The Lyons Next Door (A Lyons' Heart Book 1) Read online

  THE

  LYONS

  NEXT

  DOOR

  by Inda Herwood

  Copyright © 2019 by Melinda Griffis

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted and/or trademarked status and copyright and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Melinda Griffis

  Cover photo: Pixabay

  Proofreader: Julia G. – The Romance Bibliophile

  Dedicated to Jesus, my love of the beach, and my dream of owning a home in the Hamptons someday and living like Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give.

  A girl can hope, right?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  Blaire

  My first thought as we pull up to the new house is: we certainly aren’t in Maryland anymore.

  I gawk at the enormous structure as my parents look back at me over their shoulders from the front seat, their smiles cautious but excited.

  Seeing the shock on my face, my mother says with a chuckle, “It’s a lot, isn’t it?

  A lot is an understatement. Even if we hadn’t come from meager beginnings, I still think this stunning house would have caused my jaw to drop.

  I minutely shake my head.

  Mom laughs again, her eyes sparkling. Looking at my dad, she says, “I think this is going to be a good start. Don’t you?”

  My mother is ever the optimist, a personality trait of hers that has been highly tested in the last six months. I admire her for never losing hope that things will have a good ending. Or beginning, in this case.

  They step out of our new, shiny SUV, which still has that strange new car smell to it. Before my parents came into money, I had never known what that scent actually smelled like. We had never owned a car that wasn’t at least ten years used before we bought it. Now, all of that has changed.

  Breathing in a long, calming breath, I close my eyes, telling myself that Mom is right. This place is going to be different, better than the last. We’re going to be happy here, allowed to live in peace for the first time in months. I should be excited about this.

  “Kind of obnoxious, don’t you think?” Nana Hawkins says next to me, her white eyebrow arched. She wears a smile that lets me know she’s kidding. Kind of.

  “The size or the color?” I ask my eighty-year-old grandmother who doesn’t look a day over sixty-five. Nana is my mom’s mother, and she’s lived with us for the last ten years. After Papa passed, she was lonely and depressed, and Mom thought it would be good for her to be around family. She was my babysitter all through my childhood, and now I help take care of her. Without a doubt she’s my best friend, even though she loves to say stuff that makes me want to curl into a ball of mortification most of the time.

  “Both.”

  We laugh until Dad comes back and knocks his hand on the window, saying through the glass, “Do you want to live in here instead?”

  “Calm your pits, Herald, we’re coming,” Nana tells him with a straight face and a wave of her hand, making me shake my head as I suppress a laugh. “Well, shall we face the music, kid?”

  Looking down at the large fish tank in my hands, the one I’ve been holding like precious gold since we started this road trip hours ago, I say, “Yeah. I think Sir Leopold would probably like to be put back on solid ground by now.”

  My bright blue Betta fish swims slowly around his tank, his beady little eyes grumpy as usual. Nana was the one who named him for me. She said that he looked like a moody aristocrat with those eyes, and so she thought he deserved a high fitting title to go with it.

  Stepping out of the car, I hold Leopold in one hand while helping Nana out with the other. I watch the movers take our meager belongings out of the back of the yellow moving truck, walking up the large wooden stairs, through the impressive double doors, and into our new house.

  Staring up at it, I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that this place is ours. Shaped like a giant, Cape Cod-style L, it has dark red siding with white accents, an attached three-car garage to the right, a large porch and entryway in front, as well as a second story sitting above it all. To the left-hand side on the second floor is a large turret-like structure that stretches high above the rest of the house, overlooking the picturesque setting of the Atlantic Ocean. It looks like something you’d find in Architectural Digest. Nothing like the small, thousand square foot home my family used to share, back when we were just the Cromwell’s, a hardworking family from one of the poorest counties in all of Maryland. Now we’re the Cromwell’s, the family that came into the best luck anyone could ever ask for.

  Doing a hundred and eighty-degree turn, I take a look around the neighborhood, memorizing my surroundings. I distantly hear Dad direct the movers, ordering them to be careful with his tools as they carry them into the garage. Besides ours, there are two other homes visible on our street, the one across the road a grand restored Victorian with a masterfully curated lawn. And then there’s the one that borders ours on the beach side, only a stone’s throw away from the turret on the left side of the house. If possible, the dark blue shingled monstrosity rivals the size of ours, sporting three stories, a huge wraparound porch, and what looks like a swimming pool in the back. Beautiful mature trees line both sides of the street, giving the area a cozy feel with all its shade from the midday sun.

  Continuing to stare at our closest neighbor, I spot a lethal looking motorcycle and a few expensive cars sitting in the circular driveway, one looking like a Porsche, the others more normal, like a Mercedes and a BMW. It makes me wonder how many people must live there.

  Seeing me eyeing the place, Nana says next to me, “And here I thought we were going to be the biggest yuppies on the street.”

  “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Mom observes to both Nan and I, popping up out of nowhere and making me startle. Looking at my mother’s profile next to me, I marvel, not for the first time, at how youthful she looks for a woman in her later forties. She’s managed to keep her long, honey b
londe hair, the same color as my own, without ever having to dye it; her eyes bluer than the sky on a clear day. The only aging she ever suffered were laugh lines. I’m positive she gets her immortality from Nana.

  “What?” I ask, not having heard her the first time.

  She nods at the blue house. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  I nod. It’s stunning, really. It looks so perfect that I’m surprised people even live there, looking more like it was meant to be a model home than a real one.

  “Though I’d hate to clean it. It’d take you at least a week,” Mom says, blanching at the mere idea.

  I laugh to myself, reminding her, “I don’t think ours will be a small feat, either.”

  This makes her frown even more, turning her head back to look at our new home. “Jeez, you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure Herald will get a cleaning service for you, dear,” Nana says with surety, most likely because my dad has refused to let us lift a finger since our “good luck” struck. He said that we’ve been working long enough, and that it’s time we have someone else give us a hand for a change. Hence why he hired movers, even though we possessed so few things from our last house that we probably could have strapped it all to the back of the car.

  “I’m sure you’re right, but maybe this will give me something to do. With all this free time on my hands now, I think I’ll go stir crazy,” Mom says, looking a little worried about it.

  Turning my back to the sun to keep Leopold in the shade, I ask her, “Why don’t you just come up with a hobby?”

  “What, like knitting or something?”

  “Sure. Or crafting, or –”

  “Wine tasting. I think that’s what I’m going to pick up,” Nana says, readjusting the pashmina on her shoulders. When Mom and I look at her strange, she says, “What? It is wine country after all.”

  “That’s a different part of New York, Nan,” I inform her, not surprised when I see her expression fall.

  “Well, that fancy liquor store we passed in town must have some. That’s good enough for me.”

  Dad finally join us after showing the movers into the house, giving us a funny smile when he sees the amused looks on Mom and I’s faces. “What are you three talking about?” he asks, his hazel eyes crinkling in the corners. Unlike my mother, my dad wasn’t able to keep from gaining a few wrinkles and gray hairs with his age. But it’s not a surprise when you’ve worked multiple jobs for a majority of your life.

  “Blaire thinks I need a hobby other than cleaning this monster of a house, and Mom thinks I should drink. What do you think I should do?” Mom asks him, placing a hand on his chest while she rests her head on his shoulder, staring up at the house.

  “I didn’t say I thought you should drink. I just said that’s what I planned to do.” Nana corrects.

  “Mr. Cromwell, we’re all finished,” one of the movers says, walking over to my father as his guys load up the truck with their supplies. I told you they’d be quick.

  Dad sticks out his hand and thanks him. Before I know it, it’s just the four of us, standing in the middle of the driveway, wondering what to do next.

  “Well, I think it’s time we go explore our new place,” Dad says with a grin. “Ladies first.” He holds out his hand in a grand gesture to have Mom, Nana, and I go ahead of him. Mom gives him a kiss on the cheek in thanks. Nana then uses Mom’s arm as a support as they both climb the steps, disappearing inside. When Dad sees me hesitate, he asks, throwing an arm around my shoulders, “What’s wrong, Pumpkin?”

  I bite my lip, not sure how to explain my hesitancy. “I just…everything’s going to be different, isn’t it?” I say it with hope, not dread. After what I’ve experienced in the last year, what I really want is change.

  He nods, a sad smile of understanding crossing his face. “If I didn’t believe that, then I wouldn’t have moved us here, Blaire. We’re around people now that understand this life and aren’t going to take advantage of us for it. This is going to be a positive experience from here on out. I promise.” He gives me a quick kiss on the head, saying, “Now, don’t you want to go and explore your new room?”

  “I kind of do, actually.” I admit, trying to take on his hopeful aura.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Leading us both into the house, my breath catches when I get my first good look at the place. The foyer is large and circular with a high ceiling, the floor made to look like a jigsaw of patterns, made from black and white tile. Looking up, I see a large skylight illuminates the space, making it feel as though you’re still outside. It leads into a spacious, open floor plan including a living room and kitchen connected to each other, helping it to appear larger than it already is. It all overlooks large windows that showcase the stunning view of the beach and ocean out back.

  On the main floor is the master bedroom and three bathrooms, including a spare bedroom bigger than our whole house combined back in Maryland. The second floor boasts more spare bedrooms and bathrooms, as well as the turret. The whole house was set up for us weeks ago by a designer my mom hired. We didn’t have near enough furniture to fill up a place like this on our own, and so Mom let the designer buy whatever she wanted to make it feel like a home. We literally didn’t have to move a thing.

  My parents have always been into the eclectic style, and so the house is filled with random pieces that all seem to match somehow, giving the place a splash of color with a large painting here, or an exotic rug there. A sense of ease fills me the more I venture through the house, recognizing certain pieces from our old home, and seeing how it all has the same vibe. It’s still home, just with a few more things now.

  The last place I journey to is the turret. Somehow I knew it would be the cherry on top, and so I wanted to save it for last. As I open the freshly painted white door, I find a bunch of circular stairs that lead upward, taking me into the surprisingly large room.

  Reminding me of a lighthouse, the windows span nearly three hundred and sixty degrees, allowing me to see the ocean curve along with the earth. I spot a few people kayaking on the waves, and a sailboat lazily drifting by. It’s such a peaceful sight that it takes me a while to refocus on the room.

  A beautiful, marble topped art table sits in front of the windows looking out on the water, situated between two multileveled crafting carts filled with art supplies. A large, floral patterned rug spans the middle of the floor, accompanied by a couple of wingback chairs and a small tea table to relax by. Shelves and cubbies of different sizes are built in under the windows, perfect for storage.

  It’s my dream come true.

  When dad told me about this house, and how it had this turret, he said that he wanted to make it my painting room for me. I repeatedly told him that I could keep it all in my bedroom, since that’s what I had done before, but he insisted that an artist should be surrounded by inspiration. And by inspiration, he meant the stunning view of the sea. And I’ll admit, he was right. It’s such a beautiful place that I can see myself staying up here for hours on end, painting the day away without even realizing it.

  Placing Sir Leopold and his bowl on the art table, I take a seat in the swivel chair, giving me the ability to look at every corner of the view. I admire the crisp blue of the water, the stark contrast of the tall, green, wispy grass poking through the sand. It’s a total one-eighty to the scenery I had grown up with.

  Not even six months ago I was in my small room that I shared with Nana in our even smaller house, doing homework while trying to ignore my neighbor, Mrs. Kinny, as she screamed at her husband for not taking out the trash the day before. The neighborhood of Dunnings had been my home all my life. I was used to hearing the blare of car horns, the screaming of angry neighbors, the random gunshot. I was used to going to the local coffee shop after school to work my job as a part-time barista, and then babysit for Mrs. Kinny after that. It had been that way since I could remember.

  But then one day I was awoken by a scream, and everything ch
anged.

  Everything.

  I ran out of my room, half asleep and bleary eyed, wondering what the heck could be wrong. It was a Saturday, and so my mom was working at the hospital and my dad had just gotten off his shift at the factory. I stumbled into the kitchen with Nana hot on my tail, looking around for the problem, and that’s when I saw my father, sitting at the dining table, going between staring at a piece of paper in his hands and the screen of his laptop. He had tears in his eyes, his hair all a mess from running his hands through it. He was still wearing his work clothes.

  “Dad, what’s the matter?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I had been up most of the night before finishing up homework. Looking at the clock on the stove, it said eight in the morning. I had gone to sleep not three hours ago.

  “Blaire, tell me you see the same six numbers,” he said, his voice wobbly, hands shaking as he put the paper in front of me. I grabbed it from him, wondering what he was looking at, and immediately recognized the lottery ticket my mom had got him for his birthday a few days ago. My parents normally never bought such things. But Mom said that she’d had a good feeling when she walked past the counter at the gas station, and decided it would be a nice surprise gift for Dad.

  He asked me again if I could repeat the numbers, and so I did.

  He then asked me to read the winning numbers on the lottery website.

  I did.

  And somehow, someway, by some miracle my family had never experienced before…they matched.

  “Let me see.” Nana took the ticket from me and read the numbers herself. When she saw that we weren’t kidding, she dropped the ticket, mouth half open in shock.

  In the span of seconds, we became millionaires.

  Everything after that was a blur. I think Dad called Mom, and I think Mom screamed and said she didn’t believe him. And then Dad claimed his ticket a couple days later, and we all got our picture in the paper. He quit both his jobs and Mom quit hers. Everything changed so fast that I could barely believe it was happening at all.