Family, Food, and Fortitude. With the unexpected news of her pregnancy, Molly’s suddenly responsible husband Corey persuades her to leave her job as a sous chef in a bustling Washington DC restaurant, and move to an old fashioned, run down house in small town Pennsylvania. Stuck with a colicky newborn and a husband who loves the creaky steps, old décor, and even the broken tiles in the kitchen, Molly finds herself trapped in a life that only Corey wants―but is too busy working to enjoy. A century earlier, the same house was home to adventurous Tish, the middle daughter of the Hess family, who yearns to leave the family delicatessen behind to travel west and paint sweeping mountain landscapes. When Tish meets Ellis, a wanderer from California, their romance carries them through World War I, but cannot survive his return to civilian life and a train crash that claims the life of many aboard. Tied by tragedy to the delicatessen, Tish must forfeit everything for her family. After so much sacrifice, how can two women living a hundred years apart find happiness in the present, while living a life they would never choose for themselves? Heather Greenleaf has a degree in Art History from George Washington University and a degree in Culinary Arts from the Restaurant School at Walnut Hill College. She has written continuously running food columns in the Harlem Times, on Patch.com, and bonedo.com, and is currently employed as a Fine Art Registrar for a nonprofit that travels art exhibitions. In her free time, Heather is the Vice President the Upper Moreland Historical Commission and the Archivist for the Upper Moreland Association, managing their extensive collection of historic local artifacts. She lives in a historic home in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor By Heather Greenleaf Morgan James Publishing Copyright © 2018 Heather Greenleaf All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-68350-663-8 Contents Prologue, 1920, Chapter 1 – Molly, 2005, Chapter 2 – Tish, 1916, Chapter 3 – Molly, Chapter 4 – Tish, 1916, Chapter 5 – Molly, Chapter 6 – Tish, 1916, Chapter 7 – Molly, Chapter 8 – Tish, 1917, Chapter 9 – Molly, Chapter 10 – Tish, 1919, Chapter 11 – Molly, Chapter 12 – Tish, 1920, Chapter 13 – Molly, Chapter 14 – Tish, 1920, Chapter 15 – Molly, Chapter 16 – Tish, Chapter 17 – Molly, Acknowledgments, About the Author, CHAPTER 1 Molly, 2005 The place was a dump. I stared up at the dilapidated box that was our new house in disbelief. We left Washington DC for this? "We're here," Corey said, standing next to me on the cracked sidewalk, his face proud and bright. "C'mon! Come inside and see it!" I watched him lope up the bowed steps like an excited child. The house was three stories high and perfectly, unimaginatively, square. A wraparound porch with grayed and flaking columns surrounded the cracking stone facade. Pachysandra raced over most of the front lawn, dappled with fallen brown leaves. The sidewalk and walkway to the porch were littered with tree detritus from the two peeling sycamores that stood sentinel at the edge of the strangled yard. Corey fiddled with the key, pulling on the knob and slamming his shoulder into the heavy wooden door a few times. The bolt finally fell, like a guillotine out of the lock. Then, without waiting for me, Corey rushed inside. Two hundred miles north of our old apartment, its keys passed off forever to the landlord, regret clogged my throat. This practical and forlorn house had none of the beauty Corey had described — no, promised — in the months leading up to our move. My chest was tight with the finality of it all. This was it, where we would be living. Maybe forever. Earlier that morning, I had awakened in our cozy one-bedroom apartment, stacked high with labeled boxes ready to be loaded onto the truck. The sun streamed through our slatted blinds, filling our bedroom with long, vertical stripes of light. I sat up and, with gentle fingertips, traced the line of sunshine that fell on Corey's bare shoulder. I was happy just being next to him, overwhelmed with love and excited for our relocation. As we trundled along in the moving van, wisps of my long, thin, light hair blew in the breeze. I chewed on the hangnails forever plaguing my thumbs and watched Corey in the driver's seat. Scruff dotted his strong jawline. His brown hair flipped up at the nape of his neck like a duck's tail. Turning to me, he caught me staring. He reached out with a grin, exposing me to the full force of his dimples, and rubbed my bulbous belly. "Almost home," he said. Her home, this home, now our home. In the truck, I had put my hand over Corey's where it rested on my belly, trusting him fully. Below our fingers, the baby rolled an elbow, or a perhaps a knee, and my stomach rose in a trailing arc. I grinned and looked at Corey. His smile let me know he had felt it too; our tiny creation saying hello. We had discovered I was pregnant when