due to her age and her past complications during childbirth, and seven months later on a humid July night, a daughter was born, and christened Alesea, after James mother. But everyone would grow to call her by her middle name, which much better reflected her vibrant spirit: Leola.
Then, on an early April night, Provenance interceded in the small family's life one more time. After handing the Williamson's the miraculous gift of a wonderful and healthy child, fate seemed to decide their luck had run out. They were mere blocks away from home when it began to rain. They had left their two year old daughter with the neighbor while they'd ventured out for groceries. It was entirely too sudden. One moment their car was on the road, the next it was hydroplaning, out of control, and the next it was pinned between two trees, and its occupants were both dead.
The small town of Lacock still often remembers the Williamson's, and wonders what became of their only child, whom with no family to speak of was put into the system, and presumably, given to a foster family.
And that is where our story truly begins…