Sometimes it was all she had, and she had clung to it, desperately trying to keep her sanity. That vision was a Thomas Kincaid painting of a shingled cottage, with pink roses climbing a trellis beside the front door. A fieldstone chimney at one end suggested a cozy fireplace, and the mullioned windows glowed invitingly, as Kincaid cottages always do. A gently curved path led over an arched stone bridge above a brook. She could almost hear the brook burbling. Tall old trees crowded behind the house and a soft light covered it all with peacefulness. Rose Ellen would one day live in such a house. She did not know when, or how, but the dream was all she had. She showed the picture once to a cousin, but had never again showed it anyone. Trudy had laughed. “Sentimental twaddle. Romantic nonsense. Places like that don’t exist. Get real.” But what’s wrong with sentiment, with romance, with having a dream?
