All the old homes in this part of town were maintained in wonderful condition, their gardens nestled in courtyards enclosed by wrought iron gates and sturdy brick walls. Rayne turned the rental car into a lane and pulled into a driveway. “This is it.” “You grew up in this house?” She stared at the wraparound porch supported by white fluted columns, a fragrant evergreen Confederate jasmine winding its way along the trellis on the south-facing wall. Even though the building must have been over a hundred years old, it looked as though it belonged on the front cover of a Southern Living magazine. “Yeah, it's not too bad for an old shack,” he teased, and climbed out of the car. He went around the other side and waited for her, but she sat there. “Are you coming?” She pressed a hand over her abdomen. “I'm nervous,” she admitted with a grin. He rolled his eyes and took her by the arm. “You can stare down Olympic-caliber pitchers and survive people twice your size mowing you down at the plate, but you're scared to meet my mom?”
