Strange house we must keep and fill. House that eats, and pleads, and kills.
▍ AN ORIGINAL STORY ╱ romantic melodrama!
❪ m!oc & m!oc ❫
❪ f!oc & m!oc ❫
written...
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CHAPTER ONE.Amercian Royalty
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On the crest of the Rosethorn Hill, just below the coastal Valley of the Capes, nestled deep within Black and White Oaks, and a sparse set of Pitch Pines, is a grandeur home. With its clean-lined, rectangular silhouette and steeply pitched roof. It's the most beautiful abode Cape Iris has ever claimed.
There are more windows than you'd usually find in this cottage-packed town. The shutters are a fabulous shade of blue, a refreshing tone of simple intensity. Vines dance along stucco. A wide pergola covers the patio, which leads directly to a fathomless gunite pool.
The embellishment of the home is enough to draw eyes from passerby's on their Chris Craft Commuters. But it's not just the house that appeals, it's the family who lives in it.
The Chevaliers are American royalty. Almost more profound than the Kennedy's, if you can bear to imagine. They are close connections, the two families. John, whom Charles Chevalier—the eldest Chevalier heir—called often called "Jack" both attended Harvard University. Rest assured, they were close confidantes, even still.
Roosted at the edge of the acreage, the Chevalier's groundskeeper, a Mr. Jack Shepherd. He's more steel than man. With his hickory locks spilling along the nape of his neck. Wet and windswept. The man had two crystals for eyes. A stern, locked jaw. His rugged appeal is oftentimes overlooked, but not by a fair few. Especially the women on the grounds, of high status and low.
Another set of eyes fall upon him now, from above, with their body perched against the balcony railing. They belong to Josette Chevalier, the youngest of the band of four. Ever since her family hired the man eight years her junior to tend to their familial grounds, her eyes had always been drawn to him.
He makes note of it, but doesn't meet her gaze. He can't. It isn't appropriate. It would cost him everything and he already doesn't have much to begin with.
A clatter catches the man's attention. The set of french doors that lead out to the patio widen. Out steps a fellow draped in Dior. Khaki slacks are loose around his tanned legs, cuffed just at the ankle. A striped, loose-fitting shirt ripples in the faint, coastal breeze. Penny loafers pad against cement as the strong entity places a pair of Wayfarers against the bridge of his sharp nose, serving as a compliment to his chiseled jaw.
"Evenin', Cass." Jack greets cheerlessly before returning to his labor. Had it been any of the other family members, he would not have been so blasé, but Jack and Cassidy Chevalier had an understanding. They were equals. One and the same, no matter the heaviness (and lack there of) of their trouser pockets.
