The House on Honeysuckle Lane Read Online Free

shedding was necessary; problem was that too often the past dug in its claws and refused to be thrown off without almost superhuman effort. And here was a good example, Andie thought. Six months earlier she had missed Rumi’s twentieth birthday celebration due to a long-standing commitment to her publisher. Since then she had sensed from Rumi a slight coldness. Well, maybe coldness was too strong a word. It might be more accurate to say that the usual easy way they had with one another seemed a bit forced; instead of being her warm and bubbly self, Rumi seemed reserved. Hopefully, coming face to face would allow them to regain their happy intimacy. Andie knew she wasn’t the most conventional mother in the world; she also knew that she truly loved her child.
    â€œHere we are,” Andie murmured as she turned onto Honeysuckle Lane. She had spent most of the first twenty some odd years of her life on this street. It was all so terribly familiar. There was the Burrowses’ house on the left, a thorn in the side of the more “respectable” homeowners, who didn’t approve of the family’s lackadaisical ways or their less than diligent upkeep of house and property. And then, a bit further on and across the way, was the perfectly kept home of the Fitzgibbon family, well-known and respected in Oliver’s Well, and once, friends of a sort to Cliff and Caro Reynolds.
    And then, just up ahead, number 32 Honeysuckle Lane. Like most of the other houses on the block, it was a handsome, mid-nineteenth-century white clapboard two-story structure with black shutters and a large central chimney. Andie pulled into the drive in front of the house in which her mother had breathed her last. And there was her brother, standing at the window, waiting. Daniel Reynolds. The Keeper of the Flame. With a silent prayer for strength, Andie got out of the car and, grabbing her bag from the backseat, walked briskly up to the front door.

C HAPTER 3
    D aniel and his son, Marco, stood at the living room window keeping an eye out for Daniel’s sisters.
    â€œWhat time is it, Dad?” Marco asked.
    â€œTen minutes after ten,” Daniel told his son, looking at his watch. It had once belonged to his father and had come to him after Cliff’s passing. Daniel only took it off when he showered.
    Marco frowned. “Why don’t I have a watch?”
    â€œYou can have my old one if you want.”
    â€œNah,” Marco said after a moment’s consideration. “I like to ask you what time it is.”
    Daniel smiled and ruffled his son’s thick dark hair. Daniel had turned forty at the end of August, though sometimes lately he felt as if he were half again as old. Maybe that was the result of the long hours he put into the business. Maybe it was also due to the stress that resulted from trying to be the best husband and parent and, once, son he could be. His medium brown hair was beginning to thin, and there were lines around his mouth caused as much by frowning as by smiling. He was still as slim as he had been in college, and that was entirely due to the Carlyle genetics. Life as a professional chef wasn’t exactly conducive to, as his mother might have said, “maintaining one’s figure.”
    Anna Maria, Daniel’s wife, had also inherited the “slim gene.” At five feet one inch tall she was a whopping ninety pounds, with exuberant dark curls and bright brown eyes. Though she complained about her hair being impossible to manage and about not being tall enough to reach the uppermost cabinets in their kitchen, Daniel knew she didn’t care one whit about her appearance. Anna Maria focused on the important things in life, like her family. For example, just the day before she had asked Daniel what he expected from his sisters’ visit; she was concerned he was gearing up for a showdown of sorts.
    â€œWhy should I be expecting a showdown?” Daniel had