Chapter One

Home was a light in the window.

And after a long flight from LA, then a three-hour drive through Pennsylvania’s farm country—on top of everything that had happened in the past week—Jennifer Ridge needed home.

She climbed from her rental car and stretched, then shivered in her lightweight jacket. Wind swept across the fields, blowing powdery snow onto the porch where she’d spent so many hours as a troubled teen.

She tapped on the farmhouse door. When there was no response, she tried the doorknob, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

Pop Abbott, still a large, tall man though he was now in his eighties, emerged from the kitchen and hurried toward her. His twelve-year-old bulldog, Chester, stood in the middle of the entryway, barking.

In the dim light, Pop caught his foot on a stack of something. His arms flailed as he tried to catch himself. Then he went down with an “oof,” landing heavily on his back.

“Pop!” Jenn rushed forward, dropping her purse and overnight bag and kneeling beside the gray-haired man. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he rasped, but he clearly wasn’t. He looked around as if he’d never seen the entryway of his own farmhouse.

She checked for blood but didn’t see any. Chester continued barking until Jenn held out a hand to the burly dog. He sniffed, then licked her fingers in passing as he made his way over to Pop. He snuffled at his owner and then looked at Jenn, as if she would know what to do.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked Pop.

“Who are you?” he asked.

That stung. Had he hit his head? “It’s me, Jenn,” she said. “Your foster daughter. Mini-Jenny, remember?”

He smiled, his face creasing into a million wrinkles. “Of course I do. How old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-eight.” He couldn’t be expected to keep track of her age, along with those of all the other kids they’d cared for.

“Ma will be so glad to see you.”

A cold hand clutched Jenn’s heart. Ma—Kimmie Jean—had been gone for eight months. Was Pop really that confused, when he’d been fine at the funeral? Had he had a stroke, suffered a head injury? He wasn’t moving.

The phone call that had gotten her here, from a church friend of Pop’s, echoed in her head. He’s not himself. Not recovering from the loss of Kimmie Jean. Staying isolated.

She thanked the Lord that she’d been able to drop everything and come. Or rather, she’d been the only one, among the foster siblings with whom she’d spent her teen years, who had nothing to drop, having lost her boyfriend, her job, and her so-called best friend, all on the same day.

“Pop, come on. Let’s get you up and into a chair.” She slid an arm under Pop’s shoulders. Lifted, or tried to.

He didn’t budge.

“You have to help me here, Pop,” she said. “On a count of three. One, two, three.”

Pop gamely tried to swing himself up, but he didn’t have near the strength he used to have. Clearly, he hadn’t been doing crunches at the gym any more than Jenn had. They were a pair.

“Let’s try again,” she said, but despite two more efforts, it was impossible to get Pop to his feet. His eyes were fluttering shut, and though he insisted he didn’t hurt anywhere, she was worried.

“I’m going to have to call 9-1-1,” she said.

Pop’s eyes shot open, full of indignation. “No! I’m not having news of me falling getting out all over Orchard Springs. People will think I’m old.”

Despite her concern, Jenn smiled. “We have to do something,” she told him. “You can’t lie here all night. Floor’s too hard,” she added, knocking on the wide oak boards, trying to make a joke.

He waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Call Eddie,” he said. “Phone number’s on the fridge. He helps me out sometimes.”

“Eddie Wilson?” The name made Jenn flush warm and cold. “Does he still live next door?”

Pop nodded and closed his eyes.

Pulling one of Ma’s hand-crocheted afghans from the back of the couch, she tucked it around Pop, then lifted his head to place a throw pillow underneath. Chester promptly lay down beside his master. He would keep watch.

Jenn made her way through the dimly lit hallway to the farmhouse kitchen. No wonder Pop had tripped. She nearly went down herself on a stack of old magazines.

She flipped on the light and recoiled.

Dirty dishes filled every surface. A pan on the stove held crusted something, it wasn’t clear what. The table was littered with crumbs, and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich sat on a paper plate in front of Pop’s chair.

She leaned forward and looked at it more closely, and her stomach twisted. Gray-green mold spotted the bread.

Oh, she’d definitely have to do a conference call with her foster siblings, and soon. Right now, though, she needed to get someone to help her get Pop into bed, and if it had to be Eddie Wilson…

She swallowed hard, then searched the front of the fridge, littered with children’s drawings from years ago mingled in with workers’ business cards and a takeout menu from the Chinese restaurant in town.

Then she saw it: a page from one of Ma’s flowered notepads with that big, sweeping handwriting. She’d looked at that writing every day for months, reading and rereading the letter he’d sent her.  

She shoved that memory out of her mind and pulled the note off the fridge.

“Eddie Wilson. 814-222-9181. Call anytime.”

It was late to call, but what else could she do? She pulled out her phone and punched in Eddie’s number.

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