Pain flickers across her face. Her younger brother had been a druggy whom their parents treated like a disabled child instead of an adult with an addiction. They’d bailed him out of jail, paid for dentures when his teeth fell out, bought him a new car every time he wrecked the last one, paid his rent, you name it . . . until he’d overdosed. Mom never spoke to her parents after that, blaming them for her brother’s death. “Well, you know the story.”
She turns her back and steps toward the door. Without looking back, she whispers, “I love you, Ashton, but I won’t be your enabler. You need to learn to stand on your own.”
That was the last time Ashton saw her.
He’d spent years burying the rejection of his family and friends, but now he embraced it—let it fuel him. She’d wanted him to stand on his own, and he’d more than learned that lesson. It was time to begin reclaiming the life he’d lost, starting with a more comfortable place to rest his head. Setting his jaw, he turned onto Walnut Street.
A block and a half later, Ashton pushed against the front gate, which opened with a screech, and stared up at the familiar—or not so familiar—face of his ancestral home. The once beautiful Victorian looked like a faded old woman, barely holding herself together. The facade, once a blend of soft green, deep blue, and eggshell had faded and chipped, exposing the gray boards beneath. Shutters hung off their hinges, boards covered a window on the third floor, and the broken porch stairs made the entire house appear crooked. What had happened here? He knew his parents had moved out of town, but it appeared as if they’d abandoned the house along with him. Grandpa Keller would bust out of his grave if he knew his pride and joy had fallen into such disrepair.
Keller House had been built in the 1800s by his great-great grandfather, one of the original founders of Gilt Hollow. Ashton’s dad used to tell the story at dinner parties, school events, the grocery line—any chance he got to brag that their family had been part of the abolitionist movement, and had migrated from the East Coast with the aim of creating a utopian society. But the idealistic community plan dissolved, due in no small part to Ashton’s ancestor marrying a Filipino woman. Apparently incorporating other races into their Shangri-La didn’t include procreating with them. Run out of town, Grandpa Keller bided his time and returned a decade later, instituting the Little Miami Railroad, becoming mayor, and building Keller House.
As a kid, Ashton had been proud that his home was one of the oldest in Gilt Hollow. He loved that everyone knew he lived in the big Victorian on Walnut.
Not anymore.
Suppressing a shudder, he walked up the weed-infested path. The closer he got, the worse the place looked. He bent down to inspect a hole in the lattice beneath the porch where an animal had gnawed through the wood, and no doubt still resided. At the juvie agricultural center, he’d learned everything from barn repair to tractor maintenance. Ashton straightened and gazed up at the old mansion again. Maybe he could use what he’d learned to fix up the place.
Clearly his parents had given up on it, but they couldn’t legally sell it. As part of the trust from his grandfather, this house, along with a sizable fortune, would rightfully be Ashton’s when he turned twenty-one. So whoever lived inside had to be renting. He would just explain to the current tenants that there’d been a mistake and give them two weeks to vacate. The house had eight bedrooms, not including the old servants’ quarters in the attic, so staying on the premises until they’d found another rental shouldn’t be a problem.
Anticipating a soft place to sleep and a hot shower, he loped up the crooked stairs and lifted a finger to the doorbell. A screech and pounding footsteps from inside made him step back. Squeals of laughter sounded, and Ashton leaned in to peer through a panel of
She turns her back and steps toward the door. Without looking back, she whispers, “I love you, Ashton, but I won’t be your enabler. You need to learn to stand on your own.”
That was the last time Ashton saw her.
He’d spent years burying the rejection of his family and friends, but now he embraced it—let it fuel him. She’d wanted him to stand on his own, and he’d more than learned that lesson. It was time to begin reclaiming the life he’d lost, starting with a more comfortable place to rest his head. Setting his jaw, he turned onto Walnut Street.
A block and a half later, Ashton pushed against the front gate, which opened with a screech, and stared up at the familiar—or not so familiar—face of his ancestral home. The once beautiful Victorian looked like a faded old woman, barely holding herself together. The facade, once a blend of soft green, deep blue, and eggshell had faded and chipped, exposing the gray boards beneath. Shutters hung off their hinges, boards covered a window on the third floor, and the broken porch stairs made the entire house appear crooked. What had happened here? He knew his parents had moved out of town, but it appeared as if they’d abandoned the house along with him. Grandpa Keller would bust out of his grave if he knew his pride and joy had fallen into such disrepair.
Keller House had been built in the 1800s by his great-great grandfather, one of the original founders of Gilt Hollow. Ashton’s dad used to tell the story at dinner parties, school events, the grocery line—any chance he got to brag that their family had been part of the abolitionist movement, and had migrated from the East Coast with the aim of creating a utopian society. But the idealistic community plan dissolved, due in no small part to Ashton’s ancestor marrying a Filipino woman. Apparently incorporating other races into their Shangri-La didn’t include procreating with them. Run out of town, Grandpa Keller bided his time and returned a decade later, instituting the Little Miami Railroad, becoming mayor, and building Keller House.
As a kid, Ashton had been proud that his home was one of the oldest in Gilt Hollow. He loved that everyone knew he lived in the big Victorian on Walnut.
Not anymore.
Suppressing a shudder, he walked up the weed-infested path. The closer he got, the worse the place looked. He bent down to inspect a hole in the lattice beneath the porch where an animal had gnawed through the wood, and no doubt still resided. At the juvie agricultural center, he’d learned everything from barn repair to tractor maintenance. Ashton straightened and gazed up at the old mansion again. Maybe he could use what he’d learned to fix up the place.
Clearly his parents had given up on it, but they couldn’t legally sell it. As part of the trust from his grandfather, this house, along with a sizable fortune, would rightfully be Ashton’s when he turned twenty-one. So whoever lived inside had to be renting. He would just explain to the current tenants that there’d been a mistake and give them two weeks to vacate. The house had eight bedrooms, not including the old servants’ quarters in the attic, so staying on the premises until they’d found another rental shouldn’t be a problem.
Anticipating a soft place to sleep and a hot shower, he loped up the crooked stairs and lifted a finger to the doorbell. A screech and pounding footsteps from inside made him step back. Squeals of laughter sounded, and Ashton leaned in to peer through a panel of