Trying to catch her breath from her autumn dash, Bay walked through the foyer, past the sitting room decorated with the same old furniture from when her great-grandmother Mary ran a boardinghouse here, and into the large renovated commercial kitchen. Her mother had never truly felt at home growing up here. Bay had never met her great-grandmother Mary, but all the same, she knew that her mother wasn't giving her a compliment. Bay's mother said that Bay loved this place too much, that she was a lot like her great-grandmother Mary that way. Maybe it was Bay's imagination, but the house always seemed to preen a little when she entered, the dim windows shining a little brighter, the quilts straightening themselves on the backs of couches. It was lemon verbena day, so the house was filled with a sweet-tart scent that conjured images of picnic blankets and white clouds shaped like true-love hearts. The outside world might have finally turned into autumn, but inside the Waverley house it still smelled of summer. It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.īay hung her backpack on one of the bare branches of the tulip tree in the front yard, and it was still swinging as she took the front porch steps two at a time and opened the door.

There was a discernible chill in the air now, and wet leaves were everywhere-in yards, on the sidewalks, in the street, stuck on cars.

Last night it had rained in sheets and strong winds had finally blown autumn into Bascom as if by the sharp sweep of a broom. Instead of taking the steps from the sidewalk to the house, Bay ran up the steep lawn, sliding on the wet grass. The surrounding houses on the street had later tried to imitate the Waverley house in architecture, but nothing could ever compare. It had been the first house built in the neighborhood in the late 1800s, before even Orion College was founded, back when Bascom, North Carolina, had been nothing more than a muddy rest stop for people traveling through to the western mountains. It was a rambling old Queen Anne with a wraparound porch and, Bay's favorite thing about it, a single, lovely turret. But, as soon as she passed, their thoughts quickly drifted back to where they'd been before-what was for dinner, why was a husband so moody lately, could a load of laundry wait another day.īay sped up as she approached the Waverley house. We need to set things in order, they all thought as Bay ran down the street every afternoon after school. The neighborhood homeowners always knew when she ran by, because they suddenly felt the desire to organize their sock drawers and finally replace those burned-out lightbulbs they'd been meaning to. Bay Waverley-Hopkins raced down Pendland Street, her backpack bouncing and her dark hair flying behind her like blackbirds.

First Frost by Sarah Addison Allen