âI donât think this will work out, Haley.â
Haley stared at Matthew. âIâm really sorry for letting LizzieâI mean Elizabethâmiss her nap.â
âItâs not just that,â Matthew countered. âItâs everything.â
She waited for him to list her infractions, but he didnât, so she could only guess that there were many. âI know Iâm a bitâ¦unconventionalâ¦â
âTo say the least.â
Haley swallowed. âI can do better. Iâll do things your way. I need this job.â She needed Elizabeth, too. It was probably pitiful to admit it, but she never felt more valued than she did by a child who needed her care.
âIâm sorry, Haley. I donât thinkââ
âBut I love her, Matthew.â
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Haley studied him, waiting. Had she said the one thing that would make a difference?
started telling âpeople storiesâ at about the same time she started forming words. So it came as no surprise when the Indiana native chose a career in journalism. As an award-winning newspaper reporter and features editor, she had the opportunity to share wonderful true-life stories with her readers. She left the workforce to be a homemaker, but the stories came home with her as she discovered the joy of writing fiction. Winner of the 2007 Holt Medallion competition for novel writing, Dana feels blessed to share the stories of her heart with readers.
Dana lives in southeast Michigan, where she balances the make-believe realm of her characters with her equally exciting real-life world as a wife, carpool coordinator for three athletic daughters and food supplier for two disinterested felines.
To my nieces Alyssa, Christine, Jennifer, Stephanie, Elizabeth, Margaret and Catherine, and nephews Joel, Matthew, Ethan and Eyan, some of whom already have been bitten by the writing bug. Never be afraid to tell the story of your heart. And to Mike Waltersdorf and the whole gang at Biggby Coffee in Novi, Michigan, for cheering me on while I was writing on deadline and making sure the vanilla lattes were nice and hot.
âIs there a Haley Scott here?â
Haley glanced through the storm door at the package carrier before opening the latch, letting in some of the frigid March wind.
âThatâs me, but not for long.â
The blank stare the man gave her as he stood on the porch of her motherâs new house only made Haley smile. In fifty-one hours and twenty-nine minutes, her name would be changing. Her life, as well, but she couldnât allow herself to think about that now.
She wouldnât attribute her sudden shiver to anything but the cold, either. Not with a bridal fitting to endure, embossed napkins to pick up and a caterer to call. Too many details, too little timeâand certainly no time for her to entertain her silly cold feet.
âThen this is for you.â
Practiced at this procedure after two days back in her Markston, Indiana hometown, Haley reached out both arms to accept a bridal gift, but the carrier turned and deposited an overnight letter package in just one of her hands. Haley stared down at the Michigan return address of her fiancé, Tom Jeffries.
âStrange way to send a wedding present,â she murmured.
The man grunted and shoved an electronic signature device at her, waiting until she scrawled her name.
As soon as she closed the door, Haley returned to the living room and yanked the tab on the envelope. From it, she withdrew a single sheet of folded notebook paper.
Something inside her suggested that she should sit down to read it, so she lowered herself into a floral side chair. Hesitating before she unfolded the note, she glanced at the far wall where wedding gifts in pastel-colored paper were stacked. Her stomach tightened as she read each handwritten word.
âBest? He signed it best?â Her voice cracked as the paper fluttered to the floor. She was sure she should be sobbing or collapsing in a heap, but she only felt numb as she stared down at the offensive piece of paper.
The letter that had changed everything.
âBest what?â Trina Scott asked as she padded into the room with fuzzy striped socks on her feet. âSweetie?â
Haley lifted her gaze to meet her motherâs and could see concern etched between her carefully tweezed brows.
âWhatâs the matter?â Trina shot a glance toward the foyer, her chin-length brown hair swinging past her ear as she did it. âDid I just hear someone at the door?â
Haley tilted her head to indicate the sheet of paper on the floor. âItâs from Tom. He called off the wedding.â
âWhat?â Trina began but then brushed her hand through the air twice as if to erase the question. âThatâs not the most important thing right now, is it?â