Please enjoy this sneak peek at the final installment in the Celebration House Trilogy,
Return to Celebration House.

 

Melanie Hansen opened her mailbox and reached in to retrieve the letters. A utility bill. A flyer from a local plastic surgeon. Her American Express bill. God, that was going to be ugly. Lastly, she brought out an ivory-colored envelope with handwriting she didn’t recognize. She turned the envelope over and when she saw the seal, her heart nearly stopped. “Stratton House, Lexington, Missouri.”

Melanie slammed the mailbox shut. Tears filled her eyes. She turned and strode toward the elevator. When she stepped inside, the goon of an elevator operator nodded politely and pushed the 31st floor button. He bowed his head and looked away.

Melanie refused to cry. Stupid, stupid, Carrie. Melanie took deep breaths. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Instead, she glared at the back of the uniformed servant. Just last month she had filed her third written complaint on him. Think about him. Careless idiot, dropping her suitcases when she’d gotten home from a business trip. Think about that. Her tears obediently retreated.

The elevator doors slid open.

“Move!” she commanded. She pushed past the incompetent hulk.

Melanie unlocked the door to her condominium and marched in, slamming the door behind her. She tossed the mail on the small, elegant marble-top table by the front door. Unnoticed by Melanie, the letter from Stratton House slid off the table and onto the floor behind it.

Kicking off her Jimmy Choos, she stomped into the kitchen. Slate countertops and stainless steel appliances gleamed when the motion-sensor lights flicked on. She reached into the refrigerator and brought out the bottle of wine she’d opened last night. She took the crystal wine glass out of the dish drainer and poured the last of the dark burgundy wine. Slouching against the countertop, she took a deep sip.

Melanie studied her spotless apartment. The two thousand square foot abode offered an amazing view of the Bellevue, Washington skyline. In the living room, she flipped on the wall switch for the gas fireplace and sank into one of the chairs that faced the night sky. Melanie had clients who would pay seven figures for this view. And it was hers. She took another drink of wine.

Then it began. The whispering, the niggling of her conscience. How could my baby sister send a letter? Carrie died a year ago. Someone was playing a prank. Who the hell did this? They. Would. Pay.

Melanie slammed the empty glass down on her designer coffee table and got up from the deep plush chair. Over by the front door, the bills were on the table, but Carrie’s letter wasn’t. She looked for it. Where the hell did it go? She peered around the table and saw the ivory-colored envelope wedged between the table and the wall. She strained to reach it, but her long elegant fingers just weren’t long enough.

“God dammit!” she screamed.

Inch by inch Melanie moved the heavy table with its marble top away from the corner. She knelt on the hardwood floor to get the letter. Lying on her side, she reached back and strained to grab it with her right hand. Her fingertips connected with the envelope. She pulled it out but a fingernail ripped on the molding. Her nail had torn to the quick. Melanie stood, and prize in hand, returned to her chair. Blood smeared the face of the envelope.

Melanie studied the letter with its unfamiliar handwriting. When she opened it, a handwritten letter was wrapped around another envelope. Again, she didn’t recognize this writing. It was from Beth Kozera, the woman Carrie named executor of Stratton House for one year, pending its sale. That year was up now. This woman probably wanted her to take on the responsibility for the house. Good luck with that, honey. Melanie began to read.

“Dear Melanie. Your sister wrote this letter before her death and asked me to send it to you. She died one year ago today, so I am doing as she requested. Carrie meant the world to me and to those who knew her in Lexington and Seattle. Below is my contact information. Please let me know what I can do to help.”

Melanie pulled out the other envelope. This handwriting she did know. Carrie’s loopy, childish scrawl. Jesus. I’m surprised there aren’t hearts above the letter i, Melanie thought.

She gulped down the rest of her wine and tore open the envelope.

“My dearest Mel…”

Melanie rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. Only her baby sister used that stupid nickname for her. No one else dared. She continued reading.

“How I love you. I know you were and perhaps are still angry with me about the choices I made. Really, I don’t blame you. I also know you feel badly about the way we parted. Please don’t. You dropped everything to come and help me after my surgery. You were there for me when I needed you most. That’s all that matters to me.

“Beth, my dear friend, agreed to stay at Stratton House for one year. That year is over. So now I turn to you, big sister, to take on this task. I ask you to come to Stratton House and stay here until you can find someone who will make it their home and see my vision realized – a place for people to celebrate the best days of their lives. Find someone you know I would approve of, because you knew me better than anyone.

“I love you, Mel. I have always loved you, even when you so eloquently expressed your disapproval of my dream. I know it was out of worry and frustration. But now, you don’t have the luxury of lecturing me on knowing my limitations, or the imperative of a thorough marketing plan. I need you to do this. Please help me this one last time. Please return to Stratton House. – Carrie.”

Melanie took the letter and crushed it into a ball. She meant to throw it into a trash can by the fireplace, but she overshot and the letter soared toward the gas flames. Before her horrified eyes, she saw the letter land on the grate and begin to smoke. She bolted out of her chair and grabbed the paper, which was half consumed by fire. She patted it with her hands against the carpet, indifferent to the blisters on her palms and the smell of burning fibers. Finally, the flames died, but only half of the letter remained. Melanie burst into tears, clutching the burnt paper to her chest. She rocked back and forth, sobbing. Her treasure crumbled in her tight grasp. When she stopped crying, she looked down at the letter, but only a sliver of paper remained.

“Return to Stratton House.”