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“My friends call me Danny.”
Meg refused to budge despite his proximity; she tilted her head up and met the undisguised twinkle in his gaze. She bit back a sigh, met Danny’s gaze with an equanimity she didn’t feel and angled her head slightly. “But we’re not friends.”
He grinned. “We might be in two months. Wouldn’t hurt to get in practice, Miss Russo. After all, we are going to be neighbors.”
And that’s all they’d be. She’d make certain of that. She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance as she descended the stairs. “Megan. My friends call me Meg.”
Danny’s grin deepened. “Can I move in tomorrow?”
She withdrew a key from her front pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Whatever works for you.” She stuck out a hand once he accepted the key and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Jamison.”
RUTH LOGAN HERNE
Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders and the dirt…
Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her website at www.ruthloganherne.com.
Small-Town Hearts
Ruth Logan Herne
Remember not the sins of my youth and my
rebellious ways; according to Your love remember
me, for You are good, O Lord.
—Psalm 25:7
Dedication
To Aunt Isabelle and Gram, two stout-hearted ladies who rescued me more than once. I know God has a special place in heaven for both of you. Keep a rocker handy with my name on it… We’ll rock babies together.
Acknowledgment
Big thanks to Lynn McCutcheon and Richard Buckles for their added information about the Great Wellsville Balloon Rally and hot air ballooning. To Don and Karen of the Angelica Sweet Shop, your charming establishment lures people in. The great staff and wonderful selection do the rest. To Anita Green whose dedication to her daughter Michelle is true inspiration to this author. To Dave, who drove the truck back to “Sandy’s Place” on Route 19 to pick up my swing. Gulp…
To the Sekler family who first drew me to Wellsville for the Little League state championship in ’07. You got the ball rolling.
Huge thanks to Mandy, who road-tripped Allegany County with me before and will again, only this time we get to bring “Mary Ruth” along. God is, indeed, good. And I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the amazing help of my children and their spouses and our good friend Paul, in many different ways. Their never-ending gifts of time, effort, money and baseball tickets have helped keep us afloat during rocky times, and that’s what family’s all about. God truly blessed me with each and every one of you. And do I have to name you all again? Seriously???
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Meg’s Allegany Maple Fudge
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
“Ben! No!”
A shriek pulled Danny Romesser’s attention across the cobbled historic street nestled beneath deep-green maple arches, the early summer day a gift from God.
Right up until then.
He swung around, watching, helpless from this distance.
The young woman’s admonition only intensified the unfolding drama as a young man with Down syndrome withdrew a plump, ripe mango from the base of a perfectly mounded boardwalk display. The fruit toppled, one nudging the next, the mangos and peaches free-falling their way to the broad wooden surface below.
“Oh, Ben…”
Distress laced the woman’s voice while the mentally challenged young man stood nearby, clasping and unclasping his hands in typical Down fashion, his face a study of remorse, his voice loud and earnest, stirring Danny’s memories. “I-I’m sorry, Meggie. I didn’t touch a thing, I really didn’t.”
The woman stared, dismayed, a picture herself, dressed in historic garb that seemed oddly in place here in Jamison, New York.
She grimaced, set a sizable basket down, glanced at the tiny clock pinned to her chest and bent low to retrieve the fruit.
“Not again?”
An irate man with thinning hair pushed through the front door of the nineteenth-century-style mercantile, set in the middle of a Brigadoon-like village that seemed to have stopped the clock about the time Danny’s great-grandma Mary was born.
Possibly before.
If the guy’s scowl pumped Danny’s
