whom I’d felt comfortable with, something I so rarely feel, are furious with me.
And I’m the biggest subject of the local grapevine, either the one who ran Bobby off or who was left in his wake, depending on which version of gossip you choose to believe.
I’ll miss Mom and Dad, and Oakley too. They’re all back in the city.
It’s a big decision, one with both pain and joy no matter which way I land.
City or country?
The home I knew, or the home I’ve found?
Mindlessly, I find myself flipping through my photo files. A picture of Main Street with the sun setting—beautiful. A shot with the city nightlife vibrant and energetic—stunning. Unc’s wrinkled face smiling back at me—my heart squeezes. An old shot of Mom and Dad, taken years before Oakley and I were born—love in their eyes and innocent dreams in their future.
The next click of the mouse takes me to the pictures I took on that first day at the farm. Bobby holding Trollie, the picture I’d cropped in close for the blog so that I didn’t share Bobby with the world. He was mine, if only for a little while. Soon, he’ll belong to them all. Brody and Brutal messing around with Cooper in the light of the fire between cornhole games. Mark and Katelyn, heads bent close together, whispering something only they could hear. Mama Louise watching over the whole scene like the queen of her country castle.
And on and on. I’d taken dozens of photos that day and night.
Then, I find the photo shoot with the girls. Smiles, laughter, sisterhood in every shot.
Instantly, I know one thing I have to do, even if I don’t have all the answers just yet.
I spend the next couple of hours editing the photos of the Tannens and Bennetts. I print them on the huge printer I brought with me from the city, back when I’d figured some podunk town wouldn’t have decent professional photography printing options. This machine was something I couldn’t leave behind in my old life, and now I’m glad it’s here in my time of desperate need because I’d been right about the printing here. Only the drugstore has a machine that can do same-day printing. Otherwise, it’s all online and wait for shipping. And I can’t wait, not even a single day.
I print each shot, perfect and pristine, real and raw. Laying them in gift boxes, I separate them with tissue paper so they’re protected on their journey. One bigger box for Mama Louise, and smaller boxes for each woman with her private pictures. I find a shirt I don’t wear anymore and cut it to shreds, using it as a makeshift bow around the stack of boxes.
Thirty minutes later, before I can second guess myself again, I’m pulling up to the Bennett house. It’s late afternoon, well before dinner time, so I shouldn’t have to see the Tannens or Bennetts. Except for the one I’m here to see.
I step on the porch and knock with the toe of my tennis shoe, my arms too full to ring the bell properly.
Through the screen door, I see Mama Louise’s head pop around the corner from the kitchen. “Willow?” She hurries toward the door. “I wondered who in the world was knocking on my door and not waltzing on in like everyone always does. Come on in, dear.”
Her smile is welcoming, as if she doesn’t know that everything has changed. But she must know. This family is too close to keep secrets. The whole town is too close for secrets.
“Hi. Sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to . . .” I clear my throat, not sure what I was going to say. Finally, I shove the boxes her way. “Here.”
Her brow furrows, and she wipes her hands on her jeans. “What’s this?”
“They’re for you, for all of you. Well, except the ones that are for each girl. Those are private.”
“Oh,” Mama Louise says, smiling as if she knows exactly what’s in those pictures. Actually, she might. The girls might’ve told her about our boudoir shoot too. Or maybe she just knows, the way she knows everything—like she plucks it out of your brain without your saying a single word.
“Can I open them now?” she asks, eyeing the ribbon like a kid on Christmas morning.
I shake my head vehemently. “No, please. I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . . Just . . . wait, okay?” I stammer, unable to explain that while