New York Times bestselling author Linda Goodnight welcomes you to Honey Ridge, Tennessee, and a house thatâs rich with secrets and brimming with sweet possibilities
Memories of motherhood and marriage are fresh for Julia Presleyâthough tragedy took away both years ago. Finding comfort in the routine of running the Peach Orchard Inn, she lets the historic, mysterious place fill the voids of love and family. No more pleasure of a manâs gentle kiss. No more joy in hearing a child call her Mommy. Life is calm, unchangingâ¦until a stranger with a young boy and soul-deep secrets shows up in her Tennessee town and disrupts the loneliness of her world.
Julia suspects thereâs more to Eli Donovanâs past than his motherless son, Alex. Thereâs a reason heâs chasing redemption and bent on earning it with a new beginning in Honey Ridge. Offering the guarded man work renovating the inn, she glimpses someone whoâlike herâhas a heart in need of restoration. But with the chance discovery of a dusty stack of love letters buried within the lining of an old trunk, the long-dead ghosts of a Civil War romance envelop Julia and Eli, connecting them to the innâs violent history and challenging them both to risk facing yesterdayâs darkness for a future bright with hope and healing.
1
âThe Child is father of the Manâ¦â
âWilliam Wordsworth
Nashville, Tennessee
Present Day
Freedom was its own kind of prison.
These were the thoughts of Eli Donovan as he scraped drywall mud from his elbow and watched a familiar bronze Buick pull to the curb outside the remodel. With a tug in his gut, Eli tossed the trowel to the ground and straightened. What had he done now?
A man stepped out of the Buick and adjusted his blue tie before squinting toward the house. Their eyes met, held for a fraction of a second until Eli looked down. Once upon a time he would have challenged anyone in a staring contest. Hard time and maturity had changed him. He didnât want to fight anyone anymore. Certainly not his parole officer.
Saying nothing, Eli started across the greening lawn, past the scattered remains of lumber and construction junk. He was no longer arrogant and proud, but the jitter in his belly shamed him just the same.
âEli.â Mr. Clifford spoke first, broke the impasse. âHowâs it going?â
âFine.â He stopped two feet from the fortysomething officer of the court, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on the other manâs balding head. Anxious, afraid of tripping himself up, he waited for Clifford to speak his business.
âI had a phone call this morning.â
Still Eli waited, not knowing what to ask or say. If he misspoke, Clifford would get the wrong idea or ask questions Eli couldnât answer. There were always questions.
The parole officer pulled a paper from his pocket and pushed it toward him. âA woman name of Opal Kimble tracked you down through the warden. She wants to talk to you. Says she has something urgent to discuss. Mentioned the name Mindy.â
Eli stared at the yellow Post-it note, the dread deepening. He licked dry lips, tasted drywall mud. âMindy?â
âIs there anything I need to know? If youâre into somethingââ
Eli interrupted. âIâm not. Mindy is an old friend. Did Opal say anything else?â
âNo, she just left that number and insisted I contact you. I thought it might be important.â
âDoubtful.â Mindy was a sweet soul. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to be sure he was all right. He refused to consider the other issue, certain she was better off not hearing from him.
âYou could use a friend.â
The comment took Eli aback. In the six months heâd known Pete Clifford, the man had shown him nothing but suspicion, as if he couldnât wait for the ex-con to step out of line so he could send him back to that stinking rat hole.
âIâm all right.â
âDo you have a phone yet?â
âNo.â
Clifford extracted his from a belt holster. âCall her.â
Eli considered only a moment before accepting the offer. No point in riling the man. He could make a call to an old woman heâd never met. Find out what she wanted and then get back to work. He needed the payday.