hope you’ve enjoyed Bryce and Andrea’s story. I love reunion stories, and this one was a lot of fun to write. Both Andrea and Bryce had acquired a lot of baggage over the years and had to work hard to learn to trust again.
I hope you’ll come back in December to reconnect with some of your favorite Murphy residents in the third and final book in the series.
Love in Christ,
Carol J. Post
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed;
for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee;
yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee
with the right hand of my righteousness.
—Isaiah 41:10
Writing is a solitary activity,
but a lot of support goes into writing
and publishing a book. A huge thank-you to my “team”:
My sister, Kim Wolff,
for all your help with my Murphy research.
The rest of my family for your unending encouragement.
My critique partners, Karen Fleming and Sabrina Jarema, for making my stories the best they can be.
My beta reader/proofreader, Martha “Mom” Post,
for catching the things the rest of us miss.
My amazing editor, Dina Davis,
and lovely agent, Nalini Akolekar, for all your hard work.
And my wonderful husband, Chris,
for thirty-seven amazing years.
Contents
Trees lined both sides of the gravel drive. Their half-bare limbs framed the old house at its end and lent a spooky edge to the air of abandonment that hung over the property. A branch dangled from an oak, curled leaves barely visible against the moonlit sky.
Andrea Wheaton slowed her Escalade to a crawl. It didn’t help. The long screech against the roof set her teeth on edge and sent a shiver down her spine.
At the end of the drive, she released a sigh as childhood memories bombarded her. The old Wheaton place projected a rustic hominess that had always called to her. It didn’t hold a candle to their place in Atlanta, with its soaring columns and manicured grounds, but she’d always loved it. It had represented freedom, the one place she could let down her guard and simply be Andi.
Now it was hers. Six days later, and she was still reeling from the news.
She retrieved her small suitcase from the back seat and carried it to a porch covered with a three-inch-deep blanket of dead leaves. A swing hung from one end, and two Adirondack rockers sat side by side in the center. Judging from the layer of debris on each, neither the swing nor the rockers had been used for some time.
She laid the bag down and then pulled a wooden key chain from her purse. It was cut into the shape of North Carolina, the word Murphy burned onto its face. For twelve years, the key had lain in the bottom of her jewelry box, untouched. Partly because she’d been busy, first with college, and then with marriage and job responsibilities. Partly because she’d wanted to avoid the neighbors on both sides.
One she’d never cared for.
