Home wasn’t far —two blocks from the town square, a six-minute walk if she kept a brisk pace. But the night air was crisp rather than frigid and she felt no particular need to rush, so she allowed her pace to slow as her mind wandered to the mystery of —no, it was better to think of what she’d just signed up for as theproblemof —Daniel Bedford.
That afternoon, during short breaks, she’d stolen a few moments to do some research. According to the Internet, her new problem was thirty-eight years old and lived in New York. His author photo showed a handsome, serious, intense-looking fellow with dark brown eyes and brown hair.
His debut novel, a literary science-fiction novel calledAMurmuration of Starlings, about urgent messages conveyed to humanity through mysterious signals from nature, had won critical praise and sold well enough for his publisher to sign him to a four-book deal. For his second book, he’d surprised everyone (including his publisher, who’d expected another science-fiction novel) by delivering a historical Western calledThe Reckoningabout a grueling three-month journey across the Rockies in the 1870s. For his third book, he’d surprised again with a contemporary tale set in New York calledThere Is No Remedy for You,about a modern couple enduring a difficult divorce. For his fourth book, he’d hit an improbable home run withGathering Point, a sensitive, sweeping, emotional family saga set in New England between the first and second world wars. Propelled by passionate support from independent booksellers, the novel had sold strongly from the start and, well over a year after it came out, showed no signs of slowing.
The path he’d forged in publishing was unusual. While many authors found success by sticking to chosen genres or writing in series, Daniel Bedford seemed to write whatever he wanted and, intriguingly,howhe wanted. Not only was he a genre-jumper, he was astyle-jumper.There Is No Remedy for Youwas spare, tense, and biting;Gathering Pointwas rich in historical detail and praised for the warmth of its characters.
All of which suggested that Daniel Bedford possessed a willingness to embrace risk and the confidence to chart his own path. Though perhaps his confidence was really stubbornness, as Holly had suggested?
On a gossip website, Penny had come across a headline — “Splitsville forGathering Pointauthor and wife” —and clicked to read: “Best-selling author Daniel Bedford and his wife, socialite Amanda Hynes Bedford, are now officially kaput, according to court filings obtained exclusively byHot Talk. The former flames were married for three years and announced their separation last year. No word on what caused the split beyond the usual ‘irreconcilable differences.’”
The article’s lack of detail,on a site renowned for dishing dirt, suggested that Daniel Bedford and his ex possessed enough good sense to keep their marital issues private. Which seemed consistent with his decision to avoid the press after publishing his article.
Still…. None of what she’d learned explained, or even hinted at, why he’d published that misguided article in the first place. He appeared to be an intelligent, media-aware person, which meant he simplyhadto have anticipated the likely response. So why had he done what he’d done?
With a sigh, Penny brought herself back to the here and now. The short walk home had felt good, even if key questions about her new problem remained unanswered. Her destination, an in-law apartment on the ground floor of a charming three-story Victorian house, was just ahead. Pivoting from the sidewalk, she made her way up the path to her apartment, her winter boots crunching the ice beneath her.
A note was pinned to her door. She read it and smiled. “Leftovers upstairs.” The handwriting —expressive, warm, swirling —matched the personality of the writer, and “leftovers” suggested any number of possibilities, all of them delicious.
Stomach rumbling in anticipation, she slid her key into the lock, turned the handle, and stepped into her ground-floor apartment. After hanging up her coat and scarf, she set her handbag on the kitchen counter. The apartment was on the snugside —one bedroom, one bathroom, and an open room with a small kitchen, dining area, and living area — but it suited her well. Since moving in six years ago, she’d gradually decorated the place and made it her own.
She grabbed her keys and phone, went back outside, and made her way up the front stairs of the lovely old Victorian. The front door, as expected, was unlocked. After stamping her boots on the welcome mat, she called out, “Hey, it’s me!”
From the direction of the family room came a voice. “In here, honey.”
She made her way to the back of the house and found her mom and dad on the couch, watching TV.
Dad looked up and waved her in. “Your mom’s dozed off.”
Penny smiled. Nestled next to Dad beneath a homemade quilt, Mom looked so peaceful in her slumber. Physically, her parents were a total odd couple —he was tall and angular and pale, she was short and round with beautiful honey-colored skin. But right now, as she snuggled against him, his long arm wrapped around her, everything about them seemed completelyright.
“Leftovers in the fridge,” Dad said.
“Perfect,” she said as she aimed herself toward the kitchen.
Her eyes lit up when she opened the fridge. Homemade green-chili chicken enchiladas was one of her favorite dishes. When she’d returned to Heartsprings Valley six years ago, choosing to move into the apartment on the ground floor of her childhood home had been an easy choice —and Mom’s cooking had definitely been a key factor in her decision.
After scooping a hearty helping into a bowl, she popped the bowl into the microwave, retrieved sour cream from the fridge, and poured herself a glass of water. When the microwave beeped, she grabbed the bowl, breathed in the rich, wonderful aroma, and plopped a healthy dollop of sour cream on top.
Bowl in hand, she headed to the family room and, with practiced ease, settled into the recliner next to the couch. “Oh, this feels good.”
Dad turned off the TV and gave her his full attention. “Long day?”
“Don’t you know it.”
He nodded. With his shock of white hair, big glasses, and kind eyes, he looked like a scarecrow-turned-professor. “How’d the roof patch go?”
“Good,” she said as she shoveled a forkful of enchilada goodness into her mouth. After taking a few seconds to savor her feast —mmm, so good—she added, “Luke had two of his guys come over. They found the leaky spot and replaced some shingles.”
“Did they put on a tarp?”
“They did. And they said there’s a good chance it’ll hold until we put in a new roof.”
Next to him, Mom stirred and opened her eyes. “Mija, you’re here,” she murmured.
“The enchiladas are delicious as always, Mom.”
Her mom stretched her neck, then reached up and patted her gray hair, which she’d recently cut into a stylish bob. Her vivid brown eyes focused on her daughter. “Can I get you dessert? We have ice cream. Caramel fudge.”
