A/N: This chapter is dedicated to a dear friend of mine, whose courage and humor inspires me greatly. I am so lucky to have you as a friend…Bee, this is for you. I also want to thank my friend S!E for answering my hundreds of questions. Thanks again to CanaceErinn, my fabulous beta.
Red…orange…even pink. The sunrise peeked up over the hills of Laurel, shining its rays as the new day began. The sound of chirping birds filled the air, as if to signal to the world that it was time to awaken and start over; the dew on the grass sparkled like millions of tiny diamonds. As the sound of running footsteps echoed through the early morning air, the summer morning was still and quiet, despite the cars on the interstate ten miles north of the park.
Green was everywhere to be seen; it was a beautiful sight, indeed. Everything had dropped its spring blossoms, while giving way to the leafy green that was waiting to come forth into the world.
Muscles twisted, working harder and harder. Arms pumped, front to back. The ponytail swished, side to side. Sweat ran down the rounded cheek, leaving a trail behind it…slick, wet, and shining. The harder the run, the faster the breaths came, puffing all the way.
As she ran through the park, Marcy chided herself for her not being in better shape. Gosh…I didn't realize…how out of shape…I am…That's what I…get for…slacking.
Rounding a corner on the path, her thoughts went back to the blowup the other day. She knew that the argument had been foolish, even though she really hadn't participated in it; perhaps this was for the best – drifting away from childhood friends, moving on with one's life. This just wasn't the way she envisioned it happening. It was supposed to be they didn't get together as much…phone calls decrease…promised lunches not fulfilled…until one day, they just don't speak anymore.
She realized at that moment what she needed to do.
Enchanted Hills was one of the oldest subdivisions in the city limits; Azalea Lane, one of the original residential streets, had Victorian homes and mansions of different colors and sizes running up and down each side of the street.
When the city was first coming into its own, the founders decided to build their homes along this way. In its day, Azalea Lane had been the most prestigious place to live in the new city. Mostly people of wealth lived in these parts, but as with everything, there were exceptions.
Enormous mounds of coral-colored azalea bushes, specifically the Rhododendron prunifolium, lined the lane, making it one of the most beautiful streets in Laurel; in fact, Azalea Lane was so renowned for its namesake that national gardening magazines often came just to shoot the azaleas.
Along other streets in the neighborhood, different flowering plants could be found, making the streets bright and alive with rainbows of color. Just to illustrate, there was Daffodil Hill, Tulip Circle, Pansy Place Drive, and many others that echoed the names of the streets. It was also in this neighborhood that the city's first garden club, Horticultural Haven, was founded.
Many of the families that lived in the neighborhood could trace their history back to the founding of the city; the residents at 24 Azalea Lane had had family move into the neighborhood during the affluence of the 1800s. The Ashford family, prestigious though they were, watched as their sons were sent off to fight in the War during the 1860s…one son returned, the other did not.
The surviving son, Jonathan, took up residence in the family home once more and began to study for a career as a lawyer. He became extremely successful in his chosen career and a few years passed before he decided to marry one of the neighborhood girls.
She was a beautiful girl of sixteen when they wed; people around the city had predicted that she would marry the mayor's son, a businessman of many years. He, too, was a success with his career path, but to hear her describe him, he was "as plain as the color of my oatmeal." With her winsome smile, sweet voice, and loving personality, it was not a wonder why so many young men dreamed of marrying this young beauty with the jade-colored eyes.
So with the eventual blessing of her parents, Mirabelle Broussard married Jonathan in the summer of 1870.
Violet Ashford Prescott, the current resident at 24 Azalea Lane, was the granddaughter of Jonathan and Mirabelle Ashford. She had grown up in Laurel and eventually married her childhood sweetheart, John Prescott, when she was eighteen; together, they had three children: Marianne, Margaret, and John Jr.
Ten years after the youngest Prescott had moved out, John died of a massive heart attack at the age of sixty. Now all alone in the huge Victorian house, Violet cherished the visits from her grandchildren; she adored all twelve of them, but she enjoyed the visits with Mimi, Marianne's younger daughter, the most.
Across town, Mimi was on her way to visit her Grandmother Violet at her home on Azalea Lane. She had always adored her grandmother since she was a small girl and now was no different. As she rode her bike through the neighborhoods to Enchanted Hills, Mimi thought of how she used to dream of growing up to be just like her grandmother.
Tall, regal, and still very beautiful at a young sixty-nine years, Grandmother Violet was an inspiration to all of her family. She was wise and always knew exactly what to say, even if it was detrimental in nature. Of all the family she had, Mimi knew Grandmother Violet would have the answers for her problem.
The local bookstore, Laurel's Librairie, specialized in hard-to-find books, specifically nonfiction and international reads; the owner, Aimeé Desbois, had settled in Laurel ten years ago after immigrating to the States from Pau, France. A petit raven-haired woman, Aimeé and her store were quite popular with the residents of the southern city.
One summer morning, Aimeé was doing some inventory in the back room when she heard the front door open and tiny tinkle of a bell. Placing her pen down on the desk, she poked her head outside of the room to see who had entered the shop.
"Ah! Bonjour, Mademoiselle Marcy!" She greeted her customer with a lilting French accent.
"Bonjour, Miss Aimeé!" Came the reply, spoken in the ways of a person living in the Deep South. Of course, the French greeting sounded out of place, but since Aimeé had moved to Laurel, French and its ways were slowly becoming ingrained in the city.
"What can I do for you today, chere? A new book on Hannibal, perhaps? Or one on the customs of India?" Aimeé always tried to please her customers, as she was well aware of the fact that without them, she would not have her beloved shop.
Looking down at the piece of paper held in between her thumb and index finger, Marcy stepped forward to where the French woman stood by the counter.
"Actually, Miss Aimeé, I need to find this book. It's urgent."
She took the paper and glanced at it, raising an eyebrow. "I will do my best to find it for you, Marcy. I make no promises."
Smiling broadly, Marcy assured her that her word was enough reassurance for her. Lightly touching Aimee's elbow as they exchanged farewells, the young woman turned and walked out of the shop into the summer sun.