Willa Baxter, a thriving literary agent in the heart of New York City, finds her life taking an unexpected turn when she inherits an English cottage from her estranged late grandmother. Reluctantly, Willa decides to journey across the Atlantic to ex...
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The Glass House
June 22, 1926
I'm not too sure how to start this, or if it will ever be completed, but recently I began to feel this itch to write again and so I have to get the words out now, or never. I have had the divine privilege of living a thousand different lives, and now at the end of it looking back there is only one story that matters to me the most, but to tell it I have to begin when my life officially started and that was the summer I turned sixteen years old...
It was the year 1926, and I had been living in London with my mother and father for the last two years while my father tirelessly worked on the expansion of his shipping company. The war had ended, the 'Great Flu' had been defeated, faces of unmasked people reappeared in the streets again, and life seemed to restart from its long pause. While things were the same they were also changing, especially for women and the roles they played in society. In America, women were now able to work and vote, suddenly a world of opportunities was presented in front of me, all I had to do was reach out and grab it.
I was eager to get back to the States, having grown tired of the rain and fog, but this summer was different. It was unseasonably warm, and by mid-June, my mother had caused so much of a fuss that my father finally agreed to rent out a home in the country to 'escape the city heat', but really, I knew he did it to please my mother. So on June 22nd, with our cars packed, we headed to Oxfordshire, England, still close enough to the city for my father but far enough to enjoy and replenish our souls in nature.
This was also the summer I decided that when I grew up I was going to be famous, not just type of famous but a world-renowned writer. I was determined to write the story of my generation, which would eventually become a screenplay starring one of my favorite actresses, Miss Clara Bow, and leading man, Rudolph Valentino. Coincidentally, during production Ruldoph and I would get caught up in a passionate love affair resulting in a marriage between the two of us. At least, in my young heart, that's the outcome I dreamt of. I had it all planned out, secretly of course, as my mother would have rather chained me to the walls of my bedroom than let me out of her watchful eye.
I bounced out of our London apartment, one hand holding a small suitcase while the other had my most precious possession, my notebook. The sounds of my Oxford shoes crushing the gravel as I ran down the landing steps and into the car sounded much louder that day. I chucked my suitcase to our driver Leonard, whose light laughter filled my ears.
"Wilhelmenia, please. Ladies, do not run remember?" Evelyn Hartley, my mother, lightly scolded as she fixed her white gloves, I responded to the comment with a disdainful nod. "Is that lipstick you are wearing?"
"No!" I responded too quickly to be believed, and so I received 'the look'. All children know that look, the one your parents give you when they are waiting for the truthful confession before delivering the final blow, punishment. My mother was exceptional when it came to reading faces and tones, she also masterfully executed 'the look'.
