Excerpt

Prologue

Rain whispered against the tall windows, soft but insistent, blurring the lights of the city into streaks of gold and gray. The apartment was mostly dark, lit only by the amber glow of a desk lamp that cast long shadows across the room. Julian sat motionless at his desk, a pen resting between his fingers, a half-finished letter before him.

The ink had dried years ago.

He stared at the page; at the words he’d already written and the ones he couldn’t bring himself to. The city beyond the glass, hummed with restless energy, taxis slicing through puddles, horns echoing up through the rain. But here, in the quiet, it felt like another world entirely.

The letter wasn’t meant for the public, or a food critic, or even a friend from his polished circles. It was personal. Too personal.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. He’d written thousands of words in his life, menus, speeches, thank-you notes, and press statements. But these few sentences felt heavier than all of them.

His gaze drifted to the photo propped on the edge of the desk: a snapshot from the mountain town. The bakery’s front window glowed behind them, snow falling in soft spirals, Lani’s smile on the faded photograph.

Lani,
Some nights, I still hear the train whistle in my dreams.
The kitchens are louder here, the air thicker, the pace relentless. They say success tastes sweet, but I’ve learned it also burns. I’ve made a name for myself with awards, articles, and cameras. But sometimes, when I’m plating a dish, I still think of you kneading bread by the window, sunlight in your hair. That’s what real creation looks like.
I thought leaving would make me more. Instead, I think it just made me… different.
You were right. Home isn’t a place you outgrow. It’s a heartbeat you carry with you, whether you mean to or not.
If you ever wondered, I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I was scared that love wasn’t enough to build the life I dreamed of. But what I’ve learned, Lani, is that life means nothing if you can’t share it with the person who believed in you first.

He set the pen down next to the envelope, staring at her name.  The ink shimmered faintly before smudging under his thumb. He didn’t send it. He never did.

Instead, he once again folded it carefully, tucked it into the back of an old recipe book — the one with her handwriting in the margins — and sat in silence as the city lights flickered outside.

Lani

The biting wind whipped Lani Shepard’s hair across her face as she stepped out of the car, the crunch of snow under her boots, a familiar, yet jarring, sound. She inhaled a crisp, clean breath that tasted of pine needles and the sharp promise of winter. It had been years since she’d breathed this crisp mountain air, years since the scent of pine and woodsmoke had been a constant, comforting presence. Now, it felt like a ghost, whispering promises and regrets. She’d driven for hours, the landscape gradually transforming from the muted grays of late autumn to the stark, dazzling white of winter.

The ache of her divorce, a constant, dull throb beneath the surface of her everyday life, seemed to recede with each mile she put between herself and the life she had meticulously constructed, only to watch it crumble.

Gone was the acrid bite of gasoline and the cloying sweetness of exhaust. Instead, a sharp, invigorating tang of pine needles pricked her nostrils, followed by the damp, earthy perfume of decaying leaves underfoot. She inhaled deeply, the coolness expanding in her chest, a tangible sigh escaping her lips.

“Finally,” she breathed, the word a soft exhalation against the quiet hum of the forest.

Evergreen Hollow. The name itself conjured images of quaint storefronts dusted with snow, of cozy evenings by crackling fires, and the comforting, unwavering rhythm of a town that time seemed to have forgotten. In the best possible way. It was a place where she had learned to ride a bike, skinned her knees on its charmingly uneven sidewalks, and first experienced the dizzying rush of young love. Her hometown, nestled in the embrace of towering, snow-dusted peaks, was a postcard come to life, a place she’d both cherished and fled. Now, she was returning with her daughter, Naomi, in tow.

Unpacking the car was a laborious affair, each box a heavy testament to the life she was momentarily leaving behind, a life that felt increasingly fragile. The movers had deposited the last of them by the porch of her childhood home, a sturdy, welcoming structure that seemed to have weathered time as gracefully as her parents.

Her parents.

The thought brought a pang of guilt mixed with an overwhelming surge of love. They were the anchor that had drawn her back, the reason this temporary haven had been established in her old room.

As she wrestled a particularly stubborn box labeled ‘Linens – Fragile,’ a small hand tugged at her sleeve. Naomi, her daughter, her bright, inquisitive six-year-old, stood beside her, her eyes wide with wonder as she gazed at the snow-laden branches of the ancient oak tree in the yard.

“Mommy, look!” she exclaimed, her voice a clear bell against the hushed landscape. “It’s like a fairy tale!”

Lani forced a smile, her heart aching with tenderness so intense it almost hurt. Naomi, so full of innocent joy, was blissfully unaware of the emotional baggage her mother carried. For Naomi, this was an adventure, a winter wonderland to explore. For Lani, it was a return to a past she’d fought so hard to escape, confronting ghosts she’d hoped had long since faded into obscurity. The weight of her divorce, the uncertainty of her future, the quiet desperation that had led her to this very doorstep. It all felt as tangible as the boxes she was unpacking.

The house itself was a comforting embrace. The scent of cinnamon and something distinctly sweet, something that spoke of flour and sugar and the magic of transformation, wafted from the building down the street. Shepard’s Sweets. Her parents’ bakery. It was more than just a business; it was the heart of their lives, the source of their livelihood, and for Lani, a potent symbol of everything she had left behind. The aroma, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a bittersweet anchor, pulling her back to a life she had believed was irrevocably in her rearview mirror. Each breath of that familiar fragrance was a reminder of the woman she had once been, the dreams she had nurtured within these very walls, and the painful reality of how far she had strayed.

Her childhood bedroom, untouched and preserved like a museum exhibit, greeted her with a silent embrace. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight piercing the drawn curtains, illuminating the silent tableau. The air, thick with the scent of aged paper and a faint whisper of lavender, settled around her shoulders like a familiar shawl. Her gaze snagged on the wall, where a riot of faded roses and trailing vines, a younger self’s fervent choice, still clung with stubborn cheerfulness. The small bed, its mattress plumped by an unseen hand, wore a quilt of sunshine yellow and sky blue, a stark contrast to the muted tones elsewhere. Beside it, a tower of paperbacks, spines cracked and pages dog-eared, leaned precariously, guarding a galaxy of forgotten treasures, a chipped porcelain bird, a smooth, sea-worn stone, a tarnished silver locket.

“Still looks just the same,” she murmured.

She ran a finger along the cool, slightly rough surface of the nightstand, the dust yielding beneath her touch. “Except… everything feels a little smaller. It was a sanctuary, a temporary reprieve, but it also felt like a cage, a gilded prison of memories.

As she opened the first box, a wave of forgotten moments washed over her. A framed photograph, slightly askew, showed a younger Lani, her eyes bright with untamed ambition, standing proudly beside her parents in front of the bakery. She remembered that day. The opening of the new display window, the excitement of fresh inventory, the boundless optimism of a future that seemed limitless. Now, that optimism felt like a distant echo, a faint whisper from a life lived by someone else.

She carefully lifted out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. Her father had made it for her when she was little, a symbol of freedom, he’d said, a reminder that she could always fly. Lani’s fingers traced the smooth, worn wood, a lump forming in her throat. She hadn’t flown, not in the way he’d intended. She’d simply… moved. And then, she’d fallen. And now, here she was, back in the nest, the wings that had once felt so strong now feeling heavy and uncertain.

Naomi, having exhausted her initial fascination with the snow, had found a stack of Lani’s old art supplies. Her small hands, smudged with what Lani suspected was stray flour from the bakery, were already sketching furiously in a discarded notebook. Lani watched her, a fierce protectiveness rising within her. Naomi was the reason she was here. To shield her from the harsh realities of their recent past, to give her the stability and wonder of a childhood, Lani feared she had inadvertently denied her.

This town, this bakery, this return to roots. It was all for Naomi.

The boxes held more than just physical objects; they held emotional artifacts -tangible pieces of a life Lani had meticulously packed away, hoping to leave behind forever. A worn diary, its pages filled with teenage angst and dreams of artistic grandeur. A collection of concert tickets, remnants of youthful abandon. A chipped ceramic mug, a gift from a college friend. Each item was a small explosion of memory, some sweet, some sharp, all contributing to the complex tapestry of her past.

She paused, leaning against the doorframe that separated her temporary room from the bustling heart of the bakery. The rhythmic thud of dough being kneaded, the clatter of baking pans, the cheerful hum of conversation from customers, it was a symphony of normalcy, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within her. Her parents, bless them, were enduring pillars of strength and love. They had opened their home and their business to her and Naomi without question, offering solace and a much-needed sense of belonging. But Lani knew their welcome wasn’t just about her; it was about Naomi, too. They saw in Naomi the continuation of their legacy, the spark of generations past, and Lani was determined not to let them down.

She picked up another box, heavier this time, labeled ‘University – Art.’ The contents were a potent reminder of a different path, a future she’d envisioned for herself that had ultimately been rerouted. Galleries, exhibitions, the thrill of creation. These were once her driving forces. But life, as it often does, had intervened, and her artistic aspirations had been set aside, then shelved, and finally, seemingly forgotten.

Now, surrounded by the comforting, yet confining, familiarity of her childhood room, the scent of baking a constant reminder of her parents’ craft, Lani felt a pang of regret, a deep yearning for the dreams she had deferred.

As she began to unpack, carefully placing each item in its designated drawer or shelf, a sense of order began to emerge from the chaos. It was a deliberate act, an attempt to impose structure on her life, to create a sense of control in a situation that felt overwhelmingly out of her hands. Each item placed was a small victory, a step towards establishing a temporary foothold in this place she had once called home.

About Author Renee McCorry…