More Than a Memory
Roz Denny Fox

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

Roz Denny Fox has been a RITA® Award finalist and has placed in a number of other contests; her books have also appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. She’s happy to have received her twenty-five-book pin and would one day love to get the pin for fifty books. Roz currently resides in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, Denny. They have two daughters.

Chapter One

JO CARROLL TAPED UP the last of her moving boxes and set it by the door. Only her mother’s room remained for her to deal with. Jo had put it off until last. It didn’t seem possible that a month had passed since Sharon Drake had been laid to rest next to Jo’s dad, Joseph, in the cemetery not far from the apartment she and Jo had shared. Sharon’s death had been as unexpected as the car-train accident that had claimed Joe Drake’s life seven years earlier.

One morning Sharon woke up complaining of a bad headache. In the blink of an eye she’d collapsed—and was gone before the paramedics arrived. The doctors told Jo it was a brain aneurysm, and she tried to take comfort in the knowledge that her mother hadn’t suffered.

Now Jo was on her own. She wasn’t a child. At twenty-five she could take care of herself. Since her dad’s death, an accident that Jo herself had been lucky to survive, her life had revolved around her career as a concert violinist.

Hesitating at the threshold of her mother’s bedroom, Jo nervously brushed her palms down her denim jeans. Sharon had been an intensely private woman, and a controlling one. Jo had put off this task as long as she could, but she’d crunched the numbers and she knew that moving was an economic necessity. Her monthly stipend as lead violinist with the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, and the little she earned working odd shifts at a coffeehouse, wouldn’t cover the rent on this two-bedroom unit in a renovated brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue.

Her mother had insisted they needed to live where they could rub elbows with symphony patrons who could help advance Jo’s career. But Jo wondered how her mom had made ends meet.

Determined to be done with it, she opened an empty box and started sorting her mother’s belongings. She set aside a cameo pin to save. Jo planned to donate the rest to a women’s shelter. The lack of anything of real value drove home the sacrifices her mother had been willing to make for Jo’s profession.

Guilt welled up as she folded a worn, blue crepe dress—the last piece of clothing in the closet. Now, a final check to make sure she’d gotten everything and she’d be ready to call in the movers.

Wait! What was that on the top shelf? Whatever it was had been stuck behind a winter bedspread. She had to stretch, but Jo managed to get down a wooden box. Not too heavy, but it was wedged in tight. Her dad’s name was carved on the lid. Jo’s hands shook. She had no memories of him. The box was cedar, she realized as she sank to her knees and opened the lid, releasing a pungent scent.

Inside she found books and papers. High-school yearbooks along with news clippings and gilt-edged certificates.

Jo felt momentarily disappointed. She’d been hoping for a will or an insurance policy. But this was strange. The yearbooks were from a high school in Tennessee. White Oak Valley High. Jo didn’t know anyone in Tennessee.

As she inspected a couple of the awards, a knot formed in her stomach. The name Colleen Drake was stenciled on each. All were first- and second-place wins from the Smoky Mountain Music Festival.

Breathing became difficult as Jo sifted through two dozen yellowed newspaper articles. A girl pictured in one bore an uncanny resemblance to her own few childhood photographs, which she’d already packed. Here was this Colleen Drake again. A gifted violinist with the same last name as Joe’s family…Fumbling, Jo dropped the clippings. Out slithered a thin gold chain. Hanging from it was some kind of pendant—a gold oak leaf. The leaf was inscribed on the back, Jo saw as she turned it over. Ornate script read Forever Love. Under the words were entwined letters that could be a G and a C, or perhaps two Gs.

Jo curled her fingers around the pendant. All the items in the box were puzzling. Actually they were a little frightening, she thought, absently tracing a threeinch scar along her hairline. A throbbing pain grew after she opened one yearbook and paged through class photographs. She would’ve been a high-school sophomore that year. There was her smile on the face of a stranger named Colleen Drake. Cold prickles ran up Jo’s spine. Her first inclination was to put everything back in the box and pretend she’d never found it.

Curiosity made her open the second book—her junior year. That picture of Colleen Drake resembled her uncannily. It could almost be her—except she never wore her hair pulled back away from her face the way it was in this photo. And Jo’s birth name had been Drake, too, until she’d changed it for professional reasons.

The question was unavoidable. Who was Colleen Drake? Could this be her? Lights flashed behind Jo’s eyes, warning of an impending migraine. She fended it off by sheer will. A cousin—maybe this was a cousin.

A spot in the third yearbook where a graduation photo should have been was blank. But Colleen Drake’s name was typed there along with credits listing activities such as track, band and girls’ chorus. What had happened to the girl with her face?

Unable to think clearly for the pounding in her skull, Jo cradled her head in her hands. Neatly layered rustred hair fell forward, veiling the damning evidence.

After a minute, she felt calm enough to begin reviewing what she did know. There wasn’t much. The severe injuries she’d sustained in the accident that had killed her father had erased her memory. When she woke up in the hospital following surgery, she’d panicked at her inability to recall anything. But then her mother had appeared at her side. Sharon patiently sat by Jo’s bedside and painstakingly reconstructed her past, one story at a time. Some details bubbled up now. According to Sharon, Jo had led a privileged childhood, attending private schools and studying with music tutors. Master violinists. Sharon repeated these stories so often Jo felt as if she remembered living them. Everyone at the hospital considered it a miracle that she’d retained the ability to play her violin. They consulted doctor after doctor who’d all said that sometimes it happened like that following a head trauma. Maybe her memories would return, but maybe they wouldn’t.

Why—why would her mother lie to her? Why hadn’t she said anything about this cousin or whoever she was? After all, she’d kept these yearbooks…Fear crept in.Who was left to confirm her mom’s accounts of her history?

Scrambling to her feet, Jo found her cell phone and punched in Jerrold Cleary’s number with shaking fingers. A longtime patron of Boston’s symphony, Jerrold was Jo’s mentor and her mother’s staunch friend. Jo suspected her mother and Jerrold had a loose romantic relationship, but she had no proof of it, except—

“Jerrold? It’s Jo.” She broke off her erratic thoughts and found herself babbling. “I thought I’d emptied Mother’s closet, but I found a cedar box I think belonged to my dad. This is going to sound bizarre, but…did Mother ever mention me having family? Maybe a cousin, Colleen?” A sigh slid out, but Jerrold’s assurance was a relief. He and her mother often huddled together in the kitchen talking while Jo practiced for six or eight hours every day.

“Not that I know of, Jo,” Jerrold said. “Are you all right? You aren’t making much sense.”

“I know. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll dig deeper.” Jo hastened to say goodbye, but Jerrold cut her off. “You sound funny. I’ll be right over.”

“There’s no need. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this stuff. This must be a long-lost cousin from Dad’s side of the family,” she said, trying to believe it. The other possibility was too devastating to consider.

After she’d healed, on a rare outing to a mall, Jo openly envied the young women her age. She’d seen them holding hands and laughing with their handsome boyfriends. Her mother used to hurry her along or divert her attention. Was that significant?

“Don’t come over, Jerrold. I’m about to call the movers. I have everything in the apartment packed.” Except for the items from the cedar box. Jo scowled down at the phone gone dead in her hand.

She didn’t call the movers, but returned to her mother’s bedroom and sat down to read the news clippings.

Lost in her reading, Jo felt her heart race when the outer apartment door opened and Jerrold Cleary called her name. She met him in the empty living room. As a rule, his suits were impeccable, and she’d never seen him with a single iron-gray hair out of place. Today he looked rumpled and irritated. “Whatever crap you’ve unearthed, Jo, it’s better tossed out and forgotten.”

“Better for whom?” Jo never talked back, and the fact that she did now surprised both her and her visitor. Jerrold waved a dismissive hand.

“Better for your career. Your career is everything. You know your mother devoted her life to ensuring your success. I was going to pop by later with this fantastic news, but I think you need a boost now.” Jerrold took a paper from his inner pocket and passed it to Jo. “I’ve finalized arrangements for you to go on the European circuit this summer,” he said, all but preening. “And I negotiated three solos.” He wiggled three fingers under Jo’s nose, as though she might have misunderstood. “The pieces the conductor wants you to do are listed on the back of the schedule. You’ve played them all, but you need to start practicing until every note’s perfect.”

“You aren’t listening. What if I’m not alone? What if I have family somewhere?”

He tapped the schedule she hadn’t glanced at. “This is a huge coup, Jo. It’s just a shame your mother won’t get to see you play Ravel’s ‘Rapsodie Espagnole’ on stage in Spain. Hearing you solo on the European circuit was her lifelong dream. But you know that.”

Jo had difficulty taking in anything Jerrold was saying. And the ambitious itinerary she held might as well have been written in Chinese. “Jerrold, I can’t…go…on this tour.”

“Nonsense. I know violinists,” he stated in his typically pompous way. “You all get cold feet. But you, Jo Carroll, are the most naturally gifted virtuoso I’ve ever had the good fortune to mentor. With dedication I predict you’ll one day be as famous as Itzhak Perlman or Vladimer Spivakov. And as wealthy,” he murmured, straightening his tie. “You, my dear, will be world renowned. My only reward will be to stand in the wings of a sold-out house, watching the audience give my protégée standing ovations.”

“Jerrold, you aren’t getting it.” Jo thrust an award certificate at him. “Look at this. I don’t know if I’m Jo Carroll. Or am I this other musician, Colleen Drake? It’s too much of a coincidence that she looks like me and has the same talent. What if I’m her?”

Jerrold carelessly tore the certificate in half and dropped it. “Jo, you already knowyou’re a Drake. Does the first name really matter? After the accident, Sharon and I decided using her maiden name, Carroll, for your stage name would ensure you privacy. Sharon Carroll would have been famous had she not gotten pregnant with you and been forced to scrap her singing career.”

“Mother used to sing around the house.” Running a hand through her disheveled hair, Jo circled the nearly empty room. “Daddy made acoustic guitars. And fiddles.” She stopped midstride, aghast. “That…all came out of nowhere, Jerrold. Did Daddy make guitars? I swear Mother only ever mentioned his violins. Oh, but I could be way off base. Mother auctioned Daddy’s wood and his tools on eBay after I was released from the hospital.” Jo pressed her aching head to the cool window.

“Stop agonizing, Jo,” Jerrold snapped. “It’s this move and going through your mother’s things. I have no idea why you’re insisting on doing this now when you should be spending every minute practicing for the summer tour.”

“How can you talk about a tour when my life is in shambles?” Jo wadded up the schedule. She shoved the crumpled ball back at him. “I’m not going to Europe. I mean that, Jerrold. I’m going to follow up on what I’ve found. It’s bad enough that I lost my childhood, but this confusion about what I thought I’d restored…” She raked her hair out of her eyes, this time with a noticeably shaking hand.

“Don’t tell me no, you ungrateful little upstart,” Jerrold sputtered, his face an alarming shade of red.

At first Jo recoiled from his outburst. But midtirade she yanked open the door. “I’m not a child, Jerrold, so don’t treat me like one. I know this is all a huge shock, but something just isn’t right.”

“Of course,” he responded smoothly, plainly making an effort to curb his anger. All trace of irritation left his commercially tanned face as he pasted on a poor copy of his earlier smile.

Paying no attention, she said, “Mother gave you a key to our apartment. May I have it, please?”

“The key? Oh, very well.” He handed it over, but only after he straightened the wrinkled tour schedule and pressed it into her free hand. “We’ll get together once you’ve settled into your new studio. The plus side of this move is that it puts you closer to Jordan Hall. When the time comes, after the credits you gain in Europe, you’ll be able to audition with the BSO. I’m very close to booking you three hours a week with a master violinist who used to play with the Vienna Philharmonic. He liked the demo tape of your work. I know you’ll see this as an example of the great opportunities I can give you.”

He sped off, and Jo heard the clatter of his shoes on the stairs before she collected her wits enough to yell, “I’m not changing my mind, Jerrold!” The man ought to realize she couldn’t focus on her work when she had question after question tumbling inside her head and no satisfactory answers.

Why wouldn’t her mother have told her if they had family in Tennessee? Though she strained to remember, the terrible event remained elusive.

Jo assumed there were gaps in the history her mother rebuilt for her after she’d emerged from the coma. Two neurologists and a psychologist agreed she didn’t have retrograde amnesia, but rather dissociative fugue brought on by an intense desire to suppress something she couldn’t bear to face. Still, the accident and everything that came before it had been excised from her memory. And yet it made no sense that her mother would’ve told Jo about her dad’s death and not her cousin’s—if she’d had one. It was even less likely that Jo would’ve grown up privileged in Boston, and a sister in some obscure Tennessee town. A place called White Oak Valley. That simply didn’t make sense.

Logic told her that something was very wrong. But what if she started digging and found a truth so awful she’d wish it had stayed hidden?

She had pills for these migraines, but it had been a while since she’d needed them. She took one and lay down. When the pain eased she began to reflect on the number of times since the accident she’d felt disoriented—as she did now. The only cure was to immerse herself in music. Her violins were all packed, but she tore the box open. Soon the empty third-floor flat echoed with the rich, haunting sounds of Brahms’s “Tragic Overture.”

Jo played until her neck got stiff and the fingers of her left hand felt permanently curved around the violin’s slender neck. But when she finally set down her bow she knew the uncertainty would suffocate her if she allowed it. Whether it destroyed her career or not, she had to get answers.

LESS THAN A WEEK LATER, after consulting a travel agent, Jo pulled her mother’s ten-year-old Subaru off the road in Tennessee at a misty mountain overlook. It had been her original intention to sell the car, but now she was glad she’d kept it. Here she was, less than thirty miles from White Oak Valley.

The bravado that had carried her this far began to falter.

Jo had passed through Sevierville, and Gatlinburg, tourist towns the travel agent had circled on the map. The agent had pointed out that even at the end of May it was still early for the bulk of tourists who flocked to the area for fishing and local crafts.

Resting her arms on a waist-high guardrail, Jo glanced down andwas able to identify the silvery thread of a river far below—probably the same one she’d crossed an hour back. The view across the wide valley was partially shrouded by a lavender-gray haze that left Jo oddly breathless. The scene seemed vaguely familiar, as if she’d seen it before—perhaps in a movie or a magazine.

Shivering, she rubbed her upper arms. It was cooler here in the mountains than it had been when she left Boston. Frustrated that nothing had brought back any concrete memories yet, Jo returned to the Subaru, donned a cardigan and drove on to the tiny hamlet of White Oak Valley.

Beautiful full-blooming dogwood trees lined the main business street that seemed to bisect the small community. Most of these tired buildings had no doubt seen generations of residents come and go: the same families who still lived in the rambling older homes almost hidden by the towering trees.

White Oak Valley lay off the well-traveled tourist highway, and therefore didn’t seem to boast the chain restaurants and motels Jo had passed in Gatlinburg. That town’s claim to fame was a shrine honoring a TV show, The Dukes of Hazzard. Jo had never seen it; her mother always said TV wasted time. So, Jo gassed up the Subaru, but didn’t tour Cooter’s Place as the young station attendant suggested.

After driving from one end of White Oak Valley to the other, disappointment skidded through Jo. She’d expected something to trigger a breakthrough. Nothing did.

Her stomach growled. It was two hours past her normal lunchtime, and Jo decided to try a café across from the city park—Mildred’s, according to a weathered sign. Faded lettering on two plate-glass windows advertised sandwiches, soup, chicken and dumplings, and breakfast at any hour. Jo parked in front of an oldfashioned drugstore and walked back to the café. She pushed open a creaky screen door that released the enticing aroma of home cooking. A 1950s-style soda fountain with chrome-and-red-leather stools ran the length of the room, separating a steamy kitchen from a few tables and vinyl upholstered booths, all of which were empty. Freshly cut sweetpeas sat in fruit jars on every table. Overhead, three white fans would do little to cut the heat billowing from the kitchen once summer arrived.

Choosing a booth near the door, Jo helped herself to a menu tucked behind a remote selector for an ancient jukebox that was even now belting out a country song. She paused a minute and paged through the list of tunes, but realized she’d never heard any of them. Her musical repertoire consisted of symphonies by Beethoven, Schumann, Tchaikovsky and other classical artists.

A pregnant waitress about to pop the buttons off her aqua-blue uniform waddled up. “What can I getcha?” she asked, cracking her gum.

“A bowl of corn chowder and tea,” Jo said, thinking that would warm her up. “Anything herbal you have will be fine.”

The waitress turned and hollered toward the kitchen. “Mildred, we got any tea back there ‘cept the sweet tea Esther made up? We got a customer wanting herbal.”

A scrawny older woman, whose age was more apparent because of hair cut short and dyed jet-black, emerged from the kitchen. She took one last puff of her cigarette before crushing the butt in an ashtray next to the cash register.

“We’re plumb out of any but Southern sweet tea until I get to the grocery—Well, now.” The woman broke off and her jaw sagged even before she collided with the gum-chewing waitress. “Lawdy, if this don’t beat all. Everybody thought you was dead, missy.”

A shiver wound up Jo’s spine, and the menu slipped from her hand. “You know me?” she managed to ask.

At first the woman cackled in disbelief. But as Jo struggled to leave the booth, the woman—Mildred—backed away. “Don’t believe in ghosts,” she hissed. It was plain she didn’t intend to say more.

“Please,” Jo implored. “I’m not sure who you think I am. I recently discovered some high-school yearbooks from this town. I came here hoping for…I don’t know…information, I guess.”

“If you ask me, and nobody did, if you are Colleen Drake and you ain’t dead, you’ve got some explaining to do. Not to me, but to poor Garret Logan.”

“L-Logan?” Jo stumbled over the name. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I…my mother never mentioned anyone by that name.”

The woman’s top lip curled, and she took up a rag to start swabbing the counter. “No surprise there. With her puttin’ on airs and thinking you and her were better than anybody born in these parts? May the good Lord forgive me for being blunt, but this town and the Logans will be better off if you trot on back to whatever snooty place you been keeping yourself.” Mildred eyed Jo’s linen slacks and her matching purse and sandals, then proceeded to shake another cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros she dug out of her apron pocket. Lighting up, she blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

Jo choked on the smoke. Her head began to throb, and she could hardly breathe. This woman couldn’t have known her mother if she thought Sharon Drake put on airs. Everything she did was to promote Jo’s career.

But it was pointless to argue. Instead, Jo left the café. Making enemies wouldn’t get her anywhere. And there was no question but that Mildred thought Jo owed this Garret Logan, whoever he was, an explanation or something.

Perhaps if she tracked him down he could clear up this mystery and she could be back in Gatlinburg before dark, having had a decent meal in a chain restaurant. If that was putting on airs, she was guilty of it, not her mother.

Reaching her car, Jo hesitated. She ought to ask Mildred where she could locate Garret Logan.

Fortunately, a boy of about twelve or thirteen passed Jo on a bicycle. He darted her a friendly smile, then swerved toward the city park.

“Hey,” she called. “You on the bike. I’m trying to find a man named Logan. Do you know where he is?”

The boy circled back. “Sean just went into the bank.”

“Garret. I’m looking for Garret.”

“I reckon he’d be at the pub.” The boy once again started across the street.

“Thanks, but where’s the pub?” The most she got out of the kid was a thumb jerked at the opposite end of the street. She did remember seeing a tavern almost at the edge of town.

She could’ve walked, but driving gave her a moment to collect herself. She pulled into a graveled lot at the end of a log structure. Jo looked the building over as she locked her car. Neon lettering spilling out of a giant foamy beer mug identified the establishment as Logan’s Pub.

At once a different image flashed before Jo’s eyes, making her blink. In her mind the sign said not Logan’s Pub, but Garret and…someone else’s…Pub. The second name swam, refusing to come into focus. The entire image dissipated in an instant. But it lasted long enough to startle Jo, and her sweaty hand slipped off the heavy oak door.

A plaque nailed at eye level announced live bluegrass music on Friday and Saturday nights. Thankfully that sign didn’t float or change. Still, her stomach fluttered as Jo stepped inside and took a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior.

Suddenly her knees threatened to buckle as she was overwhelmed by a rush of nostalgia she couldn’t explain. A polished bar reflected light from several brewery signs. Her nose wrinkled at the malty smell of beer. As far as she knew, this was the first time she’d ever set foot inside this tavern or any other.

Her eyes skimmed the dark-haired bartender who had his back toward the door as he filled a glass with a dark amber brew. Two other men sat at the farthest end of the bar, deep in conversation. One had a glass of beer and a sandwich in front of him. The other had a sandwich but no beer. Dismissing the men, Jo’s eyes lit on a small empty stage opposite the bar.

Aloud crash had her whipping her head back toward the bar. The bartender had dropped the glass, and a million winking pieces swam across the floor in a river of ale.

GARRET LOGAN HAD HEARD the front door open and close. It was early for the onslaught of the usual afterwork crowd. He finished drawing an ale for the second of two salesmen at the bar before he turned to check on the new customer. When he did, the glass slipped from his hand. He blinked hard, trying to erase the too-real apparition of a woman he’d thought dead for the past seven years. He’d assumed Colleen Drake lay buried in some East-Coast cemetery, along with her father, Joe. And with her, a secret the two of them had never told a soul.

Unable to tear his eyes from the mirage, he whispered a shaky “Colleen? My God, come closer. Let me look at you.” Garret’s brain said he should fill another glass for the waiting salesman. At the very least he needed to clean up the mess. But his boots seemed welded to the worn plank floor as his eyes drank in Colleen’s beautiful features.

She stared at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

“You’re the second person in this town to call me Colleen. Who are you? Do you know me?”

No. She couldn’t be serious. Garret would know Colleen anywhere in spite of the inevitable changes in her appearance—such as the salon-tamed hair that used to curl wildly around his hands each time he tilted her face up for a kiss. This classy woman who gazed at him from several feet away had a degree of sophistication Colleen had lacked. But it could be no one else. Dammit, half his life had been entwined with hers. He’d loved her even longer than that. Loved her with all his heart. And for seven years he’d grieved over her death. It was only in the past year that he’d been able to consider going on without her. It didn’t matter that his large, loving family and host of friends urged him to get on with his life almost daily. Garret’s pain at losing Colleen had been too great. They’d planned to be married as soon as he returned from Ireland.

From deep inside a fog of shock, he watched her come closer. In the same smoky voice he’d never forgotten, she murmured, “May I call someone? Did you cut yourself on the glass?”

The formality of her query shook Garret out of his paralysis. The paralysis was replaced by unreasonable anger. He planted both hands on the bar to steady himself. “Where did you run off to? Why are you back now? What do you want from me?”

A dozen questions swirled in her head, but what came out surprised Jo. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a sarsaparilla.” Truthfully, she had no idea what she had just requested, other than she thought it was some type of soft drink. She hadn’t ever tasted sarsaparilla. Had she?

Garret didn’t smile but said through clenched teeth, “Why don’t you and I step outside?”

“Why?” Jo’s voice wobbled.

“Because we have an old score to settle.”

“What old score?”

“As if you don’t know. Give me a minute. I’ll get Brian to take over for me here.” Abruptly he turned his back on her, grabbed a mug, filled it to the brim and deposited it in front of his customer, who along with his friend was taking everything in. Too shaken to stay in her presence a moment longer, Garret stiff-armed his way through a door marked Private at the back of the bar.

“Who are you? And who’s Brian?” she asked, raising her voice.

The door swung shut behind him on silent hinges, leaving Jo gaping at the rude man who hadn’t felt the need to share his name.

Chapter Two

GARRET SHOVED THE DOOR OPEN so forcefully he nearly hit his brother Brian, who was toting two trays of clean glasses into the main bar. “Whoa, dude!” His brother jumped aside in the nick of time. “What’s your rush?” Only Brian’s agility saved them from having to clean up even more broken glass.

“She’s back. She’s out there.” Garret jerked a thumb at the still-swinging door.

“Who? Are you all right?”

“Colleen. Colleen Drake is back. She sashayed right up to the bar, cool as you please, asking for sarsaparilla like she used to. Remember how Mom stocked sarsaparilla at home for her?And Dad had it here because it was all Colleen liked, but her mother nixed soda pop. Sharon said sugar made Colleen too high-strung to play her violin.”

“Slow down. You’re babbling, my man. Take a deep breath. Colleen’s been dead for seven years. You’ve probably gone and scared off a customer, Garret.” Brian set the heavy trays on the kitchen island that held a six-burner stove and a well-used grill.

Garret was ready to yell at his older brother, but with a backward glance at the door, kept his voice low. “It’s her, I tell you.” It was true he hadn’t set eyes on Colleen Drake since her whole family left town while he escorted his mother to Ireland for her family reunion. But Harvey Bolton, the real estate agent who sold the Drakes’ house, told everyone Joe and Colleen had died in a car accident.

Brian laid a hand on Garret’s shoulder. “Garret, maybe you should go home and let me handle the bar. Sean showed you the newspaper article about the accident. You must be mistaken. They say we all have a twin somewhere in the world.”

“Right, and Colleen’s twin happens to love sarsaparilla? I’m telling you, Brian, it’s her.” Garret shook off his brother’s hand. “I can’t deal with her right now. Do me a favor. Ask her how long she’s going to be in town and where I can find her when I calm down some.” Garret’s voice cracked. Elbowing his brother aside, he pulled a set of keys from his jeans pocket. “Sorry to leave you shorthanded. Oh, yeah—I dropped a full glass of Sam Adams. There’s glass and beer all over behind the bar.”He hesitated, as if wanting to say more, but instead, yanked open the pantry and hauled out a fifth of Bushmills Irish whiskey, then left by the back door.

Brian Logan chased after his brother. “On second thought, Garret, if you’re right and it is Colleen Drake, I probably won’t be very nice to her. How could I after what you’ve been through? Give me the whiskey. Go back and talk to her yourself. Don’t let that woman drive you back into the bottle.”

“I won’t. I need a little liquid courage, is all, before I tell her exactly what I think.” Garret wagged the bottle.

“Dammit, you’ve been back to your old self this year.”

Garret didn’t respond. He brushed past Sean, his brother closest in age, who was returning from a run to the bank. Along with Garret and Brian, Sean was part-owner of the pub.

Without a word to Sean, Garret climbed into his Suzuki Grand Vitara and sent up a spray of gravel as he tore out of the lot.

“What’s got his tail in a twist?” Sean gestured with an empty bank deposit bag toward the rapidly receding vehicle.

Brian took the bag from Sean. “I need to attend to business inside. Go after Garret. Make sure he’s okay. He’s just had the shock of his life. I’m guessing he’s headed to his house.”

“What kind of shock?”

Brian glared angrily back at the pub. “I haven’t seen her yet, but apparently, Colleen Drake has returned from the dead. From hell, if you ask me, considering the basket case she left Garret.”

“But…we all saw the news photo of Joe Drake’s car being loaded onto a flatbed truck. The article said the driver and passenger were pronounced dead at the scene. There’s no way anyone could have survived that wreck.”

“Yeah, well, either Garret’s suddenly lost his mind, or the reporter got his facts wrong. Go. Make sure Garret doesn’t polish off too much of that bottle. And if he’s too rattled to come back and handle the afterwork crowd, see if Molly can come in,” Brian instructed, referring to their only sister.

Sean struck out for his pickup. “I’ll phone Mom. Then Trish and Jaclyn,” he said, looking relieved that Brian would be the one dealing with their surprise visitor.

Brian nodded. “I’ll see if I can find out why she’s here, and how long she plans to stick around. I wonder where she’s staying.”

“Not too many choices. Trish is working the desk at the resort this afternoon. When I phone her, I can ask if Colleen checked in. If not, maybe it wouldn’t hurt for Trish to tell her they’re full up. She might just decide to move on.”

“She’s Garret’s business, Sean, not ours. Maybe she has a good reason for being gone so long.”

“What good reason could there be for letting Garret dangle for seven damn years? He bought land to build her a house, for cripe’s sake. He deserves an explanation at least, Brian.”

“Right. You’re right. Our folks always treated Colleen like a second daughter. Like they treat my wife and Galen’s and now your fiancée. I can’t think of any excuse that’s strong enough for us to forgive how badly she hurt Garret. Go, do what you have to, Sean. I’ll see if it’s really Colleen at the bar, and not some figment of Garret’s imagination.” Brian returned to the pub’s kitchen where he grabbed a broom, bucket and mop and went to tackle his brother’s mess.

A FEW TIMES on the drive home Garret considered turning back. Part of him knew Brian was right in saying he’d come a long way this past year. He was also right that Garret shouldn’t let Colleen send him into a tailspin again. But he couldn’t help it.

There was the note she’d left with his dad shortly after he accompanied his mom on the trip to Ireland. In it she said she was going to Boston with her parents for a few days—strictly to pacify her mother. She said her mom had arranged for an audition at some highbrow music conservatory. But Colleen assured Garret that she had no intention of attending anymusic school so far away.

Today she’d looked spiffy enough to have become one of the highbrows. What the hell had happened to her resolve?

Garret pulled into his driveway but he didn’t get out. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. A few weeks before Garret, and his mom, Clare, arrived home from three months abroad, the top real estate agent in White Oak Valley sold the Drake house, which sat next to the Logan family homestead. The story that circulated and had been accepted as truth was that Harvey Bolton had been contacted by a grief-stricken Sharon Drake and told to sell. Well, jeez, Garret had been grief stricken, too. And inconsolable, even though his family had banded together to try to ease his pain. Dropping his head briefly on the steering wheel between his two clenched hands, he realized the story could only have been a ruse.

He beat his palms on the wheel and released a strangled cry. Then he grabbed the bottle of Bushmills and made his way into the house he and Colleen had planned together.

JO HAD BEEN SHAKEN by the angry words flung at her by the bartender. She was half-afraid to meet him outside as he suggested. The pub was surrounded by forest. No one except a kid on a bicycle knew she’d come here looking for Garret Logan. How could she trust that surly, muscular bartender not to hurt her?

Still, those people might be her only lead, her only way to sort out the past. She was unnerved by his behavior, but even more so by her own uncharacteristic request for sarsaparilla.

As Jo hovered near the bar, undecided about leaving or staying in case the man came back, she sensed a bigger wall of hostility surrounding a second man who’d emerged from the pub’s back room. He carried a broom, a mop and a bucket. After pausing to check if the two guys seated at the bar needed anything else, he bent to the chore of cleaning up the mess left by the first bartender. If this was the Brian the other man had mentioned, he wasn’t familiar to her either.

The two men, both quite good-looking with dark hair and coffee-brown eyes, shared a familial resemblance. Plus, they were the rudest people Jo had ever encountered. Her ego still smarted from the first man saying they had a score to settle. The only scores she knew anything about were musical scores.

She supposed she could’ve explained her situation. She could’ve admitted her past was a blank. But a psychologist she’d briefly seen had cautioned her to be careful whom she confided in before she knew just how the person was linked to her past. The therapist said sometimes too much honesty allowed unscrupulous people to take advantage. She cited cases where men—especially—had claimed past romantic relationships with fugue victims, then cleaned out their bank accounts. And her mother, too, had urged Jo to be wary because she was so vulnerable.

Not that Jo had money. What she did have, apparently, was some kind of history connecting her to this town. Already she’d experienced the anxiety that accompanied flashes of déjà vu. And, yes, she definitely felt vulnerable. The bartender had also called her Colleen. Jo didn’t know what to believe.

Glancing around the pub, she felt as though she’d seen the paintings and photographs hanging on thewalls before. It was creepy, like walking into a stranger’s dream.

Still unsure if she should wait for the first bartender to return, Jo crossed to a doorway shielded by strings of green crystal beads. She parted the tinkling strands and peered into a vacant room—and was flooded with images of a wedding. Or perhaps bits and pieces of several wedding receptions. The mental pictures were so clear they made her gasp and blink.

She started to step into the room, but was blocked by a man’s arm. Jo fought the barrier momentarily, because she didn’t want to lose the moment. The blip—the wedding scene—was accompanied by raucous laughter, clinking glassware and the sounds of loud fiddle music.

Not Jo’s kind of music—not Tchaikovsky, Schumann or Beethoven—but folk songs. How was it she recognized the bluegrass sounds when her mother refused to let anything other than classical music be played in their home?

Checking her forward motion, Jo dropped her chin and gripped her head. Briefly, she recalled one of her hospital nurses bringing her a CD of country instrumentals. Her mother had pitched a fit and snapped the CD in half. “Trash,” Sharon spat, as she tossed the broken pieces in a wastebasket.

“This room is off-limits,” the man growled. “Haven’t you hurt Garret enough? He’s finally getting his life back. I can’t control who comes and goes in this town, but it is my call as to who gets served in Logan’s.” For a brief moment he relaxed his gruff stance. “Forget whatever’s brought you back to town, Colleen. Believe me, there’s nothing left for you here.”

Overcome by unexplained dizziness made worse by the man’s intense brown gaze, Jo decided she’d had quite enough Southern hospitality for one day. “I wasn’t planning on stealing the family jewels,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I came here hoping to speak to Garret Logan. But it’s clear you people have never learned basic good manners.” Not waiting to see what, if any, effect her outburst had, she turned and stalked off. She couldn’t get out of the building fast enough.

Outside in the fresh air it took several minutes to calm her nerves. The odd moment she experienced in the pub could only be a glimpse into her past. Mildred at the café and both bartenders seemed sure they knew her. They called her Colleen, the name in the highschool yearbooks and on the award certificates she’d found in the cedar box. Her father’s cedar box.

It was frightening to think about who she might have been. What could she have done to spark such negative reactions?

Jo’s inclination was to climb in her car and get out of this burg where it was abundantly clear she wasn’t wanted. It would be easy to take Jerrold’s advice and leave buried what her mother had taken such pains to hide.

But that would be cowardly. Jo had fought back from the brink of death, the doctors said. Whatever she was, she wasn’t a coward.

And yet her hand shook as she switched on the ignition. Probably because of the second bartender’s barely veiled threat that there was nothing for her in White Oak Valley. It was disturbing to think she might have committed a sin here so awful that after a long absence she’d still be persona non grata.

Slowly releasing the brake, Jo cast a final look at the pub before stepping on the gas. Was she crazy for wanting explanations?

No! Anyone who’d ever lived without memories would know it left a person feeling incomplete. Surely it was better to step up and face whatever crime she’d committed as a teenager. All sorts of possibilities chased through Jo’s mind, from the simple to the really drastic. Nothing seemed to click.

As she drove aimlessly around town, Jo recalled the past her mother had drilled into her after she’d emerged from the coma. She recalled how panicky she’d felt when no memories would come. No wonder she’d accepted the stories her mother had spun. In pain, recovering from multiple surgeries, why would she question any of it? And the pieces fit, especially after her doctors agreed to let Sharon bring Jo’s violin to her bedside. The realization that she remembered how to play had eased her initial panic. She realized now, belatedly, that was the biggest factor as to why she swallowed everything her mother had told her.

Except, how much was fact and how much fiction? The staff at the conservatory welcomed her with open arms after she’d healed enough to attend classes. That year and later, instructors often spoke in glowing terms of her first auditions. And Jerrold had signed on as her sponsor prior to the accident. So her talent, at least, was real.

But when had her parents left White Oak Valley, and why?

That was the million-dollar question Jo needed to answer. And she wasn’t going back to Boston until she had. She remembered passing a resort hotel on one of her swings through town. Circling back, Jo was relieved to see only a handful of cars in the lot. Her bank account was healthy enough to allow her to stay a few weeks.

She parked and went inside. To the left of an empty lobby, a dark-haired woman not much older than Jo stood behind the check-in counter. Her badge said Trish Collier.

“I’d like a room, please.” Jo smiled as she slid a credit card from her wallet. “Three nights to start. Possibly more. I’m not sure how long my business in White Oak Valley will take.”

“Sorry,” the clerk said. “We’re full up,” she added, turning away to sort through a pile of registration slips.

Jo glanced down the two corridors she could see from where she stood. The place was as silent as a tomb.

The clerk noticed and said, “Most of our guests are out on a tour of Smoky Mountain National Park.”

“Ah. Then could you recommend another hotel in town? Anyplace clean and safe.”

“You won’t find any vacancies in the valley. White Oak Valley’s Spring Arts and Crafts Fair starts tomorrow. There’s nothing from now until the Mountain Music Festival in mid-June. All area hotels and resorts are booked as much as a year in advance.”

“I see.” Jo returned her credit card to her purse. Her thoughts tumbled back to the award certificates in her car. Was that the same mountain music festival? If so, it would pay off to see if anyone connected to judging the contest remembered her. Jo’s experience in the world of music told her the same folks judged year after year. Someone was bound to remember a girl talented enough to win so many contests.

Thanking Trish Collier for her time, Jo left the resort. Possibly she’d have to leave the valley now and come back for the music festival in June. It went without saying that she was hugely disappointed.

Jo decided to take the long route out of town, admiring the scenery on both sides of the country road. That was how she came to spot a bed-and-breakfast with a Vacancy sign blowing gently in the late-afternoon breeze. Jo’s heart beat faster. Could she be so lucky?

She quickly made a U-turn and sped back to take a closer look at the two-story home with its wide, appealing veranda. Everything about it, from its butter-yellow paint to Wedgewood-blue shutters, to the American flag fluttering above the broad front steps, looked inviting. A handicap ramp made the wicker porch furniture accessible to any manner of traveler.

Jo pulled in, got out and practically skipped up to the front door. “Hi,” she called to a young woman she spotted through the screen. “Is your Vacancy sign for real? I understood most area hotels are booked solid till June.”

A slender blond woman opened the screen door. “I wish that was true for us. We have six rooms to rent. You can have your pick.” She named a price and said it included breakfast, plus afternoon tea and a homemade snack.

Jo thought that amount was more than reasonable. “Do you take credit cards?” If they operated on a cashonly basis that would be a drawback. She couldn’t fathom why else the other accommodations were full and not this charming place.

“We take all major credit cards. By the way, I’m Kendra Rowan. Welcome to Buttercup Cottage.” Kendra stepped aside, allowing her guest to enter. “My husband, Jim, and I have spent the better part of two years renovating this house. It belonged to Jim’s grandmother. We’re originally from California. Jim was an army cook. He, uh, lost both his legs when his convoy was hit by an IED in Iraq.” Kendra paused to draw a breath. “That’s probably way more than you want to know. Jim always says I tend to ramble. But I wanted to assure you he’s still a great cook.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jo burst out. “You’re both to be commended. This place looks fabulous. It had to be a huge undertaking with or without handicaps.”

“Our biggest challenge came after Jim’s surgery. He’d always dreamed of opening a restaurant one day. After his accident, he lost heart. All the credit goes to the rehab doctors and nurses who convinced him a kitchen could be modified. Jim’s so close to realizing his dream, if we can attract more customers like you.”

Jo saw Kendra discreetly wipe a tear from her cheek. “Once word gets out, you’ll be swamped,” Jo said earnestly, handing over her credit card. “Charge three nights. If I decide to stay longer, I’ll let you know.” Jo was tempted to share her own story with Kendra, but something held her back. Until she found out exactly what her connection was to this town, it might be better not to give Kendra or her husband any reason to mistrust her.

With the paperwork complete, Jo accepted Kendra’s suggestion of a second-floor room decorated in cool blues and Victorian furniture. A dormer window overlooked the valley that was again layered with gauzy, bluish fog.

When Jo commented on the mist, her hostess said, “Jim’s dad grew up in this house. He told us the Cherokee called this territory Shaconage.” She pronounced it sha-con-ah-jey. “The name means ‘land of blue smoke.’If this is your first visit to the Great Smoky Mountains, I hope you plan on seeing our many historic sites. I thought it would be hard to leave the bright lights of San Francisco, but in the two years we’ve been here, I’ve fallen under the mountains’ magic spell. I tell Jim it’s like we’re living in a fairyland. You’ll see what I mean.”

Jo surprised herself by saying, “This isn’t my first visit to the valley.” When it seemed as if Kendra was waiting for her to elaborate, Jo added, “But I was here so long ago everything seems brand-new.”

Kendra put down the flowered pillow she’d been plumping. “White Oak Valley seems stuck in slow motion to me. But given the changes we’ve made to this house, it probably looks a lot different from when you were last here. Well, I’ll let you get settled in. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I may hike into town for dinner and make it an early night. The mountain air has sapped my energy.”

Kendra nodded. “If you’d rather not walk to town, Jim can fix you a sandwich. We have lemonade or iced tea. You can eat on the veranda, in the breakfast room or up here. Our hope is that guests will consider Buttercup Cottage a temporary home.”

“No need to put your husband out. I know there’s a café on Main Street. Is that the extent of places to eat in White Oak Valley?” Jo hoped not. She wasn’t looking forward to a second encounter with Mildred.

“There’s Logan’s Pub, but you’d have to drive there. It’s at the opposite end of town from us. They serve steak, chicken and great burgers, which all come with their signature coleslaw and steak fries.”

Wasn’t that just her luck? “That seems like more food than I had in mind. I think I’ll accept your offer of a sandwich and iced tea. I’ll bring in my suitcase and then come down and enjoy a peaceful evening on the veranda.”

Kendra beamed. “Jim will be thrilled to serve our first customer. Anytime you want breakfast tomorrow, poke your head in the kitchen. Once we get full up we’ll set more structured meal times. Until then, we’ll operate on a looser schedule. I’ll hear if you go out. I’ll freshen your towels and make up your room then. Eventually we’ll hire staff, but for now it’s just us.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Jo left to collect her things from her car. Two vehicles, a car and a pickup, passed as she retrieved her bag and her violin from the trunk. It seemed to her that both drivers slowed and were staring at her. But maybe she was paranoid. Buttercup Cottage did sit on a sharp curve. It was why she’d slowed for a closer look. Yep, she was paranoid.

Kendra met her at the door and held it open for her. “Let me run your things upstairs. Jim said if you’ll take a seat at the wicker table, he’ll bring a tray right out. Ohh, do you play the fiddle?” Kendra asked excitedly when Jo passed her the case. “Logan’s Pub features a bluegrass band on weekends.We go every chance we get.”

“I play violin,” Jo corrected. “I’m a concert violinist. As a matter of fact, if it won’t disturb you, I should do a little practicing. I won’t if other guests check in.”

“You go right ahead. Practice to your heart’s content. Did you notice the piano in the sitting room? Jim plays when I beg him. We want guests to feel free to use it, too. Maybe you guys could knock out a duet while you’re here.”

Jo smiled, thinking how much more appealing that sounded than Jerrold’s proposed solo European tour. In the past her practice schedule hadn’t allowed her to cultivate friendships. She almost wished she could stay in White Oak Valley and be friends with Kendra Rowan. Then Jo remembered the stir she’d caused at Logan’s Pub. That put a damper on any thoughts of staying.

Jim Rowan wheeled onto the porch through a sliding door Jo hadn’t noticed when she sat down. “Kendra didn’t ask if you preferred roast beef or a tuna sandwich,” he said. “So I made you a half of each.”

“I like both. Thank you so much,” Jo said, watching him unload the metal tray neatly clamped over the arms of his wheelchair. “It’s a lovely place you have here.”

“Yeah. There were times I didn’t think it would ever come to pass. I’m happy to break in easy with one guest to start. Don’t know how you feel about being my guinea pig.” He grinned and his white teeth flashed in his freckled face. His sandy hair was still cut military short, giving him a boyish look. In reality he was probably a few years older than Jo’s twenty-five, she thought as she joined in his laughter.

“If this is homemade bread, I’ll gladly be your guinea pig,” she said, taking her first bite.

He appeared more than satisfied with her response, and whistled as he motored off, leaving Jo to eat in solitude. She lingered over a refill of tea, watching fireflies dance above a gurgling creek that flowed past the side of the cottage. When mosquitoes found her, she carried her empty plate and glass into the kitchen. She retreated to her room, where the unfamiliar silence threatened to overwhelm her. Taking Kendra at her word, Jo pulled out her violin and tuned the strings. Her mother said this well-used instrument had been Joe Drake’s sixteenth-birthday gift to his daughter. It bothered Jo that she had no recollection of that birthday or any other. No holidays or special events before coming to in the hospital. She’d missed celebrating her nineteenth birthday because she’d been in the coma.

Settling the violin under her chin, Jo tested the bow, tightened it, then plunged into Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings.”When life got too complicated, she tended to lose herself in the mellow, flowing sounds. Still, she was shocked to see the bedside clock showing midnight when she stopped playing because of aching wrists. Jo couldn’t have named all of the pieces she played after Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade.” One had blurred into another. However, she felt calmer and knew she would sleep.

The next morning, Kendra glanced up shyly when Jo peered into the kitchen as instructed.

“You play like an angel,” Kendra said with awe. “I’m not well versed in chamber music, but I cried listening to you play. You make your violin weep.”

She ushered Jo to a table in the dining room set for one. Gleaming white china and polished silver graced snowy linens. A single red rose in a slender bud vase added formality to the setting.

“You should have said you were famous,” Kendra went on. “After we heard you play, Jim searched your name on the Internet. Mercy, you let me go on and on about Jim’s injury, when you had your own recent tragedy…losing your mother so suddenly.”

Jo’s stomach tumbled. “Where did you read about me?”

“An article in yesterday’s Boston Globe had an interview with a patron of the philharmonic orchestra, Jerrold somebody, who called you the best violinist of this decade. He said you’re touring with a prestigious European orchestra this summer, but you’ve taken time off from performing in Boston to grieve for your mother. Shut me up, but why White Oak Valley? We’re so the back of beyond.” Kendra dropped her voice. “Is it a man? Has to be, to make you play such heartstopping songs. Your music last night sounded sadder than sad.”

Her host’s fluttering about made Jo nervous. “My coming to Tennessee is nothing so cloak-and-dagger. And I’m not that famous,” she added dryly.

Jim Rowan motored out of the kitchen. He slid two delicious-looking strawberry crêpes onto Jo’s plate. From his tray, he unloaded a small bowl of whipped cream and a steaming pot of tea. “Pay Kendra no mind. My wife has a vivid imagination. She’s hooked on romantic suspense novels, so she’s always looking for love and intrigue. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he said, pointedly grabbing his wife’s hand to drag her away.

Jo let them go before she tucked into the rich breakfast. She could strangle Jerrold. She’d dumped dozens of his calls from her cell last night. Her story was newsworthy and might make a good book, she conceded, but he had no right to speak about her without permission. Kendra would be disappointed that there was no romance involved. Jo’d never had time to cultivate a man’s friendship, let alone think of romance.

The front door opened as she sipped her tea. Her seat gave her an unobstructed view of the woman who entered the foyer. She was of medium height and her light brown hair curved artfully around her narrow face. Jo noticed the dour expression, because the woman’s hazel eyes narrowed on her. Feeling a bit as if she’d been caught with food on her face, Jo reached for the napkin she’d had draped across the knees of her oldest jeans. Another reason to feel uneasy. The woman studying her like a bug under a microscope was impeccably dressed in heels and a flowery spring dress.

Gripping an envelope purse, the newcomer hurried across the floor until she stood in front of Jo. “So the rumor’s true. You are back. There’s a lot of speculation as to why, Colleen. I’m happy to see you didn’t die, but if you’ve had second thoughts about dumping Garret, forget it. You had your chance with him, and you screwed up. Now it’s my turn. In fact—” she wiggled her left hand “—I intend to be wearing Garret’s ring by the end of the arts and crafts fair. We’ll be on our honeymoon by the start of the Mountain Music Festival—if that’s what’s brought you back to the valley.”

“What…who…?” Jo was too stunned to do more than croak. A tiny window in her brain cracked open long enough for her to know this wasn’t the first time she’d met the brunette. Then the window closed with a snap, leaving Jo gaping after a total stranger. A stranger who departed as quickly as she’d come.

Jo half rose, but the screen door shut before she could get to her feet. She sat again and heard an expulsion of breath that she knew hadn’t come from her. Glancing up, Jo saw Kendra and Jim hovering in the kitchen doorway.

“Who…was that?” Jo asked.

“Jaclyn Richmond,” Kendra said. “A local artist. She came by the day Jim’s dad put up our outdoor sign, asking if we’d display some of her paintings in our rooms. I guess she wanted us to sell them. But her work was too modern for our Victorian decor. Mrs. Applegate at the corner grocery store said Jaclyn used to be married to a football player, but the marriage fell apart. Now I hear she’s running after Garret Logan.”

“She seemed to know you,” Jim said, interrupting Kendra’s prattle.

Kendra wasn’t done, however. “Why did she call you Colleen? You signed our register as Jo Carroll, and that’s the name we used to find you on the Internet.”

Sighing, Jo folded her napkin, and decided it was time to trust them. “It’s a long story, or a short one, depending on how you view it. I can’t answer your question, Kendra.” Jo stood up. “I was in an auto accident seven years ago and have holes in my memory. Jaclyn Richmond and others in town may know more about me than I do. I came here hoping to learn about my past. It seems not everyone seems happy to see me.”

Kendra slid a hand onto her husband’s shoulder and studied their guest with troubled eyes. “If you need friends you can count on Jim and me. This is a very tight community and it can be hard to break in. There are somewho consider us outsiders even though Jim’s grandparents lived here a long time and his dadwas born here.”

“Thanks. But I should probably check out and find a room somewhere outside White Oak Valley.”

“We want you to stay, don’t we, Jim?” Kendra nudged him.

The man in the wheelchair caught and kissed his wife’s hand. “Kendra’s very stubborn when it comes to getting through tough times. She says stay, and I agree with her.”

“I will, then,” Jo said. “I appreciate your generosity. I really hope to straighten everything out in a day or two. With your blessing, I’ll get right to it.”

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