Chapter 1
Sunday
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the cavernous beachside mansion. Tearing my gaze away from the pages of my favorite novel, I looked up, my eyes narrowing at the interruption.
Is it time already? I glanced at the clock on the antique mahogany sideboard, its hands pointing at a quarter past four.
With a sigh, I rose and eased toward the hallway, my bones creaking like the old wooden steps leading to the lighthouse in the distance.
Guests were rare these days, but that didn’t diminish the stir of excitement that visitors brought.
For decades, this mansion had been a hub of social activity, its rooms often filled with the laughter and chatter of Kitty Hawk’s political and social elite.
The memories of those days clung to the high-ceilinged rooms like the scent of old perfume, bringing with them a touch of melancholy.
But today was different. As I approached the grand oak door, there was a spark of anticipation in the air, a tingle of unfamiliarity that promised a break from the monotony of my quiet life.
Through the frosted glass, I spotted a silhouette—a lean figure, distinctly feminine, draped in a coat that danced around her ankles.
My heart caught in my chest. When I agreed to have my biography written, I hadn’t expected to feel so nervous, so naked.
And yet here I was, as vulnerable as a peach without its protective skin.
With one last glance back toward the sanctity of my library, I took a deep breath, knowing that once I opened the door, there was no going back.
Under the overhang, sheltering from the pouring rain, stood Diane Montgomery.
She was an attractive young woman, in an obvious sort of way—long dark hair teased by the wind, a tailored emerald green pea coat that flattered her frame, and eyes of sapphire that sparkled with intelligence.
Beneath her arm, she carried a brown leather satchel, no doubt filled with notebooks, pens, and perhaps even a tape recorder.
All tools of the trade. Diane was a twenty-eight-year-old single mother and aspiring writer, employed as an investigative journalist for the Stanly News & Press in Albemarle, a suburb of Charlotte.
She had come to spend the week with me, to chronicle my life in a book that she had been eager to write.
Initially, I had been skeptical. Who would want to read the story of a woman past her prime marooned in an oversized beach house?
But the more I pondered, the more I realized that my life had been anything but ordinary.
From my humble beginnings as a poor country girl to becoming a judge, my journey had been filled with trials and triumphs.
Yet, it was the personal life behind the public persona that Diane wanted to unravel, those intimate chapters shrouded by the fog of time.
In her letter, she stated that I had been an inspiration to her, a beacon of hope in a world where women often felt overshadowed and underappreciated.
With the promise of respect and sincerity, she asked for my consent to share my story with the world.
I agreed, albeit with a touch of apprehension.
As soon as I opened the door, Diane smiled and extended a hand. Her grip was firm, her manicured nails painted a ruby red. “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” she said, her voice rich and warm like a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Likewise. Won’t you come in? And please, call me Sara.”
Diane stepped into the foyer, the heels of her boots clicking on the polished marble. “What a beautiful home you have, Sara,” she said, taking a moment to admire the grand staircase and ornate chandelier that hung in the center of the room.
“Thank you.” I watched her closely, trying to discern whether the admiration in her voice was genuine or just a practiced courtesy of her profession.
However, her eyes, lively and expressive, seemed to drink in the details with genuine interest. “It’s seen many a stormy day,” I added, gesturing toward the tall bay windows flanking the room that framed the inclement weather outside.
Diane followed my gaze to the gray clouds that churned in the sky, the rivulets of rain that slipped down the windowpane. “I can only imagine.”
“Please, let me take your coat.”
She shrugged it off with a grateful smile, revealing a tailored white blouse tucked into a maroon pencil skirt beneath. “Thank you. This weather is quite something, isn’t it?”
I took her coat and hung it in the closet next to the entrance.
“Indeed. Unpredictable, like most things in life.” I led her into the library, where a fire crackled in the hearth.
The room was a delightfully eclectic blend of old-world charm and contemporary style.
It boasted high ceilings with intricate moldings, elegant wooden paneling, grand windows draped in luxurious maroon velvet curtains, and walls adorned with an impressive collection of books and exquisite artwork.
The warm glow of the fire bathed the room in a warm ambiance, making it a sanctuary against the gloomy weather outside.
Diane's eyes roamed across the room, taking in the collection of first-edition books and the rich details of each painting. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” Her sharp gaze landed on a painting, a somber piece of a girl seemingly trying to climb up a hill. “This is Christina’s World, is it not?”
“I’m impressed. It belonged to my late husband. He had such a keen eye for art.”
“And what about you? Do you share his passion?”
I poured two glasses of iced tea from an ornate silver pitcher and handed one to Diane. “I appreciate art, but my passion lies elsewhere.” I gestured toward the towering bookcase that lined the far wall. “I find the written word to be the most expressive form of art.”
Diane took a moment to appreciate the vast array of literature before her.
Bound volumes of classic works, historical recounts, contemporary novels, and even poetry collections filled the shelves from floor to ceiling.
They were organized not by author or title, but color—a rainbow of spines that brought vibrancy to the room. “That’s quite a collection.”
“Would you believe this isn’t half of it?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You must be quite the reader. Do you have a favorite?”
“It’s like asking a mother to pick a favorite child. But if I had to choose one, it would be The Great Gatsby. It's a tale of love, deception, and the facade of the American Dream. I find something new each time I read it.”
Diane nodded as she sipped her tea. “It’s been ages since I read that one. Probably not since high school English class.”
“If you enjoy reading, you’re welcome to any book you like during your stay. Speaking of which, we took the liberty of preparing the cottage for you. I hope that’s okay?”
“We?”
“Judy and I. She’s one of my dearest friends and has been staying with me since my husband passed away. A recent widow herself, she and I have become each other’s support system.”
“I’m sorry for your losses. It’s good to have someone to lean on during tough times.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, fighting a lump in my throat. “And might I add, it’s also good to have a distraction. Like your visit. I’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she replied. “I have been, too. Believe it or not, this is my first trip to the Outer Banks.”
“Well, you’ve picked the perfect time to visit,” I said gesturing toward the window where the rain continued to fall in sheets. “Once this storm passes, you’ll see how the fall brings out the true beauty of these shores.”
“Speaking of beautiful, is that the cottage you were telling me about?” She moved over to the window, her gaze seeking out the small structure nestled at the edge of the dunes.
“That’s it. My little home away from home. You’ll have plenty of peace and quiet there while you work. Once this storm passes, I’ll be happy to show it to you.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Diane nodded appreciatively, her eyes taking one last sweep of the grand library before returning to me. “Tell me, was it difficult transitioning from a humble life to…this?”
I chuckled, reflecting on my journey. “Difficult? No, I wouldn’t say it was difficult.
A little overwhelming, especially at the beginning, but I like to think that I took to it like a duck to water.
” I led Diane toward a plush seating area near the grand fireplace.
I settled onto a tufted velvet chair while she claimed the seat opposite me on a matching chaise, crossing one leg over the other.
Her eyes twinkled with intrigue as she set her tea on a walnut coffee table and pulled a notepad from her satchel.
“Thanks again for agreeing to do this. When you responded to my letter, I must admit, I was a bit surprised, especially given your reputation for reticence. If you don’t mind me asking, is there a particular reason you want to do this now?”
“For starters, my career has afforded me the luxury of solitude, the privilege of distance. For years, I’ve watched people form assumptions about me, my life, this house…
and I’ve let them. I’ve realized, though, that silence can be just as much a lie as any spoken words.
If people are going to talk, I want them to have the right information.
Now that I’m retired, I feel it’s time for me to write my own narrative.
The true version of my story, not the fragmented pieces that have been stitched together by intrigued outsiders.
Ultimately, I feel like this is my chance to do what I do best—to plead my case and show the rest of the world that I’m not the heartless woman they think I am. ”