Deep green shrubs frame her parents’ house, and pink dogwoods and lavender lilacs hang heavy in bloom, their colors smudged beneath the late May blue sky.Amy indulges her senses. The scent of spring floats in the fragrance of new blossoms and damp lawns, misting the air like cologne. A twig and berry wreath hangs on the wood plank front door, and inside, just past the foyer, dark paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the family room walls. A worn oriental rug covers the dining room floor and framed family photographs sit on lace runners on living room end tables. But Amy spends her time at the oak table in the kitchen, staying beneath the security blanket of sound and aroma, of food baking, of tea and coffee simmering, of the clink of silverware to mugs. This is why you come home again, as simple as that. On their first night there, her father lights a fire in the kitchen fireplace and that’s when she knows.This is her old home, not Grace’s. Which is exactly why her plan won’t work.
