The house was proud and she was lonely, the sort of place that fed on children’s laughter, and a family’s love, and the smell of rosemary lamb roasting in the oven. She had good, honest bones and a willingness to look forwards rather than backwards, to welcome a new family and grow with them, to embrace their brand-new traditions. It struck Laurel now, as it hadn’t before, that her mother’s description of the house might have been a self-portrait.
