Prologue

My name is Brandy Alexander and I am a recently reinstated native of South Philadelphia; more specifically, the proud new owner of the house I grew up in. Until five weeks ago I was the "puff piece reporter" for a local morning TV news show, out in Los Angeles. My job was to act perky and look like I was having the time of my life while reporting on "special events" around the L.A. area. There's really only so much enthusiasm a person can whip up for the Pacoima Chili Cook-off and the job fell a tad short of my dream of becoming the next Diane Sawyer, but it kept me off the streets and out of debt.

I'd left Philadelphia for the most clichéd of reasons--a broken heart. (I'm a firm believer in running away from one's problems. It's a great strategy, right up there with denial. Plus, it's the only exercise I get.) You'd think that my four year stay in the land of a million therapists would have taught me to confront my feelings head-on, but as my dad would say, I'm a tenacious little bugger. I stick with my game plan no matter how dysfunctional.

Then one day my best friend, Franny DiAngelo, called to say she was getting married, and there was a bridesmaid's dress down at Mama Mia's Bridal Shop with my name on it. She had launched a pre-emptive strike and there was no way I could refuse her. So with much trepidation I packed up my emotional baggage and hopped a plane to Philly.

I didn't even realize how much I'd missed my hometown until I was back in the heart of it. My brother and my best friends in the world all still lived in the neighborhood. Sam Giancola still made the world's best hoagies, and the crazy guy in the top hat who sells Italian ice on Market Street still remembered that my favorite flavor is cherry.

My career in Los Angeles was stalled in the 6:00 a.m. "filler" slot of a third rate news station. My social life was non-existent, since I'd gone on a grand total of six dates in the entire time I'd lived out there. I missed the sights, the smells and the sounds of my neighborhood. I missed who I was and how I felt being surrounded by the people I love.

In the two weeks I'd been back in Philly, I had reconciled my differences with (if not my feelings for) my ex-boyfriend and could finally take a walk down memory lane without bursting into tears. In short, the time was ripe for a change. So when my parents announced they were selling our family home and moving to Florida, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to buy the house from them. My boss at the TV station argued that it wasn't very mature of a twenty-eight year old to run back to the metaphoric womb, but nobody likes a know-it-all so I decided to ignore her advice. Had she pointed out that the metaphoric womb was over sixty years old, with really bad plumbing, she may have gotten my attention.