Chapter 1

1

L ibby watched the cars zip by on the highway, longing for her dad's SUV with out-of-state plates to drive up and put her life back together. From her spot under an ancient oak, she spied a red SUV exiting the interstate and turning the opposite direction.

She sighed and tried to refocus on the sketch pad in her lap and the wildflowers she'd stuffed in a soda bottle. But instead, she traced the scars on her palm with the tip of her drawing pencil. If only she could wash the marks away along with the memories of that tragic day. She wiped her palm against her jeans, but only the pencil marks disappeared.

She focused on her drawing and rubbed the side of her pencil on the page, shading a leaf. A rumble caught her attention, and she glanced up; a large, gleaming bus turned off the exit and onto the county road toward her. The shiny silver-and-black exterior and darkened windows of the vehicle made it look like some sort of VIP ride or maybe a tour bus.

The bus approached the nature preserve and turned in. In all the months she'd come to Parfrey's Glen, cars rarely pulled in, and she liked it that way. She thought of Parfrey's Glen as her own secret place where she could get lost in her thoughts.

The rumble grew louder as the enormous bus turned and pulled to a stop in the gravel parking lot on the far side of the clearing. She waited for the door to open and reveal the famous person within. Maybe it would be some country singer. Her mom loved country music and had always dreamt of going to a big concert. But it never happened.

A moment later the door opened, and Libby's hopes were dashed. Her quiet nature preserve had been invaded. By teenage boys.

A trio of noisy guys poured out. The first leapt from the top step and landed several feet out on the dirt, followed closely by another. The last twirled a Frisbee on his finger as he descended.

She watched them undetected from her spot under the tree, an eavesdropper on this group of loud, young strangers.

The Frisbee sailed through the warm September air as one of the guys raced to catch it. A man and woman exited the bus, their arms loaded with picnic supplies. The woman walked to a sunny spot of grass, set down her load, and spread out a couple of colorful blankets.

They were just a family; okay, a rich family. But no one famous.

Libby enjoyed a perfect view of the group. Their interaction and happy banter reminded her of her own family and made her heartsick.

Her drawing forgotten, she soaked in their every move. One of the boys turned around, providing her with a clean line of view. He tilted his head to the side and pushed away a lock of sun-kissed hair. A tiny thrill flipped in her stomach. He held his phone and a wireless speaker, and loud music filled the air.

"Peter, turn it down," the man hollered as he set up lawn chairs.

"Dad, come on, you never let me play it loud." Peter grinned. He adjusted the volume and set the speakers down.

"Real funny. Now get out of here before I put you to work."

Peter darted through the long grass toward the other two boys, his movements swift and athletic. Libby's eyes trailed his every move.

"Garrett, over here," he yelled.

The Frisbee flew smoothly through the air. Peter leapt high and caught it. "Oh yeah, baby," he bragged, dancing as if it were a touchdown .

He flung it back, his body grace in motion, this time to the boy first out of the bus. This one appeared younger. His hair was a mop of loose dark curls and he wore a constant grin. They continued to torpedo the disk at one another and trash talk in the hot sun of early fall. Occasionally, Peter would do some crazy move to the music playing in the background. Libby stifled a giggle.

Peter suddenly glanced her way.

Uh-oh .

"Heads up," the grinning boy yelled as the Frisbee sped toward the unsuspecting Peter.

Peter ducked as it whistled by and landed not far from Libby. He looked straight at her, jogged over and grabbed the Frisbee from the grass, and whipped the disc back. He turned around and grinned as he sauntered to where she sat against the giant oak, and then plopped down in the unmowed grass, his chest rising heavily.

"Hey." He looked at her with curiosity. "Whatcha doing?"

Libby's mouth went dry as this great-looking guy stretched out before her. Apparently, he expected her to respond. Her tongue felt numb.

A year ago, she would have been comfortable with him. Now, that confidence was a distant memory. These days, guys—anyone really—rarely talked to her anymore. Libby was an outsider to the kids in Rockville, which was fine with her. She had been left in this crummy town and preferred to be alone. It was easier. She'd grown comfortable with solitude, except for now. She prayed for her former confidence to come back.

Libby held the sketch pad as a shield. "Uh, drawing," she uttered.

"Oh." He lay in the grass propped up on a muscular arm and watched her with casual interest, as his breath came back. He was clearly nothing like the guys at Rockville High School.

"Are you drawing those?" He pointed at the wildflowers sticking haphazardly out of a diet soda bottle.

"Yeah," she answered softly. "It's really dumb, though," she added, trying to sound normal and not like the insecure girl she'd become. She pulled back and forth at the pendant around her neck.

"Why's it dumb?" His deep blue eyes gazed at her.

She shrugged. "It just is. It doesn't mean anything—it's just something to do." She pressed the pencil hard against the pad and broke the lead.

"Can I see it?" Peter reached for the pad.

Libby's face heated. "I don't know. It's really nothing to look at." She pulled the bound papers close; her fist gripped the pencil tight.

When she didn't offer him the drawing, he moved next to her. He leaned close and took the pad, and his fingers brushed against hers. He sat so near, their legs bumped .

She wanted to reach out and touch him. His blond hair was still streaked by summer sun and hung past his eyebrows and over his eyes. He smelled good. Like guy soap and dryer sheets.

Peter studied the drawing, then wrinkled his brow as if it wasn't what he expected. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and looked sideways at her. She noticed a touch of razor stubble on his jaw.

"It's not of me," he said, looking embarrassed.

"Why would it be?"

"Well, you've been sitting here watching me and my brothers, so I figured you must be drawing one of us." He handed back the drawing, a bit sheepish.

"Wow. Kind of full of yourself, aren't you?" she teased, feeling brave for a moment. "Sorry to disappoint, but it's just a bunch of wildflowers."

Libby couldn't get over this cute guy sitting so close. He moved right into her space as if it was no big deal, but to her it was. She struggled to sit still and not stare at him as her pulse raced.

He studied her, then shook his head.

"Well, it's not very good," he declared, but the corner of his mouth turned up as he fought back a grin. His eyes sparkled.

"Now you're just being mean," she teased again, surprising herself, and feeling a glimpse of her old self.

Still, she scooted a few inches away to recover from the awkwardness of being so close. Plus, this way she could sit and look straight at him. He had great eyes.

"Sorry, that's the best I could come up with. You're right. I was mean," he said. "Not a good start here. Let's begin again." He laughed, then leaned forward and held out his hand.

"Hi, I'm Peter."

She looked from his outstretched hand to his friendly face. Happiness wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had so much fun, and this guy, Peter, with his careless good looks and confident attitude, made her stomach flip.

"Hi, Peter. I'm Libby."

They shook hands and smiled. His hand felt warm and strong.

"So, Libby, do you come here often?"

She rolled her eyes at the lame question. "Yeah, pretty often. Mostly on the weekends." Every chance she got was more like it. Anything to get away from the confines of the house.

"So you must live around here." He looked around for nearby homes.

Libby didn't want him to notice the run-down farmhouse in the distance, so she just nodded. She didn't associate herself with the house, its owner, or even the town. "What's with the über bus? You on vacation?" She twisted her pendant on its thin leather cord .

"Not really. We live in it when we're on tour." He raised an eyebrow, aware of her not-so-smooth change of topic.

"What do you mean ‘tour'? Like a vacation tour of the country?"

He laughed. "No, actually, we're on tour promoting our album, Triple Threat," he said with pride in his voice.

"Your family is in a band?"

"It's not my whole family, just my two brothers and me."

His demeanor changed, but she couldn't put her finger on why. She looked across the way to his brothers and furrowed her brow. They seemed pretty average. "You are not. You're making it up." She could tell he was trying to impress her.

"No, really, we've had the band for over two years now."

"Sure you have." She eyed him with a smile, not believing a word. They were too young. They must all still be in high school. Plus, they looked nothing like members of a band. She didn't know exactly what guys in a band would look like, but certainly not like these guys.

"I'm telling the truth." He sat back and laughed again.

"So where do you play?" She pierced him with a stare. She'd catch him in his own lie. "You look too young for the bar scene. Do you play weddings?"

A coy expression covered Peter's face. "Uh, no, nothing like that. It's more public venues."

"Like parks or fairs?" That she might believe. "Yeah, something like that."

"Okay, if you say so." She shrugged. "Then you get to drive around and see lots of different places? I'd do that in an instant, if I could." Anything to escape life here.

"The sights are great, but it can get claustrophobic with five people crammed in one giant tin can for days at a time. You'd hate it."

She doubted that. "Maybe, but I'd be willing to make the sacrifice to get outta here." A tightness in her chest occurred whenever she thought of her trapped existence.

"What's wrong with here?" He twirled a long blade of grass between his fingers.

Where to begin? Nothing about this place fit. It was all wrong. She didn't belong here and never would. But she wasn't about to explain her screwed-up life to Peter. "Just . . . everything."

"Okay, that tells me a lot." He smiled, gazing into her eyes. Her stomach turned upside down. "You want to elaborate?"

"No." She swallowed and looked away. "So what's the name of your band?"

"You like to change the subject." He grinned.

She noticed how his eyes sparkled each time he smiled. "So?"

"Jamieson. Our band is called Jamieson." He watched her closely, then asked, "Ever heard of us?"

"Should I have? It doesn't sound familiar."

"Really?" He wore a look of disbelief. "You've never heard of us? "

"No, do you play around here? We have a park pavilion that has groups sometimes. Is that why you stopped in Rockville?"

"No, we haven't played around here." The corner of his mouth turned up. "Don't you listen to the radio or watch TV?"

She sighed. She didn't want him to think she was an idiot. "Of course. Mostly country music, though. I don't recall ever hearing of a band called Jamieson."

"We're not country. Not even close." He shook his head. "And TV?" he asked.

Libby shook her head no. "I don't watch TV too often. Let's just say I get really good grades. And I love nature. That's why I come here so often." That was only part of the reason, but she hated talking about herself. "What's your reason for stopping?" She could tell that now Peter was the one having trouble believing her story.

"Whenever we drive through Wisconsin, we stop here because my mom likes how private it is. You know how moms are. Anytime she can find a spot that's surrounded by nature and not all highway, she puts it on the schedule."

Libby glossed over the mom comment. She didn't want to think of her mom. She missed her so much, her heart hurt. "You've been here before?"

"Quite a few times, actually."

Of the dozens of times she'd come to Parfrey's, she'd never seen them. How odd that today they would meet. This news warmed her insides. She wondered how many times in this last lonely year they'd just missed each other coming and going.

"Hey, Petey, who's your girlfriend?" one of Peter's brothers yelled as he moved toward them with a cocky walk and hooded eyes. He appeared older, a little shorter than Peter, and not nearly as good-looking. He stared at her as if she was intruding on them.

"That's Garrett," he said under his breath. "Ignore him.

He can be a jerk."

"Lover boy, Mom said it's time to eat."

Libby pulled her knees in and hugged them. She couldn't see any resemblance between Garrett and Peter.

"I'm coming." Peter got to his feet and turned toward Libby. "I've gotta go, but maybe I'll see you later."

She smiled and nodded. She'd love to see him, more than he'd ever know.

Libby checked her watch. "Oh my God, I didn't realize how late it's getting. I've gotta go, too." If she didn't leave right now, she'd get the third degree. She flipped the sketch pad closed and gathered her belongings.

"Here." Peter extended a hand to her, his expression sweet and his face close.

"Thanks." She grasped his strong hand and stood up, relishing the touch of his skin.

"It was fun talking to you. I wish I'd bumped into you sooner," he said.

Was he actually disappointed to see her go?

"Who knows? Maybe I'll see you again someday." He smiled as if he really meant it.

"Maybe." She couldn't imagine it happening, but for the first time in months she felt hopeful—happy, even.

"Have fun on your tour." She dumped the weeds and wildflowers onto the ground. "I've gotta go."

She hesitated for a moment, not wanting this to end. It had been a very long time since she'd relaxed and hung out with anyone, let alone a nice guy.

"Well, bye." She ran down the trail into the woods. Once in the thick of the trees, she turned back. Peter stood in the same spot, holding one of the wildflowers she'd left behind. He waved. She waved back, then disappeared into the woods.

Libby took the long way, so Peter wouldn't see where she lived.

***

Libby braced herself as she approached the beat-up old farmhouse. It loomed forgotten on acres of rich farmland and wooded areas. Most of the land was leased to a farmer, who benefited from the fertile soil. From what she could tell, this was her aunt's sole method of income. The rest of the property, barn, and outbuildings sat abandoned with a collection of broken-down cars littering the yard. The odor of leaking oil and rusted metal clung to the air. A vegetable garden had once flourished, but that must have been years ago.

She didn't know why her aunt had let it all fall apart, but her parents always said Aunt Marge struggled with demons early in life and never recovered from the fight. Libby heaved a sigh and inserted her key into the lock on the paint-chipped door.

Upon entering, the familiar smell of stale smoke and reeking trash filled the air. The television blared in the next room, confirming her aunt's presence. Libby hoped to sneak upstairs unnoticed.

"Don't forget to lock the door behind you. We can't be taking any chances," the gritty voice of her aunt hollered from the sickeningly sweet smoke-filled living room. "People are getting murdered in their beds every day."

"It's locked," Libby said, resigned. The house was dark, as always. Aunt Marge kept the curtains closed, as if anyone would want to watch a middle-aged woman drink and watch television all day.

"Come in here."

Libby dropped her backpack at the foot of the steps and dragged her feet as she entered the living room. Aunt Marge reclined in an upholstered chair, her feet on a mismatched ottoman. A dented TV tray served as her coffee table, cluttered with a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of whiskey, and a dirty glass .

"What's wrong?" her aunt demanded while clenching a cigarette between her thin, stained lips.

"Nothing," she mumbled, pushing her long hair behind an ear as she tolerated the inspection.

"You're not lying to me, are you?" Aunt Marge's eyes narrowed. "I hate liars."

"No, I would never lie to you. I just have a lot of homework."

She grunted in reply. "There's groceries on the counter if you're hungry. Now get upstairs and finish your work. You know I won't tolerate laziness. You prove to those school people you're doing just fine. I don't need them snooping around here again." She picked up the television remote and started snapping it at the television, effectively dismissing her.

Libby made her way through the cluttered house into the kitchen. On the edge of the counter, next to piles of dirty dishes and old junk mail, sat a torn grocery bag. She began pulling things out. A bag of cheese popcorn, a box of granola bars, a bag of red licorice, and a warm package of sandwich meat. At the bottom she found a six-pack of soda and three candy bars.

She placed the soda and unappetizing sandwich meat on a crusty metal shelf in the refrigerator, grabbed the popcorn and a candy bar, and went upstairs with her backpack. It was always a relief to leave Aunt Marge behind. With any luck, she wouldn't hear from her again today. Hopefully, she'd drink herself into a stupor and fall asleep in her sunken chair.

Once inside her room, Libby pushed the door shut, closing out the ugliness below. She set her things on the neatly made bed. The worn bedspread featured snags and small tears, but she kept it and everything in the room as clean as possible. She'd given up on keeping the downstairs clean months ago, but here she could keep things the way she liked.

She picked up the small, framed picture of her family. Her mom, dad, and little sister, Sarah, along with a former version of herself, smiled brightly. The photo was taken while on a rafting trip out west two years earlier. Their arms hung comfortably on one another's shoulders, reminding her of the love they'd shared. Libby traced their faces with her finger and wondered when her dad would come back for her.

She returned the photo to its place on her dresser and moved to the two large windows, raising them a few inches. Cool air blew in, making her room feel better. Outside, across the fields, the rear entrance to the preserve was in perfect view. The spot she'd met Peter. She pulled a chair near the window and propped her book on her lap as she began doing homework, checking too often for Peter and the silver tour bus.