started sending him on longer and longer trips. Mexico had happened. When he returned from that, he was different—and not in a good way. His wife didn’t like the new, less-patient Max, and he didn’t like her much, either. She seemed, after his ordeal, to be shockingly superficial, oblivious to anything that really mattered in life.
And she had taken their daughter with her to that world of jewelry, supermodels, clothes, diets. When they chattered together, Max tuned out. If he hadn’t, he would have walked out.
He hadn’t blamed Lydia. He knew she clung to her daughter because she needed an ally, and because she needed an unconditional admiration he couldn’t give her. But as the gulf widened between Max and Lydia, it had widened between Max and Ellen, too.
He might not travel that much anymore, but he’d been absent nonetheless.
“Ellen.” He resisted the urge to give up. “You’re going to have to talk to me. Stealing is serious. I have no idea why you’d even consider doing something you know is wrong. You have enough money for whatever you need, don’t you?”
She made a tsking sound through her teeth. “You don’t understand. It’s not always about money.”
“Well, then, help me to understand. What is it about?”
“Why do you even care? I’m sorry I caused you trouble. I’m sorry I interrupted you on your date.”
He frowned. Could his dating already be what had prompted this? He’d talked to her about the dinner ahead of time, and she’d professed herself completely indifferent to when, or whom, he chose to date.
But he should have known. Ellen rarely admitted she cared about anything. Especially anything to do with Max.
“I don’t care about the date,” he said. “It wasn’t going well, anyhow. Right now, all I want is to be here. I want to sort this out with you.”
She laughed, a short bark that wasn’t openly rude, but again, barely. “Right.”
“If you want me to understand, you have to explain. If it’s not about money, what is it about? Are you angry that I went on a date?”
“No. Why should I be? It’s not like Mom will mind.”
He flinched. “Okay, then, what is it?” He took a breath. “Ellen, I’m not letting this go, so you might as well tell me. Why would you do such a thing?”
She unwound her arms so that she could fiddle with her seat belt, as if it were too tight. “You won’t understand.”
“I already don’t understand.”
“It’s like an initiation.”
He had to make a conscious effort not to do a double take. But what the hell? What kind of initiation did eleven-year-olds have to go through?
“Initiation into what?”
“The group. Stephanie’s group.”
“Why on earth would you want to be part of any group that would ask you to commit a crime?”
“Are you kidding?” Finally, Ellen turned, and her face was slack with shock. “Stephanie’s the prettiest girl in school, and the coolest. If you’re not part of her group, you might as well wear a sign around your neck that says Loser.”
A flare of anger went through him like something shot from a rocket. How could this be his daughter? He’d been brought up on a North Carolina farm, by grandparents who taught him that nothing seen by the naked eye mattered. The worth of land wasn’t in its beauty, but in what lay beneath, in the soil. The sweetest-looking land sometimes was so starved for nutrients that it wouldn’t grow a single stick of celery, or was so riddled with stones that it would break your hoe on the first pass.
People, they told him, were the same as the land. Only what they had inside mattered, and finding that out took time and care. Money just confused things, allowing an empty shell to deck out like a king.
For a moment, he wanted to blame Lydia. But wasn’t that the kind of lie that his grandfather would have hated? All lies, according to his grandfather, were ugly. But what he called “chicken lies” were the worst. Those were the ones you told to yourself, to keep from having to look an ugly truth in the eye.
So, no. He couldn’t blame Lydia. First of all, where did Lydia come from? From Max’s own foolish, lusty youth. From his inability to tell the empty shell from the decked-out facade.
And, even more important, why should Lydia’s influence have prevailed over his?
Because he’d abdicated, that’s why. He’d opted out. He’d failed.
But not anymore. He looked at his little girl, at her brown hair that used to feel like angel silk beneath his hands. He remembered the dreams he’d built in his head, as he walked the floor with her at night. He remembered the love, that knee-weakening, heart-humbling rush of pure adoration....
“We’re going to have to make some serious changes,” he said. His tone was somber—so somber it seemed to startle her, her eyes wide and alarmed.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “But you should brace yourself, because they’re going to be big changes. We’ve gotten off track somewhere. Not just you. Me, too. We have to find our way back.”
She swallowed, as if the look on his face made her nervous. But she didn’t ask any further questions.
Which was good, because he didn’t have many answers. Only one thing he knew, instinctively. He couldn’t do it here, in Chicago, with the traffic and the malls and the Stephanies. And the memories of Lydia around every corner.
He had no idea how, but he was going to fix this. He was going to stop giving her money, stop assuaging his guilt with presents and indulgence. He was going spend time with her, get to know her and teach her those hard but wonderful life lessons his grandparents had taught him.
And maybe, along the way, he’d relearn some of those lessons himself.
CHAPTER TWO
Two months later
SILVERDELL, COLORADO, HADN’T changed much in seventeen years. Penny had noticed that last year, when she came back as the dude ranch idea was first being considered, and then again when her sister Rowena got married.
But on this visit, she was particularly struck by the snow-globe effect—perhaps because her own world had changed so dramatically. She drove slowly down Elk Avenue, noting how many stores remained from her childhood, and how many of the replacement shops had maintained the feel of their predecessors.
August. Early fall in Silverdell. She remembered it so well. And here it all was. Same big tubs of orange and gold chrysanthemums on the sidewalk, same colorful awnings over shovel-and ski-jacket-filled windows that warned of the winter to come.
Same park square, roiling with what might easily have been the same laughing children.
She slowed now, watching them kick piles of leaves into
