Dream House

By Stephanie Fournet

When Stella Mouton inherits her grandmother's neglected three-story house, she can't afford to keep it or keep it up—unless she rents out the rooms. A witch, a waif, and a warrior woman are all welcome.
The hot geology student is not.
After walking away from a three-year relationship, Lark Bienvenue needs a place to live. Just until he finishes college. Shacking up with four women, a preschooler, and a guy with head trauma isn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but anything is better than moving back home. Literally, anything.
Besides, the house is huge. It should be easy enough to avoid his roommates— and the gorgeous landlady who seems to hate him on sight.
Except ignoring a houseful of women is harder than it sounds. And not falling for Stella Mouton?
Well, that’s just impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Fournet
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463996584

Stephanie Fournet

Stephanie Fournet, author of eight novels including Leave a Mark, You First, Shelter, and Someone Like Me, lives in Lafayette, Louisiana—not far from the Saint Streets where her novels are set. She shares her home with her husband John and their needy dogs Gladys and Mabel, and sometimes their daughter Hannah even comes home from college to visit them. When she isn’t writing romance novels, Stephanie is usually helping students get into college or running. She loves hearing from readers, so look for her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, and stephaniefournet.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

STELLA

Do you want it?

Of course I want it.

Then keep it. Pen throws up her hands like this should be obvious, her half-moon earrings jangling with the motion. For the first time, I notice they match her cosmos-themed head wrap. Of course, I’ve been too overwhelmed lately to notice much.

I huff out a sigh. It’s not that simple. All of the factors I’m weighing could make the roof cave in. Even without any added weight, this roof might cave in by itself. There’s a lot to consider.

My best friend makes a dismissive noise. I glare at her.

What? she demands. You think Estelle Lafitte Mouton didn’t already consider everything this would mean for you? You have to give your Nanna more credit than that.

Pen presses her hands together and bows over them in reverence. And now that she has invoked Nanna’s name, I can almost feel my grandmother’s presence.

But it’s been like that all morning just because I’m standing in her three-story, one-hundred-twenty-year-old home again. The one she left to me.

Me.

Stella.

Her only granddaughter.

My cousins are furious. My brother Tyler probably would be too if⁠—

Best not to think about that. He’s not furious. He’s not a lot of things he used to be. But he’s here.

I look up at the high ceilings of the formal dining room. A water stain the color and shape of a liver confesses a once-leaky toilet upstairs. The asthmatic window unit blasts icy air that only seems to reach the middle of the room. The pine floor creaks beneath my feet.

Maybe she intended for me to sell it, I say to the liver stain.

Hmph, Pen mutters. If she wanted it to be sold, she would have left it to your dad and your uncles.

She has a point. Unlike my cousins, my dad and his two brothers aren’t furious. Well, they’re not happy about Nanna leaving the house to me and me alone, but they don’t look at me like I’ve fooled them all these years with pretend innocence.

They know I was around when they weren’t.

Dad, my Uncle Mike, and my Uncle Les may not like this outcome, but I don’t think it took them by surprise.

Not like me. I sure as hell didn’t see this coming.

And even though Nanna had been sick for a long time, I didn’t think I’d lose her. Not yet.

My gaze sweeps the room again. Even with all the furniture hidden beneath makeshift dust covers, the room is crowded with memories.

I haven’t set foot in here in more than a year, but the house smells so much like my grandmother it’s unfair.

I think she knows exactly what she’s doing, Pen says with her reliable, wise tone. When I meet her amber gaze, I don’t for a second doubt her claim to be a modern-day witch. Especially when she’s talking about my late grandmother in the present tense. It’s both spooky and comforting.

For one of those reasons, the hairs on my arms stand up. Then again, maybe that’s just from the blasting window unit. I chafe my arms and try to make progress on the decision ahead of me.

But if I keep it⁠—

We both know you’re going to keep it, Pen says sagely.

I roll my eyes. Maybe she’s right, but I just don’t see how. It’s not that simple, I say again.

Pen arches an elegant brow. I know the lashes she bats at me are false, but the effect of her stare is no less commanding. Whether this is magic or simply the Power of Pen, as I often tease, it’s hard not to feel chastened.

Stella Jane Mouton. She crosses her arms over her chest. Do you mean to tell me that you’d rather stay in your two-bedroom apartment with Tyler and Maisy for the rest of your lives?

No, no, and no. My best friend knows this, but she also knows I have a plan. No matter what, it wouldn’t be the rest of our lives.

The Plan. I know. Pen gives me a long face like I’m slow to solve a simple puzzle. But look around you, Stella. You could put that plan into action right here. She opens her arms and seems to hold up the sky with her upturned hands.

Open a salon in here. I speak the words aloud.

I can’t pretend I haven’t already thought about it. That it didn’t cross my mind just minutes after hearing what Nanna’s lawyer had to say.

Yeah, I can picture turning this room—this massive dining room—with its oak table that seats ten, its rosewood china cabinet, and the pearl-inlaid buffet—into a commercial space. I could fit three stylist stations in here. Two hair-washing sinks along the wall that joins with the kitchen, and at least one hooded dryer chair.

This room has a southwestern exposure. The front wall is lined by windows. I couldn’t ask for better light.

Yeah, I’ve thought about it.

But it needs so much work. The roof alone… I shake my head, unwilling to estimate the cost of replacing it.

Since the house has been essentially empty for over a year, no one was here to notice the leak all the way up on the third floor. That space is essentially attic anyway, so even if Nanna had been home, it might have been a while before it was detected. But now a new roof is in order and new sheetrock for a second floor bedroom ceiling. The fact that we’ve had a dry winter, and the house is built of cypress, kept the damage from being a lot worse.

But this house might as well have been an extension of my grandmother. I can’t help but feel that if Nanna would have been home, she would have sensed it. Known something was wrong in her home. Her realm. This old house is like the Ship of Theseus, added onto, passed down, repainted, run down, but essentially, an extension of her.

Everyone in my family—except me—wanted to put Nanna in the nursing home after her second heart attack. I wanted her to have a live-in nurse so she could stay here, right where she belonged. My dad and his brothers said that it was too expensive. It would burn through her life savings.

What they really meant was it would burn through their inheritance.

When I suggested that they set up a reverse mortgage instead, you’d think I’d confessed myself as a communist kitten killer who dealt cocaine to preschoolers.

I’m sure it galls them that it’s up to me to decide what happens now. And I wonder what she expected me to do.

Did she want me to keep it? The three-story Edwardian came to her from her father, who, according to Nanna, was the best man she ever knew.

I can’t count how many times I heard her speak of him that way. It didn’t make me sad until I grew up and realized she’d had a husband, raised three sons, and watched five grandsons grow into manhood.

Her own father died when she was twenty. When Nanna died last week, she was eighty-two. Sixty-two years is a long time to go without meeting a man who impressed you more than your father.

I hope I have better luck, but the way things are going, it doesn’t look great.

But Nanna weathered all of those disappointments right here. From the sanctuary of her childhood home. Nobody could take that from her. Not even when my grandfather walked out on her and her boys.

When my parents split up when I was five, Mom, Tyler, and I lived here for a little while. I didn’t think of it at the time, but Nanna made a choice back then. She chose her daughter-in-law and grandchildren, not her son. She made it her mission to help us get back on our feet.

Did you know I lived here once? I blurt to Pen.

She nods. The first time we spent the night here, in tenth grade, I think, the corners of her mouth turn up at the memory, you told me the room we were staying in had been your room once. I asked you if it was haunted, and you said no, and when I was bummed, you said we could go check out the cemetery.

The memory surfaces like a Jack-in-the-Box. "And I meant during the day."

Pen screws up her features. What’s the point of exploring a cemetery in the middle of the day? Nothing paranormal is going to happen then.

Exactly. My adamant tone sets off her laugh.

Pen has always fascinated me with her witchy ways. Sometimes that fascination has bordered on terror—case in point, the midnight adventure through St. John Cemetery in tenth grade—and other times it has led to life-altering insights. Like when she read my tea leaves after I told her I was pregnant, and she said that I would raise Maisy—yes, she actually said Maisy—on my own, and it would be the greatest joy of my life.

So I tease her about her spells and her amulets and her rituals, but I sure as hell don’t dismiss them.

What are your spidey senses telling you about the house?

Her brow arches so severely, I think of arrowheads. I don’t know whether to scold you for likening my gifts to those of a bug-bitten teenager or congratulate you for finally taking advantage of them.

I try not to look too amused. I need Pen in my life. She makes my everyday seem much less maudlin. Consider me scolded. Now get to the congratulating part.

With a sigh she proceeds to play hard to get. Are you sure you want to know?

You know I do, I say indulgently.

Her smile is satisfied. I also notice a glint of excitement in her eyes. I had a dream last night.

I suck in a breath. Okay, so not all of Pen’s dreams are premonitory. She once dreamed that the floor of the apartment above mine caved in, and she wouldn’t let Tyler, Maisy, and me sleep there for a whole week. The only thing that caved in was Tyler’s birthday cake. So more a baking fail than life-threatening catastrophe.

But other dreams?

The morning after Tyler’s accident—before Mom called to tell me what had happened—Pen kept blowing up my silenced phone until it vibrated off the nightstand and woke me. His bike is in the ditch, she kept saying. He’s not answering his phone.

I’d tried to tell her that Tyler was safe in his apartment, sleeping—just like I had been. And then my phone beeped with another call, and as soon as I saw Mom’s name, I knew.

So, yeah, I pay attention when Pen tells me about her dreams.

Let’s hear it.

She bites her bottom lip, the excitement glowing brighter in her eyes. I dreamed that I was hanging my prism collection above my bed… She pauses for dramatic effect and points to the ceiling. In the third floor attic.

I blink. Wait. I double blink. "This third floor attic?"

Her witchy snark is irrepressible. Does the Pen Pen have a third floor attic?

The Pen Pen is the affectionate name we have given to Pen’s crappy loft apartment. It does not have a third floor attic. It does have a way of attracting crazy.

Or maybe that’s just Pen.

The Pen Pen is situated downtown on Lee Street right next to The Hideaway and Spirits Liquor Store. It’s safe to say Pen is never short on visitors.

I side-eye her. What are you saying?

She says nothing but bats her false lashes at me.

My heartbeat speeds up. Are you saying you want to move in here with me? Suddenly, the thought of taking on Nanna’s rambling, run down house seems more doable.

Pen puts on a pout. Were you planning on living in this big ole house all by yourself?

My giggle is spontaneous. I wasn’t planning on living here at all.

Pen stares at me, letting the words hang there, and I hear what she must hear. They just don’t ring true.

Or if I was, of course, it wouldn’t be all by myself.

Her nod is quick. Of course not. Tyler and Maisy⁠—

But if you wanted to join us, I interject, there’s more than enough room.

She looks at me like I’ve said something absurd. "More than enough room? Honey, you could house a travelling circus and a small army."

Well, not really. But the house does have six bedrooms, not counting the third floor attic. All told, it’s more than four thousand square feet of living space. Jesus, the utilities alone will be as much as I pay in rent now.

My second thoughts rebound. Do you have any idea what it costs to cool this place in the summer? I shake my head. This is still too much house for four people.

So rent out some of the rooms, Pen says with unnerving sincerity.

I laugh. Good one.

Pen blinks her impatience. I’m serious.

Again, my heartbeat steps up. H-H-How would that work? Just share the house with a bunch of strangers?

You could pick and choose who you’d want as a tenant-slash-roommate. She shrugs like it’s no big deal. Besides, this house is so big, it’s not like you wouldn’t have privacy. You and Tyler and Maisy could have the whole second floor.

I frown. But then I’d be giving the en suite bathroom to someone else. Nanna’s bathroom is nothing short of wondrous. High back, cast iron, claw-footed tub, chrome-plated space heater—sure it’s a safety hazard, but I remember the enveloping heat like a comforting hug when Tyler and I would sleep over in the winter—and a stained glass window of blooming magnolias...

No, if I’m living here, that bedroom—Nanna’s bedroom—is mine.

Pen’s eyes sparkle. That’s more like it.

What?

She nods. That fire. That pull to keep it. Her smile is so smug I almost roll my eyes. I’m glad to see you’re finally being honest with yourself.

"I said if. If I’m living here." I don’t want to admit it, but she’s right. I want to be here. I already see myself here. But I’m still not sure how to make it work.

Pen glares. Don’t tell me you’re still thinking of selling.

I draw in a deep breath. If I sell, I don’t have to worry about the utilities. Or the roof. Or the insurance. Or the property taxes. Or the upkeep.

But then someone else—someone with no connection to Nanna Estelle—will be living in this house. Soaking in that cast-iron tub. And probably yanking out that space heater. Let’s face it, they’d probably change a lot of other things I love about this place too. The telephone stand tucked under the stairs. The glass door knobs. The heavy-duty monogrammed screen door with the L for Nanna’s maiden name stamped in the aluminum grill.

I shake my head. No, I’m not thinking of selling. When I speak the words out loud, it happens again. My heart thumps quickly, like it’s a restless bird trying to lift me off the ground. And I don’t know if it’s afraid for me or ready to soar.

Maybe both.

Because I can’t just do this by myself. You’d move in?

And pay rent, she says nodding.

I frown. I couldn’t ask you to pay rent. That’d be weird.

Her scowl is almost mean. "You think you can keep this place from falling down and open your dream salon and take care of Tyler and Maisy all on your measly paycheck?"

"It’s not measly." I do okay. With Tyler’s disability check, we make ends meet. I’ve even managed to save a little this last year.

I’d pay rent, Pen says again, giving me her best no-nonsense face. And you have three other rooms you could rent out to help you make this place what you’d want it to be.

I wrinkle my nose. Wouldn’t that just be weird, though? Living in a house with strangers? Sharing bathrooms and a kitchen?

How’s that any different from a dorm?

I wouldn’t know. No dorms in cosmetology school.

Pen snorts. You well remember crashing in my dorm after nights at Marley’s.

I may not remember all the nights— I give her a wry look. But I do remember the mornings after. A hangover in a community-style bathroom is not something I want to revisit.

Pen’s laughter is contagious.

But, remember, you won’t have to. En suite bathroom and all that, she teases.

I’m quiet for a while, considering. You really think people would want to pay to rent a bedroom?

Her brows climb. Have you seen the rent prices around here? This house is only four blocks from the university. You could rent each of those rooms for three or four hundred dollars a month.

My jaw drops. No way.

Yes. Her nod is emphatic. Do you realize I pay a thousand a month for the Pen Pen?

"Seriously? Pen, that’s criminal."

No, Stella, that’s a housing shortage.

No way. No way. Yeah, but that’s what we pay for our two bedroom apartment, I argue.

Pen wrinkles her nose. Midcity.

What’s wrong with being in the middle of Lafayette?

It’s not downtown or Freetown, she says, like it’s patently obvious. And I’m an artist.

I chuckle. You can’t be an artist and live off Guilbeau Road?

My best friend looks at me like I’ve just confessed to human trafficking. No.

"But you can be an artist in a third floor attic?"

And it’s like I’ve just named the sun after her. A third floor attic with a view of the cemetery and St. John’s Cathedral? Where I can still walk to Downtown Alive! and get a Bloody Mary at the French Press whenever I want?

Well, when she puts it like that…

Fair enough. But it’s not like Pen is a representative sample of the renting population in Lafayette, Louisiana. She’s pretty much one of a kind. But why would someone want to live in a house with a bunch of strangers?

More to the point, why would anyone want to live in a house with a single mom, a four-year-old, and a thirty-year-old man with a head injury? Oh, and a self-proclaimed witch?

Pen gives me her best mystical, all-knowing smile and shrugs. There’s one way to find out.

Chapter Two

LARK

I can’t believe Zoe kicked your ass out, Bear says. On a Tuesday.

I take a pull from my South Coast and say nothing. We’re sitting on Bear and Maggie’s back porch. She’s putting Grayson to bed while Bear rocks the baby—Lola—out here.

I mean, what did you do? You’ve only been back in town, what, a month?

I don’t want to talk about it.

My brother snorts a laugh. That might work on me, but Maggie’s not gonna give a shit if you don’t want to talk about it. Might as well start now.

I take another swallow of my amber ale and ignore him. The trouble is Bear is hard to ignore.

Mom’s gonna freak.

I roll my eyes. No, she won’t.

Yeah, Bear says, amusement in the word, she will. She wouldn’t let up for weeks when you two moved in together. Living in sin. Endangering your souls. But I think she finally clammed up because she thought you’d eventually get married.

It’s my turn to snort. That was never going to happen, but just try telling my mother that.

Mom’s a good Catholic. Old School. Mass every Sunday. Confession once a month. Never in her life took a birth control pill. And she made sure we all knew growing up that she was a virgin on her wedding night.

Like I couldn’t have gone my whole life without picturing my parents’ wedding night.

The screen door creaks behind us, and Maggie steps outside, thankfully chasing away that cringe-worthy thought.

Grayson down? Bear asks over his shoulder.

She nods. It took a while. Then she shoots daggers at me. He didn’t want to go to bed, knowing Uncle Lark is here.

My sister-in-law always speaks her mind. And gets her way. The fact that she’s one of few people who can stand up to Mom is one of the things I love most about her.

Sorry, I say, meaning it. I should’ve called.

You’re welcome here any time, Bear says, giving his wife a quelling look before grinning back at me. You’re family.

Maggie tsks. Of course you are. She reaches for my beer, and I hand it over. Before the bottle meets her lips, she says, Just give us a heads up if you’re coming right at bedtime.

When she hands the bottle back to me, I offer her a rueful smile. Believe me, Mags, I wasn’t planning on imposing on y’all like this. I look down at the floorboards beneath us. Zoe had other ideas.

Maggie crosses her arms over her chest. Well, you know the price of crashing on the couch.

I play dumb and nod toward my two-month-old niece. Taking diaper detail at three a.m.?

That too, Maggie says without missing a beat. But first, you have to spill.

Behind her Bear wears a shit-eating grin and that ridiculous look of adoration in his eyes. I sigh. I guess there’s no way of getting out of this. Despite the lectures that might come my way.

We want different things. That’s all.

It’s the truth, if not the detailed truth. The fact is, I want to stay single, and Zoe wants, to quote her verbatim, the last three years of my life back.

Maggie frowns. I don’t understand. Y’all are always so great together. What does she want that you don’t?

I stifle a groan. C’mon, Mags. It’s not like I’ve ever kept it a secret.

"Oh, your I’m never getting married B.S?"

My chuckle is half-bitter, half-amused. It’s not B.S. if I mean it.

Maggie rolls her eyes. Sure. Whatever. So, what? Zoe got tired of hearing you say it?

I pull in a deep inhale. Actually, I think my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend now—may have finally heard what I’ve been saying since we first met.

Something like that. I blow out my breath. Wish she would have done it sooner.

Well, moving in with her probably wasn’t the best way to convince her you’re destined for a life of solitude, Bear quips.

"Now you sound like Mom. I don’t want solitude. Can’t two people live together and just… be… without a societally imposed contractual obligation or church sanctioning?"

No, Bear and Maggie answer at the same time.

Smirking, I shake my head at them. You know, not everyone finds their soulmate in ninth grade.

As if this is their cue, Maggie lowers herself onto the arm of Bear’s rocker and he lays a hand over her knee. Both of them are grinning like fools.

So, what you’re saying is Zoe isn’t your soulmate, Maggie says.

I groan. I don’t actually believe in soulmates. Mates, yes. Partners, sure. But if I admit that to Bear and Maggie, I may have to sleep out here on the porch, and the mosquitos are starting to come out.

I take that as a yes. Sourness drips from Maggie’s words.

I shake my head. Look, for most people, it’s just not that simple. I drag my fingers through my hair, marking my frustration. Things haven’t really been the same since I got back from Summer Field Camp.

Bear’s voice goes cold. Did you do something in Bryce Canyon you shouldn’t have?

No, I say, scowling.

My brother shrugs. No offense. Six weeks is a long time.

Maggie whirls around and swats him across the shoulder. It is not, she says hotly.

My brother’s eyes widen. Babe, that’s not what I meant.

How come that’s the first thing you thought of? You said it like you couldn’t blame him if he cheated on Zoe after being gone just six weeks⁠—

I—

You’re gone offshore three weeks at a time. Her eyes blaze like embers. Does that mean you’re halfway to infidelity by the time you get home?

Of course, not⁠—

And what if my doctor hadn’t cleared me for sex at my six-week appointment? Her voice is climbing and getting shaky the higher it goes. Oh my God, is that what this is about? Is that why you said six weeks is a long time?

My brother shakes his head so hard, I’m afraid he’ll wake the infant in his arms. No, no, Maggie. I’d wait for you forever. You know that. Didn’t I prove that to you already?

I’ve seen sand crabs scurry for cover on the beach. They’ve got nothing on my wide-eyed brother.

Because I’ve carried two children for you and dealt with chronic constipation and hemorrhoids both times⁠—

I groan again, but no one hears me. Judging by his face, Bear looks like he’s groaning too. He shoots me a pleading glance.

And if you think I’d go through that again after you dipped your dick into some festering twat⁠—

Maggie, I charge in, rescuing my brother if for no other reason than I don’t think I’d fare well if this is the night he gets kicked out too. You’re all the woman Bear can handle, and even if Zoe and I aren’t destined for marriage, I never have and I never would have cheated on her.

Maggie turns her glare on me, nostrils flaring. Her chest rises and falls. If she just breathes for a few more seconds, she’ll calm down. I’ve known my sis-in-law long enough to know that.

She looks back at Bear. Is that true?

Y-yes. All of it, he stammers quickly. You’re all the woman I need. Always have been, baby. Bear looks like he can’t decide if he should say more or stop while he’s ahead. He shuts up.

Smart move, bro.

Maggie takes a deep breath and empties her lungs. She turns back to me as if she never veered over the double line and vaulted the guardrails into hysteria.

So you were faithful to Zoe the whole time you were in Utah?

Yes. It’s true.

I don’t tell them that Summer Field Camp is the last place anyone would want to attempt a hook-up. I think I had gravel in my asscrack for six solid weeks. Geology students don’t spend time in the field without getting their hands dirty. And their feet. And their eyelids. And their taints.

Maggie studies me for a minute. I can see she believes me, but my answer doesn’t satisfy her. So if it wasn’t someone else, what changed?

I was gone the whole month of May and half of June. When I first got back, Zoe seemed to have missed me like crazy. I was glad to see her too. Even though Bear got his ass scalded for saying it, six weeks is a long time when you’re used to having sex whenever you want it.

The whole month of July, we couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. We even took a long weekend and spent it in a lakeside cabin in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Skinny-dipping in the heat of the afternoon. Coffee on the screened in porch in the mornings. A bottle of wine on the dock at sunset.

Best trip we ever took.

But I started to notice that Zoe kept mentioning me graduating next May. Like every day.

And I started to pick up that every time she said it, it was with a question underneath her words. What happens next?

Then she got into the habit of dropping hints that the apartment was too small and the lease would be up next summer. And wouldn’t it be nice to live in a house? Shit like that.

And then I got home after my Site Assessment and Remediation class this afternoon, and Zoe had turned the living room into something out of The Bachelor. No lie. Rose petals on the living room floor. Pillar candles on every surface. Fucking champagne chilling in a bucket of ice.

I stood frozen in the doorway and tried to process what the hell was going on. Not my birthday. Not Valentine’s Day, which I told her early on was a non-starter for me. Not our anniversary, even though she knew my position on that too.

She was sitting at the table in that wrap dress of hers that drives me wild when we’re out together and these strappy shoes that make her calves look like religious idols. I was two seconds away from falling to my knees and eating her out right there.

But the look in her eyes made me hold back.

No, not the look in her eyes. The tears in her eyes.

She knew, before she even opened her mouth, how tonight was going to end. I knew before she even opened her mouth too. It felt like a stomach full of gravel.

I make myself look Maggie in the eye. She asked me to marry her, and I said no.

Maggie’s eyes bug.

Shit, Bear mutters.

I nod because that’s pretty much how I feel. Telling her no was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But saying yes? I just can’t. I can’t pretend to be that guy.

Still, the guy I am feels all the shit. Guilt, defensiveness, shame. Told me to get out.

I never thought she’d actually ask. I expected her to believe me. I expected her to accept me as I am.

Still looking at me like I just lit my hair on fire, Maggie asks, So, what are you going to do?

Find another place to live.

Her mouth falls open the same time Bear double-blinks at me.

What?

Bear frowns, looking confused. You’re not… you’re not gonna buy a ring?

No. I launch to my feet, giving the rocker I abandon whiplash. Now I’m staring at Bear and Maggie with the same bemused look they’re giving me. I drag my hands through my hair, wanting to tear handfuls from the roots. "Hell, no. I’m not getting married. Not to Zoe. Not to anyone. I’ve been saying that since I was eleven years old. Why is that so impossible to believe?"

I feel like my whole life has been scripted by—shackled in—the Seven Sacraments. Baptism. Communion. Confession. Confirmation. Marriage. Holy Orders. Last Rites.

Somehow, they’ve all felt like Last Rites. Like the end. Especially marriage.

Maggie’s expression takes on that well meant condescension that all of the women in New Iberia seem to have perfected by the time they hit puberty.

Guys always say that about getting married. Bear even said that.

My brother shrugs. I stopped saying it about ten minutes after I met you.

Maggie grins. I roll my eyes.

This conversation is insane, I mutter.

Maggie looks back at me, still grinning, but her eyes pinched with impatience. Oh, c’mon, Lark. Don’t you love Zoe? I know you do.

For the first time since I showed up at Bear’s front door, I feel a stab of loss. Yeah. I do. The words come out as dry as dust. But they’re true. I have no doubt of that. But I know something else that’s true. You can love someone and be all wrong for them. I swallow against the grief I know is waiting for me. Waiting for when Bear and Maggie finally put the baby down and shut themselves in their room. I love her, but I can’t give her what she wants.

Wearing a look of confusion and hurt, Maggie studies me like she’s never seen me before. But why not? Why not just do it? Would it really be so bad?

Sometimes, disasters are accidents. Complete freaks of nature. But most of the time, disasters are one hundred percent foreseeable, preventable, and even anticipated. We still insist on calling them accidents because no one wants to feel responsible for them.

We should really call them consequences.

I know what I’m talking about here. In a mine, when a roof collapses, or a fire traps men in a shaft and asphyxiates them, or an explosion buries miners under thirteen hundred feet of salt or coal or silicone, people watching the news are shocked and saddened. You know who isn’t shocked?

The experts.

The ones who know that mining companies cut corners. They don’t use stability criteria to prevent cascading pillar failure. They don’t dig a back-up shaft—or they begin to but never finish

Reviews for Dream House

[3720tv · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book. It was unexpected, original and simply perfect. It's not paranormal but has a touch of magic, it's not a mystery or thriller but has a touch of suspense. It is a romance but not just between two people. It's the romance in finding family, the art of so many different types of loves that when let be what they are, create something so bone deep steading. Like it helps feel more sturdy more level, hopeful and what to be a better person. Each and every character was written perfectly, from handling someone who to most would come off as abrasive but instead you learn to feel respect for, to handling someone recovering from brain trauma without taking away their dignity. Giving someone abused the grace to grow as a person throughout was so on point. Even handling someone loving and kind without feeling like they have no spine.
I didn't know what to expect from this book but its honesty written with such depth and complexity took me off guard. Like watching my girl, secret life of bees and inside out all at once.
I read hundreds of books a year and have not felt one be this settled with how they try to show various perspectives, social & religious issues and even single parenthood. Can't wait for the next and everything else she has ever written!!!!