By Chance

Chapter 1: Tara-2

Tara loves Southern hospitality. She's more at home here than she'd ever been in New York. “Hank, one of these days I'm going to surprise you and order a triple-mocha latte,” she says with a smile.

“Well, you're one of our favorite customers. If you ask for something different, I'm going to do my best to please.”

Playfully, and she feigns a Southern drawl with a wink. “Al' righty Hank, I'm sure you'll do your best.”

A hearty laugh escapes Hank's mouth as he prepares the coffee. “Almost there, Tara, just work on your drawl a bit more, and for sure, no one will know you're a Northerner,” he says with encouragement.

Tara prefers her own dialect, but now and then, resorts to her family's vernacular. “I'm working on it, Hank.” She picks up the extra-large coffee and redistributes her bags to one shoulder. Looking down at her feet; she wishes she'd brought her flats. With a wobble, she prays her heels won't catch in the cobblestone, sending her careening flat on her face. What an embarrassment that would be. She frowns at the image of her body splayed on the ground—dress up exposing her underwear, and bags and coffee flying in the air. A chortle escapes her mouth. Now that would be a comical sight.

“Happy thoughts?” Hank asks.

Tara winks, trying to contain her laugh. “Always. Have a good day, Hank.”

Outside the café, she pauses, takes a sip of coffee, and stares at the unassuming three-story structure across the street. McGrady's, a social gathering spot for prominent Charlestonians, has been around since 1778. She takes another sip, and cast a dubious peek at her high heels, wondering if she'll make it to work without a blunder. Relishing the glorious weather, she decides to chance it and continues with careful steps past Rainbow Row—colorful eighteenth-century townhouses painted brilliant pastels. In the distance, she spies AHD's headquarter and expects her staff is busier than usual. The sweepstake period began only five days ago, and the entries have been staggering.

Taking another sip of coffee; she stares at the Pink Lady several homes away. There's a sense of déjà vu as she grows closer to AHD's headquarters, an old colonial built in the late 1700s. She feels she'd seen AHD long before she moved to Charleston. Perhaps in a dream, she ponders. The first time she saw the home, she named it the Pink Lady. It felt as if she'd been saying that name all her life. The appellation prevailed. Soon, the entire staff dubbed headquarters the Pink Lady.

She wonders why the Alcotts, with their considerable real estate, donated this particular home. An Architectural Digest article explained the home was granted to AHD with hopes of furthering their passion for architecture. However, every article she's read about the Alcotts' affluence, failed to mention fortunes their ancestors made as slave-owners. As much as Tara wants to forget s*****y, she's finding it difficult in a town steeped in history.

The uncanny familiarity lingers as she makes her way closer to AHD's gate. The home's immense Southern charm always causes her to stop and gape at its quintessential antebellum design. The three-level home, bound by a dark wrought iron gate, old-world gas lamps, Palmetto Palms, and tall Angel-Oak trees, sits at a distance from the street. Tara especially likes the oak trees in spring and summer—dripping with Spanish moss. Painted a pastel pink, the home's steep white columns and sweeping white piazzas give it an old-world charm. Suddenly, there's a tinge of recollection in her memory.

A vibrating sensation tickles her hip. Stopping a few steps from AHD's gate, she quickly retrieves the vibrating cell phone from her tote. “Tara McPherson.”

Silence …

Glancing at the phone, there's no call or text. That's odd. Suddenly, the sun catches the phone's silver rim. She squints and quickly places the phone back in her bag.

Tom

After two weeks of sleepless nights and planning his trip to Charleston, sheer vengeance is the only force driving Tom. Parked a few blocks from AHD's headquarter, he waits anxiously for a glimpse of the Dream Team. Dressed in clothing he's worn two days, hair unkempt, face unshaven, he appears vagrant as he sits idly waiting.

Across the street from AHD, he watches vigilantly from a bench. Moments later, he notices a tall, slender woman walking slowly while sipping coffee. A striped silk scarf adorns her neck, and a knee-length, honey twill trench coat, displays long slender legs accentuated by brown suede pumps. She's every bit the cosmopolitan woman with a large tan leather tote hanging from her shoulder and a laptop bag in her hand. She's a balancing act in motion as she manages coffee in the other.

Discreetly, Tom snaps a picture of Tara approaching AHD's front gate. Just as he snaps the photo, she pauses across from him, pulling a cell phone from her tote. Sunlight catches the phone's silver rim, altering her quizzical frown to a flinch. Tom squints at the luminous light, pondering the sudden radiance circling Tara's body. With the same alacrity as the light, Tara replaces the phone in her bag.

Unwaveringly, Tom watches Tara open the large gate with difficulty, pick up her laptop case, close the gate with one foot, and saunter wobbly on the cobblestone pathway until AHD's front door closes behind her. He stands, crosses the street, and stops at the gate. Frozen, he hesitates before making his next move.

Tara

Inside ADH's foyer, there's a sense of past and future converging. Two massive white columns flank the foyer and open to cantilevered marble stairs lit by a cupola. A large floor medallion etched in stone and crystal inlays, sit at the stairwell's center, glistening from ceiling lights. When leaning over the stairs above, the geometric symbol lay prominently as if the home was designed around it. Tara always wonders if the circle enclosing a square enclosing a triangle holds any significance. Perhaps it holds special meaning for the Alcott family. However, it looks curiously cultish.

Pausing a second, Tara peers past the stair hall toward a reception area boasting historic and modern features. Decorated with plush oversized white sofas and two sleek black leather chairs at opposite ends, marble floors span the entire first floor, creating opulence. As she does most mornings, she cast a glance about the room; ensuring miniature architectural models are in their perspective places. Four flatscreen televisions hang on the wall, broadcasting various AHD TV programs.

Adjacent to the fireplace, a large, glossy, mahogany desk swallows a young, copper-haired woman busy manning the phones. Quickly, she answers one call after another. “AHD, how may I help you Sorry, ma'am, you'll need to visit our website to enter the sweepstake. You'll find the address and information online,” Rebecca says in a soft, lilting drawl. “You're welcome, ma'am. Have a pleasant day. Good Morning AHD…” Besieged with incessant calls, Rebecca is oblivious to Tara's entrance.

Too anxious to speak with staff this morning, Tara rushes past Rebecca through the foyer and up the stairs on quiet staccato steps. One long black and white blur forms as she sweeps past former sweepstake homes showcased in dark frames. Similarly, at the top of the staircase, pictures of the Sweepstake Dream Team hang prominently, enclosed in antique mahogany frames.

Endearingly, Tara greets her colleague's pictures. “Good Morning Cody, Laura, and Leanne.” Cody Darling, Producer and Home Planner, Laura Alcott, Senior Interior Designer, Leanne Davis, Website and Blog Coordinator and Tara McPherson, Managing Director of AHD Sweepstakes, hang etched in time. The photos, placed under the cupola above, glow an angelic halo. Angelic, she smirks, knowing the Alcotts arranged the pictures in that spot intentionally. Her photo is a reminder of a younger self eight years ago—eager and driven, and she wonders if she still has the same drive.

Stifling warmth and a strange glow greets Tara at her office door, presumably morning light streaming through the windows she thinks. Oddly, the luminosity resembles the glow in her townhouse. Setting the coffee and bags on the desk, she opens the door leading to the piazza. Outside, she takes off her trench, unravels her scarf, and breathes the warm, welcome breeze, while viewing waterways and Fort Sumter in the distance. In her periphery vision a man stands dazed, and then suddenly recovers from stillness. As he starts to open the gate, a bright light illuminates his face, causing him to flinch and glance upward. A frightening chill cascades down Tara's spine as her eyes lock with Tom's.

Tom

A few minutes pass before Tom shakes off dizziness that once again claimed his sight and balance. Finally, he finds the strength to open the gate unaware Tara stands above on the second-floor piazza. Just as he reaches for the iron knob, sunlight bounce off vibrant hues of Tara's sacred-seven pendant, catch his wedding band and blind his eyes. At that exact moment, Tom squints upward, Tara peers down. Surprised, he freezes, uncertain whether to enter or flee. Tara's odd expression and chilling stillness heighten his alarm.

Tara

Tara's gut knots. She ponders the man's startled expression and his quick retreat in the opposite direction. “Hmmm … Odd,” she mumbles. Gripping chills presage something malevolent. The last time she had chills like this was on the night of Daniel Alcott's death. Hours before the accident, she felt something horrible was about to happen, sending chills through her body. And seconds before the fatal accident, a formidable chill ran down her spine.

All women on her mother's side of the family possess the gift of foresight. But she's reluctant to call it a gift when it feels like a curse. Tara's insight has always caused her unease, and she seldom shares her forebodings. Knowing something bad is to happen, but not knowing how, when, or where is frustrating. The dilemma is to alert someone and risk ridicule, or keep silent and endure guilt if they're harmed. A double-edged sword Tara has yet to reconcile.

Again, glancing at the front gate, she wonders why the man walked away so quickly. Maybe it's nothing. But in her mind, an alarm sounds. If I'd only warned Laura that fatal day, maybe Daniel would still be alive. Is my intuition trying to warn me again?

Inside the office, the phone rings. Tara rushes from the piazza, throws her trench coat and scarf on the chair, and grabs the phone quickly. “Good Morning, Tara McPherson.”

“Good morning, Tara. How's lovely Charleston today?”

For several days, she's anticipated Cody's call. Worry melts with his mellifluous voice. “Cody, you won't believe the weather we're having; feels like summer.” She glances at the caller I.D. and ponders the 530 area code. “Where are you calling from?”

“I'm in beautiful Lake Tahoe. We're getting ready to shoot the promo for the new Dream Home location. You're going to love it, Tara. Right now I'm looking at the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The view is gorgeous!”

“Lake Tahoe…”

“Actually, the location is Martis Camp, one of the many residential villages surrounding Lake Tahoe.”

“Sounds fantastic; I can't wait to see the promo.”

“Tara, it's going to be awesome! We decided to shoot the preview with the fresh snowfall.”

“Cody, hurry up. Let's get this shot before we end up like the Donner Party,” the cameraman yells in the background.

“Man, don't be so morbid,” Cody shouts with a loud chuckle. “Tara, check your inbox. I emailed info and photos on the new site. Gotta go; we'll speak soon.”

“Thanks, Cody. Hey, what's the Donner Party?”

Cody laughs again. “There's a bit of history there, Tara, but I'll give you the short version. Back in the late 1800s, a wagon train became lost in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the group resorted to cannibalism to survive.”

“Yikes, sorry I asked. Okay, Cody, keep me updated, and good job with the new location. Have fun with the shoot.”

Checking her email, a picture of Lake Tahoe in big bold words declares, “This is it, the next site for the 2016 Dream Home.” Clicking the link, a small community of Martis Camp materializes—a community of luxury mountain homes surrounded by the Sierra Nevada Mountains and Lake Tahoe as the center of attraction. Tara squeals in delight. “Yes, another Mountain Home!” AHD's last Mountain Home in Vermont was one of their best projects, and their fans were hoping AHD would give them a similar architectural design. Tara responds to the email.

Cody,

Congratulations on finding the site of our 2016 Dream Home; and, as usual, it's a beautiful place. Our fans will love the way Tahoe looks in the wintertime. Have you met with the developers and builders yet? Let me know when you find the lot selection and the builder's management contract. Hopefully, we can get the preliminary budget signed and approved. Let's make this a seamless process. Keep me posted Cody.

TM

“Yahoo! Here we go again,” Tara yelps quietly. Her mind is already spinning with ideas. Tara reaches over to make another phone call, but the phone rings in her hand. Recognizing the number, she swiftly answers, “Mom, you're calling early.”

“Honey, I was just thinking about you and thought I'd give you a call … Anything happening this morning?”

Tara's always possessed an uncanny ability to sense her mother's emotions. At this instant, she detects a little concern in Nyla's voice. “No, business as usual … I just got off the phone with Cody. He's found the new location for next year's Dream Home in Lake Tahoe. I'm so relieved. Now I can start the building process.”

“Honey, you'll be fine. You stress about this every year, and the project always turns out beautiful.”

“I know, but the building process can be so tricky. You realize it takes anywhere from six to eight months just to get contracts signed, and preliminary budget approved, the architect and home engineer's documents—”

“There you go again, Tara,” Nyla interjects, “stop stressing. So, it's definitely Lake Tahoe this year?”

“I just got the news, mom.”

“I've never liked the place much myself. It gives me the chills.”

“Why? It's such a beautiful area of the country.”

“I wish I could explain, but it's just one of those places I dread.”

“Well, wait until you see the beautiful home we build, maybe you'll change your mind.”

“Tara, has your intuition been telling you anything this morning?”

“That's a strange question. Should I be feeling something?” Noticing the long pause, Tara wonders why Nyla's concerned with her intuition. She never mentions it unless something's wrong. “Mom?”

“Honey, just be aware of your surroundings today. Heed any feelings or intuitions you may have, okay?”

“I usually do.”

“Of course, but today, just be more alert, sweetie. I have to go, but I'll call you this evening.”

“Okay, bye, mom.”

Why didn't I tell her about the strange man at the gate and the cascading chills? Tara realizes every time she's had a major intuitive warning, her mother somehow knows as if they're connected spiritually. Well, after Daniel Alcott's accident, I'm heeding my intuition.

“Okay, Tara, get to work,” she mumbles. Taking a sip of coffee, her face contorts in disgust as she spits oily, tepid dregs back into the cup. Suddenly hot from vents spewing heat, she grabs a folder and fans her face and neck. With the warm weather, she's surprised the heat is still on.

Staring at the Lake Tahoe picture, she mulls over the 2015 fiasco, hoping project 2016 will be problem free. Just as she remembers the previous year's setbacks, her left eyelid flutters. Hmmm … Does a twitch in the left eye mean bad luck, or is it just an old wives tale. She hopes the twitch's inauspicious timing is mere coincidence, not bad luck. Dispelling worries, she tries to concentrate on the new Dream Home site, but her mind drifts again. How'd I managed so many years without burnout? Overseeing the sweepstake project and its diverse group of talent isn't easy. It can't be just my keen sense of business. Maybe it's some other God-given talent? Perhaps my intuition is stronger than I believe.

Fanning her face, she glances around at the eerie glow. The room has never appeared so unreal. For better words, the office feels ghostly. Another chill fills her spine, and a sudden thought scratches her consciousness. She clicks an icon on her desktop. On the screen, a list of esteemed Tahoe architects appears and a particular name tugs her gut. Inadvertently, she highlights an architect named Michael Anders and types a brief note to Cody.

Cody,

See the attachment. These are a few architects you might consider in the area. Please let me know the outcome. I'm excited about your choice. I'll contact Laura and tell her about the new site. Cody, good job! Let's get this ball rolling!

TM

Momentarily tranced, Tara clicks send and stares at the screen. With the room's eeriness and the prompt decision to email the architect list, unease fills her mind. Was it my intuition again, or did something else trigger my actions? Get a grip, Tara. What else can it possibly be?

With a shoulder shrug and head roll, she tries to dispel growing worries. But a sudden thought enters her mind. Today makes thirteen years—the thirteenth Dream Home sweepstake. Thirteen … Another omen she wonders … First, the eye twitch, and now the dreaded number thirteen. She's never liked that number but shirks the thought and superstitious beliefs. As much as she wants to stifle ominous warnings, she can't, not after Nyla's phone call.

Before Nyla rang, Tara was about to call Laura Alcott, AHD's Senior Interior Designer, with news of Lake Tahoe, but instead, she sends an email. In the subject line, Tara types in large caps, LAKE TAHOE. With worries of finding a new Dream Home site behind her, tension starts to fade. But with the room's eeriness and the strange man at the front gate, a new concern invades her mind.