The Turner estate was quiet in the soft light of late afternoon. A calm breeze drifted through the open windows, rustling the linen curtains and carrying the scent of rosemary and sunlight through the halls.
Hope sat cross-legged on the library floor, a notebook open in her lap, pen hovering midair. Around her were scattered photographs, can-do shots of her childhood, scanned letters from her mother’s archives, quotes scribbled in the margins of Cassie’s old journals.
She had begun to write.
Not an article. Not a speech.
A book.
Her own.
Cassie walked in quietly, holding two mugs of tea. She paused in the doorway, her eyes soft as she watched her daughter stare down at the blank page, the beginning of something personal, sacred.
Hope glanced up and smiled. “Caught me in the act.”
C
