Home of the Griffins.”

She gazed through the windshield, down at the town, still familiar after all the years. The silver water tower peeking above the trees, the red roof of the fire station, the tops of the trees just beginning to turn various yellows and oranges in the fall Sunday sun. Not much seemed to have changed from this vantage point.

Actually beautiful, if you were only visiting one of the picturesque shops and bakeries downtown, or looking down from the limestone bluffs at the slow-rolling Mississippi.

Maybe for some people, the Nitrovex workers, the shop owners, the Golden

Grove “lifers,” it was fine. But not for her. The bigger city had always been her

dream, her escape, even before high school had chewed her up and spit her out.

She gripped the steering wheel and blew out some air. Okay, just in and out

of town, then back to Chicago. No one from high school needed to know she was even here. She could handle a few days. She'd be out at the chemical plant

most of the time, anyway.

She turned the key in the ignition and the car purred back to life.

Fifteen minutes later, she parked the Bug on the brick-lined curb in front of

the familiar yard. She turned it off, then waited a moment, hands in her lap, listening, gazing out the side window she'd rolled down on her way into town.

It was quiet, the usual small-town Sunday silence, with just a few birds chirping and a car passing and disappearing a block or so away. In the distance

was the rush of the grain elevator, a sound she'd forgotten about but knew meant

fall was in full swing.

She noticed the maple tree that used to shade the front curb by the driveway

was gone, but the huge elm that showered bright green leaves onto the driveway

each fall was still near the front door. The bushes there were larger but still well trimmed.

The house had been painted. It was no longer the familiar pale yellow she

remembered but a mixture of light green with white and yellow trim. A variety of potted plants were placed neatly on either side of the front steps, which led to an expansive porch lined with wicker chairs and supported with round white Corinthian columns.

The old porch swing was hanging there where she used to play dolls or read.

Or play battleship with Peter. She smiled, remembering. Not all of it was bad.

Then she glanced at the familiar house next door, and her smile faded.

She sighed, resisting an urge to just put the car in drive and head back to Chicago. The memories of this place were starting to close in on her like some

giant hand. Even the air seemed familiar and stiff, as if the town itself had recognized her, remembered her, was telling her again how she didn't belong here anymore.

Sorry, Danni. Couldn't do it. Find someone else to spearhead the Nitrovexcampaign.

No. There was too much of her career future riding on this assignment to consider bailing just because of some old high-school ghosts.

Carrying her light bag, she hustled up the narrow walk to the front door, stealing glances sideways. She felt like an infiltrator, a spy in her own childhood yard. She paused at the front door, feeling strange having to ring the doorbell to her own home. The familiar old ding-dong was followed by the sound of muffled footsteps.

Carol Harding's instantly recognizable cherubic face peeked through the

lace-curtained window to the side of the door. Short and slightly stocky with short gray hair, she pulled the inside door open and beamed a motherly smile.

“Katie!” she said, pushing past the screen door, arms outstretched.

“Hi, Carol.” Kate dropped her bag, grinning as she hugged the woman who

had practically been a surrogate mother to her when she was a teen.

The older woman released her, holding her at arms' length. “My goodness, you look so pretty.”

Kate felt her cheeks turning pink. “Thanks.”

Carol waved her hand. “Well, come in, come in.”

As Kate grabbed her bag and entered the front hallway, the smell of fresh pine, home-baked bread, and apple-scented candles greeted her. It wasn't the smell of her house as she remembered it, but the difference seemed strangely comforting. Not the sterile house of two chemical engineers she'd remembered growing up.

A small orange tabby cat appeared from nowhere and began wending its way

around her leg.

She frowned. “Sparky?”

Carol laughed. “Not quite. Son of Sparky, actually. That's Tommy.” The cat gave another swipe around Kate's leg and then disappeared into another room.

“Sparky ran away a few years ago. Never quite got the hang of the new house, I

guess.”

“Oh.” Kate felt an unexpected pang. For a cat who'd hissed and acted like she had no business invading his space at the orchard. “You never found him?”

Carol shook her head. “No. I keep hoping he'll come back. Half expect him

to show up with a dead mouse on the porch some morning. But, he's probably long gone by now.”

Carol wiped her hands on an apron as she moved into what was once the house's drawing room, where visitors used to wait. It was a cozy, faded oak-trimmed room with the same light rose-colored wallpaper Kate had convinced her mother to hang when she was ten. Still works, she thought.

“So, how was your trip?” Carol asked as she sat in an old velvet-cushioned

chair next to a round marble-topped lamp stand.

Kate put her bag down by the chair opposite her friend and sat. “Fine. Not as