Chapter 1

one

CANDACE

They said you can’t go home again.

Well, Thomas Wolfe said it.

Which was kind of funny because the early-twentieth-century novelist was born about twenty miles up the road from Kirby Falls.

But I completely understood the sentiment.

Perhaps better phrasing would be...you can’t go home again and expect everything to be the same. Or maybe, you can’t go home again and expect everyone to welcome you with open arms. And then there was the lesser known proverb: You can’t go home again because you’ll fuck everything up, and why couldn’t you just stay in New York, Candace?

But the fact remained. I did go home again.

I flew into Asheville the second week of August when the humidity was thick enough to slather on my momma’s award-winning buttermilk biscuits. I watched as hazy blue mountains grew bigger and sharper in my rounded airplane window until they parted on either side for the lone runway that would drop me within fifteen miles of my hometown.

Kirby Falls had been in my rearview for just over seven years .

I’d lit out of town on graduation day, my maroon cap and gown balled up in the backseat of my best friend’s 1996 Toyota Camry, and hadn’t looked back. We’d had a plan—Lo and I—and a little bit of money, and we’d decided to leave our hometown behind while we could.

I’d never had to explain it to Lo. She’d always just gotten it. The overwhelming desire to break free, to do something completely different than the rest of your family. Lo knew what it was like to have an itch beneath your skin and a fire in your belly driving you to grow up faster and prove yourself. She knew because she felt it too.

We’d bonded over being the youngest children among overachieving siblings. My brother, Brady, had three years on me, but his personality beat mine by miles. He was warm and funny and everyone’s favorite Judd. And that wasn’t just my warped perception. You could ask anyone in our hometown.

Then, there was my big sister, Joan, who was nine years my senior and basically my parents’ dream child. She was responsible and dedicated and had known from a young age that she wanted to help run our family’s apple orchard.

Lo had three older sisters, and they’d each been valedictorian on their respective graduation days. My friend figured, why bother? She’d never loved school the way her sisters had, and her solid C average throughout her high school career reflected that.

Community college the next town over had been Lo’s destination at the end of that magical post-graduation summer, but before that, we’d been determined to spend three whole months getting as far away from Kirby Falls and our responsibilities as possible.

I wondered what Lauren “Lo” Walker, my former best friend, would say when she heard I was back in town. Swallowing around the sudden golf ball that had formed in my throat, I lowered the shade on my window as the plane taxied briefly before depositing me—and the forty-eight other passengers—at our gate.

I watched as everyone hurried to grab their bags from the overhead compartments while a whole lot of nothing happened. The flight attendants hadn’t even opened the cabin doors yet. Rolling my eyes at my overeager fellow passengers, I pulled out my cell phone and turned off airplane mode. My finger hovered over the text thread with my brother before tapping .

Brady: Text me when you land.

Me: Will do. Thanks for volunteering to pick me up.

Brady: Oh, I didn’t volunteer. Mom’s paying me.

Me: Shut up.

Brady: You shut up.

Brady: Have a safe flight. Can’t wait to see your stupid face.

I rolled my eyes again—this time at my doofus brother as I reread our exchange from before I’d boarded at LaGuardia.

Now, I peeked toward the front of the plane to see the progress of the line. Still not moving.

I typed, Just landed. I’ll let you know when I’m at baggage claim.

Staring at the screen, I waited a few moments but no dots appeared to indicate my brother was typing. I slid the phone back into my pocket and started gathering my laptop bag and purse from beneath the seat in front of me.

The flight had been a short one, just a couple of hours. Long enough to get in the air, request my standard in-flight ginger ale, and then land between the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

We deplaned directly outside into the humid August heat and onto a gray ramp that zigzagged a few times before setting us on solid ground.

I breathed in the late afternoon air. It felt like inhaling through a sweaty gym sock, but I couldn’t help but smile.

My eyes landed on the tree-covered hills in the distance and the bright sunshine. My everyday landscape of glass-and-metal skyscrapers had been replaced by mountains and so much blue sky that I could hardly take it all in.

The pace was slower here. I could feel it in the way the breeze picked up and my heartbeat evened out. The wind cut through the oppressive moisture for just a moment and then helpfully whipped some brown hair out of my ponytail. I grinned, tucking the strands behind my ear and scanning my surroundings once more. Some strange emotion was working its way up my tight throat, causing my nose to sting and pressure to build behind my eyes .

The gentle breeze rustled out another welcome, the mountains a faint whisper in the distance that said, Why were you gone so long? and Welcome back, honey .

I was home.

Well, about twenty minutes from home, but I’d done the hard part. I’d gotten here. Even if I was dragging more heartache and baggage than the two checked bags I’d been allowed. That luggage was well over capacity as it held nearly all the clothes I owned plus a good helping of failure and regret.

I was subletting my tiny apartment in New York City for the next five months. The idea of selling all my furniture and putting all my belongings into storage had felt like admitting I was never coming back.

This trip down south was just temporary. It had to be or what was the point? Coming home for good would make everything I’d done in the last seven years—everything I’d worked for and achieved and sacrificed—utterly pointless. I couldn’t give it all up. Retreating to Kirby Falls was the best short-term solution to my problems, but if I stayed...I’d be doing more harm than good and undoing every bit of progress I’d made. I didn’t want to let my parents down. They’d sacrificed so much for my education. And they’d be disappointed if they knew the truth. That was why they could never find out about the mess I’d left behind in Manhattan.

When I passed the security exit, I pulled out my phone, but there was still no reply from Brady.

Rounding the corner to baggage claim, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, waiting beside the unmoving carousel, was my brother, my mother, and my father. Brady held a sign on lined notebook paper that read Welcome Home Candy Cane . And my momma had a handful of colorful balloons while my dad clutched a bouquet of white roses—my favorite.

I squealed and hurried over. My parents stepped forward and hugged me tight, balloon ribbon bouncing off my face and making me laugh in the process.

“We’re so happy you’re home, Candy Girl.” Mom sniffed and I could tell she was one more squeeze away from crying in the middle of Asheville Regional Airport.

I pulled back to look at them, feeling my own emotions clog my throat. Dislodging a white ribbon from around my ear, I grinned. “Thanks, Momma. ”

Amy Judd was a petite version of me. I had her hazel eyes and brown hair—minus her beauty shop–added caramel highlights. But I’d gotten my height from my dad.

His smile was wide beneath his dark mustache. “Hey, Candy.”

“Hi, Daddy.” I was so happy to see my family that I barely registered the use of my old nickname—the one I’d shed when I went to New York and didn’t want to sound like a small-town cocktail waitress or an exotic dancer. “I didn’t know y’all would be here. Brady said you couldn’t make it.”

Brady squeezed between our parents and pulled me in for a tight hug. “Yeah, well, I lied, dummy. I can’t believe you thought they’d be too busy to welcome their little girl home.”

I was five eight, but Brady had a good six inches on me. His arms wrapped around my head and nearly suffocated me before he stepped away. “Good to see you, baby sister.”

“You too, loser.” I felt the skin of my cheeks stretch to accommodate my smile.

Peering casually beyond the balloons and the flowers and the three people crowding me, I noticed that not all of the Judds were present and accounted for. “Where’s Joanie?”

Brady and Dad shared a look over my mother’s head. But it was Mom who replied easily enough, “She had some work to do at the farm.”

I frowned. “You’re open on Mondays now?”

“No,” my father replied. “She’s just keeping an eye on things. You know your sister.”

Not really , I wanted to say but didn’t.

Joan had always been this gruff, nebulous presence in my life. She was nine years older than me and had never really had time for a tagalong little sister. And as far as I could tell, she did everything perfectly, always. I mostly spent my childhood and adolescence watching her in awe from afar, like the lions at the zoo.

“You’ll see her later,” Mom assured me. “We’re all having dinner at the house together to celebrate you being back. ”

The house being the two-story Craftsman farmhouse on my family’s property. We’d moved in when I was about five. It had been my grandfather’s home—as had Judd’s Orchard—before he passed away. My father, Nick, had inherited the land, the farm, and the house, and he’d been running things ever since.

“Oh,” I said, covering my hurt with a bright smile. “That’s good.” I wondered what my mother had offered Joan to get her at the dinner table celebrating my return. Probably a new tractor. My sister only cared about one thing and that was the farm.

Thankfully, the baggage carousel turned on with a jolt, drawing our attention to where luggage was coming down the ramp.

I spotted my large black rolling cases, and my brother and dad snagged them off the belt.

“Jesus, Candy,” Brady wheezed beneath the weight of my bag. “What did you pack? All the makeup and beauty products required to make you presentable?”

“You jerk.” I whacked my brother on the chest as he laughed.

“Alright, children,” Mom said, aiming for stern but landing somewhere in the neighborhood of unbearably fond. “Let’s all go home.”

The ride from the airport didn’t take long, but I enjoyed every moment. It was interesting to see the way the area had grown and changed. And the scenery was always a stunner.

Brady and I rode in the backseat like we were eight and five again, my nose disturbingly close to the window on my side. Mom kept up a constant stream of chatter, updating me on neighbors and happenings around town.

I took in the changes as we passed through the tiny community of Miller Creek on the way to Kirby Falls. They had a Pizza Hut and two grocery stores now amid all the lush green farmland. Our route also took us by Legacy Hills Assisted Living, and I thought back to visiting my grandfather there as a small child.

“And we have the Orchard Festival coming up in a few weeks. You’ve always loved that, Candy. ”

I nearly winced at being referred to as Candy once again by my father. All my work colleagues—former work colleagues, I corrected inwardly—and friends in the city called me Candace. I risked a glance at my brother. He’d give me endless shit if I asked them to use my full name now instead. He’d probably announce the name change in the Kirby Falls Facebook group to really drive the humiliation home.

I’d just talk to my parents about it later.

“I do love the Orchard Fest,” I replied with a smile for my dad in the rearview mirror. “I can’t wait to help work it.”

Unofficially, I was back in Kirby Falls to visit before I started a new position in January. I’d told my parents I was excited to help out at the farm and implement some new marketing strategies that I thought might help their bottom line.

Judd’s Orchard had been in my father’s family for three generations, and it had always been profitable. But there were lean years when disease or weather had affected the crops. My family’s farm was making ends meet, but the income between seasons often resembled living paycheck to paycheck.

While I definitely had some ideas to help the farm turn a bigger profit, I wasn’t being entirely truthful regarding my return to Kirby Falls. My plans did include going back to New York, but I didn’t have a position waiting on me in January or anytime soon. I didn’t even have a houseplant waiting on me.

“And we are so excited to have you, sweetie.” My mother’s voice pulled me out the guilty thoughts swirling inside my head. “We’re just so grateful to have you home and that you’re willing to invest your time and energy into the farm.”

“Mom,” I said, desperate to stop her. I did not need any of her praise. If she knew the truth of my unceremonious departure from Blakely Hammond Marketing, she’d be much less impressed by my return.

“Especially when you could be in the big city, putting your degrees to good use,” she added.

I swallowed around the hard lump in my throat. That golf ball just kept making an appearance. I only had those degrees because of my parents—their generosity and their sacrifice in sending me to an amazing college .

“Don’t be silly.” I worked hard to make my smile anything but brittle, but I could feel the cracks along the edges. “I’m happy to be back. And thankful that you’re letting me stay.”

A hand hit me on the arm, but there wasn’t any force behind it. Brady was just getting my attention.

Turning, I met his gaze across the backseat.

My older brother was watching me strangely, a confused vee taking shape between his dark eyebrows. “Don’t be stupid. This isn’t some friend’s couch you’re crashing on, Candy Cane. This is your home.”

“That’s right,” my mother added from the front of the car.

I nodded and returned my gaze to the passing landscape, but I no longer saw the hills in the distance or the trees filled to bursting with green leaves. I only saw my failures flashing before my eyes—on repeat and in great detail—until we turned onto the private road that would take me home.

The farmhouse came into view and a sigh escaped me, fogging the back passenger window just a little.

It was just how I remembered it. Ten-year-old Candy had thought the two narrow windows flanked by slate-gray shutters on the second floor looked like eyes while the wraparound porch resembled a wide, smiling mouth. I’d always loved this house. It was where I felt safe and secure and loved.

My mother’s pink crepe myrtles were still wild and overgrown, no matter how much my father trimmed them back every winter. The farm truck sat parked in the same place it had been throughout my entire childhood—between two trees to the right of the driveway.

My eyes eagerly scanned the property for any changes, but all I found was relief in faded memories.

From the way the worn staircase creaked on the third stair from the bottom to the way the kitchen pantry always smelled like tea, this place held so many memories of comfort and stability. The family meals around a scarred claw-foot dining table. Fighting with Brady over the television remote. Waking up early and finding my dad in the kitchen, already dressed and ready for work on the farm with a thermos of black coffee and a white powdered doughnut wrapped in a paper towel.

My nose stung as the car pulled to a stop.

I was home.

Joan sat on my parents’ front porch. She took a sip from a giant water bottle and eyed the car warily, like it held a troop of killer clowns instead of exactly one hundred percent of her immediate family.

But I was determined to make this go well, so I took a deep breath and opened the back passenger door, ensuring my smile was wide and genuine. “Hey, Joanie.”

My sister—the person I’d admired my whole life—stood and walked down the six porch stairs in her old work boots. “Hi, Candy. Welcome back.” Joan sounded like she always did, straightforward and a little gruff, but there was a chill in her demeanor that had my shoulders tensing.

It all devolved into painful awkwardness from there. I went in for a hug and Joan froze.

“I’m sweaty and gross,” she said, putting her hands up to ward me off. “Been out here all afternoon.” With a quick glance down my body, she added, “Wouldn’t want to get you all dirty.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” My black trousers and silk button-up felt suddenly tight and uncomfortable.

Joan had been twenty-seven when I’d left home. We were in a family group chat together—one she rarely participated in. And I’d seen her on three separate Christmases, when I’d met my family in Virginia to celebrate the holiday with my mother’s family. There hadn’t really been video calls or even phone calls in the intervening years.

Joan had mostly always been an adult. The adultiest adult in any room. Our dad liked to joke that she was born forty-five and just got progressively more middle-aged every year. The last time Joan and I had any meaningful sort of relationship, I’d been a dumb teenager, hell-bent on escaping from her favorite place in the whole world .

I knew she didn’t understand me, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted her to. The prospect of being found lacking was highly likely, and her criticism didn’t feel like the sort of thing I could handle right now.

My parents joined us and shifted our awkwardness face-off into a rectangle of unease.

With two hands full of luggage, Brady called helpfully from the trunk of the car, “I’ll take these up to the apartment.”

Frowning, I glanced between my parents. “I’m not staying in my old room?”

Mom smiled and squeezed my arm. “We thought you’d like your own space. I set you up in the apartment over the garage.”

“Yeah, the one they remodeled for Mamaw,” Joan added, something in her voice sounding like a challenge. I couldn’t imagine why she felt the need for that. There was never any competition between us, not one I could win, anyway.

Of course, I knew about the apartment. Mamaw Murray—my maternal grandmother—had suffered a stroke several years ago. My parents had made accommodations for her here so that she had family nearby that could help with her care. It was why we stopped meeting for Christmas in Virginia. Mamaw had relocated to Kirby Falls out of necessity.

Joan snapped her fingers like she’d just remembered something. “That’s right. You were too busy to come to your grandmother’s funeral.”

I could feel the blood leave my face. Guilt and shame fought for control as I shifted on my feet.

I hadn’t attended Mamaw Murray’s funeral. I’d been on deadline for my internship when she’d passed away last year. The bridge troll I’d worked for wouldn’t give me the time off, despite my red eyes and visible grief over the loss of my last remaining grandparent. He’d told me that if I left, he’d fire me and never provide a decent reference as long as I lived. I’d called home crying and so damn ashamed.

But I’d survived that internship and gotten the recommendation I needed to land a better position with Blakely Hammond Marketing this spring. Though that hadn’t worked out like I’d wanted either.

“Joan,” my mother hissed in admonishment .

“I wanted to be there,” I managed to say through my embarrassment, gaze straying toward the grass beneath my feet.

Before my mother could rush in to make things better—as was her way—Joan sighed. “I need to get back to it.”

“But—” Mom started.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Joan assured her, and then stalked off into the rows of apple trees lining the property, her long, lean form eating up the space.

I watched her back disappear behind thick green leaves, and then I watched some more. Vaguely, I could hear my parents juggling the flowers and the balloons and beckoning me to come into the house when I was ready. But my mind snagged on all the things I’d missed.

Not just the big things, like holidays and birthdays and the funeral for my grandmother. But the small things too. Being back in Kirby Falls made me suddenly very aware of the years I’d been away. I’d never seen my brother’s apartment in town. I didn’t know where Joan lived. I couldn’t even imagine the spaces they occupied or who they spent their free time with. Did my sister have a dog? Did Brady still hang out with Floyd Ellerby and Jase Wilcox and Cole Abernathy, like he did in high school? Did my family still get together for pizza nights down at Apollo’s on Main Street?

I didn’t have answers to any of those very basic questions, and for what, because of the dream I’d been chasing? Doing whatever I could to live up to my parents’ expectations and trying to figure out a way to take a country girl with good grades and a bright future and make her special. My goals had always been lofty. I had wanted to make something of myself. Be someone that Nick and Amy Judd could truly be proud of...in a different way than my siblings.

In the process, I’d done my level best to distance myself from my hometown and my Southern accent and my nickname and the way people saw me.

I sighed as seven years of regret and self-doubt worked to tighten every muscle in my body with unease.

In the distance, I could hear the rumble of a truck. It was coming from the direction of the farm. The Apple House, the main building that both acted as the storefront and housed the machinery for sorting, washing, and pressing apples for Judd’s Orchard, was deeper on the property, a short quarter of a mile behind my parents’ house. There was a separate entrance farther down the highway for farm visitors, but there’d always been a dirt path between our home and the public-facing structures for easy access.

Now, there was a white truck coming up the drive with its windows down and a man in a hat behind the wheel.

My mom stepped out onto the porch as the vehicle slowed beside the farmhouse. “Mercer!” she called. “Stop for a minute. Come on over!”

Ah. So this was the other farm employee I’d heard so much about. And the only full-time non-family member on staff.

The man I didn’t know stopped the truck and climbed out. He was a big guy, solid and strong looking. His chest was wide and his arms were muscled, thighs thick in his light-wash denim. The skin exposed beyond his tee shirt was white but deeply tanned, likely from working outside so much. I couldn’t see a whole lot with that hat in the way, but his hair looked like it was light brown, or perhaps it matched his dirty-blond facial hair. His eyes were shadowed beneath the bill of his cap, so I couldn’t make those out either. Figuring I’d probably stared long enough, I forced myself to glance away.

My parents had talked about Mercer being a wonderful employee over the last several years. I knew they thought highly of him—a surrogate son for Amy and Nick Judd to dote on. He apparently helped Joan in the fields but also provided coverage at the Apple House when needed, grading and selling apples and handing out buckets for the u-pick side of the operation.

My brother strolled around the side of the farmhouse. I guessed he’d gotten my luggage sorted.

I stood a little taller as I watched Brady approach the handsome man, who looked to be around my age. They did a familiar hand-slap thing that male friends seemed to be born knowing how to coordinate.

Suddenly my mother and father were by my side without me realizing how they’d gotten there.

“Come say hi,” Mom called across the twenty or so feet separating us from Brady and Mercer .

I smiled as they approached. As Mercer came closer, I was able to see the blue gray of his eyes that I’d been unable to make out before. He smiled too, and I couldn’t help but notice the fullness and shape of his lips beneath his scruffy beard.

Before my parents had a chance to introduce me as Candy, I stuck out my hand and said brightly, “Hi, I’m Candace. You must be the famous Mercer I’ve heard so much about.”

The hand that had been partially extended toward my own halted briefly as Mercer’s expression morphed into one of frowny confusion. But then his big fingers managed to curl around mine, and he gave a warm squeeze.

I kept smiling and shaking as Mercer’s eyes—that cool blend of blue and gray—searched my face. His lips flattened and joined the frowning party his face was currently throwing.

“Did she hit her head while I was gone?” my brother asked from Mercer’s side.

I glanced at Brady. “What?”

He raised expectant eyebrows. “That’s Mercer. Mark Mercer.”

My eyes quickly shot to the man in question. I was still shaking his hand.

“You know Mercer. He was in your grade,” Brady continued. “He went to our high school, doofus. Graduated with you and everything.”

Um, what?

I let my mind drift back to the halls of Kirby Falls High as I took in the handsome face of the not-so-stranger before me. I didn’t remember the name Mercer. And surely I would have remembered seeing this guy. But when I compared his to the faces of the teenagers I’d gone to school with, I came up empty.

“Oh,” I said, like an idiot. My thoughts spun, trying to place the present-tense version...whose hand I was still holding.

I was only twenty-five. High school hadn’t been that long ago. I should really be able to figure this out. Why couldn’t I come up with a single memory of this man—this good-looking, solid, capable presence staring at me very thoughtfully? What was wrong with me ?

Quickly, I gave a final squeeze to end the longest handshake in the history of greetings and lied, “Of course! I’m so sorry, Mercer. I must be all muddled from travel.”

I fought a wince as my brother’s eyes went wide in my periphery.

Muddled from travel.

Why had I said that? I wasn’t a Regency romance heroine.

Muddled . Oh, Jesus.

“It’s really good to see you,” I added quickly. My hand felt sweaty with panic. Thank God I’d finally let go of him. “And of course, I’ve heard all about you from Mom and Dad. They just think so highly of you and love having you here at the orchard.”

And then I shut my trap and prayed for a head injury, so I would, at least, have something to blame the memory loss and my sudden nineteenth-century vocabulary on.

Alas. Nothing fell from the sky to put me out of my misery.

We all just waited in awkward silence for Mercer to call me a liar and a fraud.

It wasn’t anything I didn’t already know anyway.