Only by Moonlight

Chapter 1

NOTE: I went back and rewrote this chapter in first person. The third person POV was just too stilted, and I felt too much distance between myself and the characters. So this is a slight revision with only a few changes besides the pronoun alterations. :)

With many thanks to my lovely and talented pre-reader, ladylibre, who has already saved me from several embarrassing mistakes in this chapter alone…. :)

Thanks for being patient with me. As much as I’ve always posted weekly in the past, my work schedule has doubled starting in January. So perhaps I’ll just post as I can and make no promises that I’ll have to break. Thanks for understanding the life of a very busy wife, mom of four, homeschooling teacher, and writing instructor for online and co-op high school classes. ;) 

I do not own Twilight, but I do have a lovely husband, four angelic [snort] children, and a sizeable mortgage….

Chapter 1

BPOV

            Sitting in my ancient VW Beetle, I checked the address I had typed into my iPhone. Yes, this was the place. Nervously I tucked a strand of my shoulder-length brown hair behind my ear as I took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in an attempt to calm my nerves.

            A lot was riding on this interview if I wanted to escape from the hell my life had become since my return to Chicago for the fall semester of my junior year of college. I just hoped that the people living in this house wouldn’t question me too closely. I would have to tell them something, of course, whether they had heard the rumors or not. The University of Chicago was a big place, but my newly-former roommate, Jessica, was not only popular but also had a big mouth, so who knew how far her lies had spread over the past few weeks?

            Sucking in another deep breath, I forced myself to open the car door and approach the house which towered three stories above the tree-lined sidewalk.

            The neighborhood was an old one, and I felt immediately at home among the old homes, most of them dating back to the last decades of the nineteenth century. Old things—antiques, dusty books, objects with a history—always attracted my attention, and this neighborhood, and this house in particular, appealed to something deep within me.

            In fact, it more than appealed to me—it called to me. 

            But the fact that I loved the neighborhood and felt unaccountably drawn to this house in particular made me more nervous. I was very conscious of the pressure weighing heavily in my chest. This just had to work out if I wanted to retain my sanity and pursue my studies.  

            Walking up the sidewalk to the gate, I gazed up at the house with something akin to wonder. Aware that my hands were trembling, I pressed them together to mask their shaking as my eyes combed over the details of the structure before me. A classic Victorian, the house was beautifully maintained, its soft gray paint accented with white trim and touches of deep red, the same color as the front door.

            Biting my lip, I clicked open the gate to the waist-high picket fence and slowly walked up the gray flagstones to the charcoal-gray porch which boasted two dark red Adirondack chairs and a white porch swing on the far side where riotous honeysuckle covered a trellis, providing shade for most of the porch.

            I loved the place already. I just hoped that everything worked out. Unfortunately I needed somewhere to live immediately, and this house looked as if it were made for me. Tentatively I pressed the doorbell, smiling slightly at the deep, old-fashioned tones that rang out faintly, reminding me of pealing church bells.