This is not a true story. It is based, however, on a place very near and dear to my heart. At least twice a month my family— my mother, father, brother, and I—would go there, a half hour’s drive from home. This was the home of my great-grandparents, the childhood home of my grandmother for whom I was named, and the present home of her sister, my great-aunt Della, and her husband Jimmy. This house, this wonderfully fabulous house with rambling rooms filled with treasures and secrets, has a large wraparound porch with nearly a dozen old porch swings and a drawing well at the back door. My brother and I spent hours exploring both it and the land around it. (Oh, how I’ll never forget the day we discovered the old outhouse. To this day my mother laughs about our expressions when we came running back inside to tell of our find.) The house lies broken and nearly barren now, but always and forever in my heart it will be one of my childhood homes.
In spite of this story being fabricated, it required a lot of research, and for those who aided me, I am forever grateful. Thank you to Dori Grantz, who explained the difference between an interior designer and an interior decorator and who spent valuable time answering my questions about both; to my mother, Betty Purvis, who met me in the declining town where our ancestrial home lies in near-ruins and who walked the broken sidewalks, explaining the way life used to be when it was vibrant and hopeful; to Charlie Seitz who— after renovating an old farmhouse—shared some of the problems and pleasures therein; to Nancy Kruk, who helped me understand some of the finer details involved in renovating an old house; to Rhonda DeLoach from Register, Georgia, who sent old newspaper articles to further my research; to Miriam Feinberg Vamosh, my dear friend, who shared with me some of the issues concerning Jews in America during the 1940s (may we never see those days again); and to Gayle Scheff, my Southern-girl reading buddy, who read every line as I wrote it, rewrote it, and then rewrote it again. Thank you for helping me catch those “vacant” spots.
And, of course, to my editors: Vicki Crumpton, who said, “I really like this!” and Kristin Kornoelje, who took what Vicki sent and made it sing an even prettier song. Thank you, everyone at Baker Publishing Group for everything you have done and continue to do for me as a fiction writer.
Thank you to my agent, Deidre Knight. You are a TRUE GRITS: Girl Raised in the South! Thank you, thank you, thank you, sweet lady!
Finally, a huge thank-you to my family: husband Dennis and daughter-still-at-home, Jo-Jo. Thank you for giving up your time with me and my precious time with you (all the more important) so I could write this novel. It had stirred for so many years, and we, together, can now hold it in our hands. I love you for that.
Eva Marie Everson