Once and Forever: A Honeysuckle Creek Novel

By Macee McNeill

Once, going home was his heart's desire…

Blane McCallum works alone. Though widely recognized as the reason for his company's continuing global success, Blane shuns his celebrity status. Fame means nothing to a man still mired in the tragedies of the past. But the impending sale of his parents' estate means he must return to the North Carolina town—and the memories—he was forced to leave behind sixteen years earlier. This time he plans to leave Honeysuckle Creek on his own terms. Forever.

But even the best-laid plans can change in the blink of two sparkling green eyes.

Once, he was her hero…

Grace Ellison believes in second chances. To the young teacher, no one is beyond redemption. But she and her forgiving heart can't seem to avoid stumbling into awkward mishaps at every turn. But even the most cringeworthy incident with her troublesome pup can't compare to an ill-fated encounter with her childhood hero.

When their eyes meet, there's a spark. An undeniable spark. A surprise revelation. A taste of danger. A daring escape by moonlight. The spark ignites. But sometimes, heroes make mistakes. Sometimes, even a hero needs a second chance.

Sometimes, once is forever…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543996197

Book preview

years.

CHAPTER ONE

Honeysuckle Creek

October 2016

Blane McCallum was a good boss. No, he was a great boss. As a matter of fact, it was a pleasure to work for him. The salary and benefits were excellent. The demands of the position were reasonable, and the bonuses, well, the bonuses allowed Greg Hawkins to do just about anything he wanted when he wasn’t working. No pilot ever had a better job or the opportunity to fly a finer plane. This one was a new addition to McCallum Industries, a sleek Leer jet that practically flew itself. Yes, Mr. McCallum was a great boss.

He was, however, the boss. He was polite and professional. Always. He didn’t talk about family or sports or much of anything with his employees. Even though Greg had been Mr. McCallum’s pilot for thousands of hours in the air, he could only remember sharing one personal conversation with his boss in the last four and a half years. When Greg’s mother passed away Mr. McCallum had been genuinely concerned and had asked if there was anything that Greg and his family needed. He had also attended the funeral. Greg still couldn’t believe that an important man like Blane McCallum walked right into his mother’s funeral and sat down with everyone else. McCallum was like that, always attending the funerals and weddings of his employees, sending a gift for a new baby. He always knew what was going on, and he always did exactly the right thing. That’s how they knew he cared. He just didn’t talk about it … or about anything. Ever. Which is why Greg almost jumped out of his seat when Mr. McCallum suddenly spoke to him.

Is there a reason that we keep circling the airport without attempting to land? Blane inquired politely.

Greg nervously tripped over his words, W-w-well, Mr. McCallum, the tower is working on a little problem blocking the runway. When they clear the obstruction, we will be able to land.

What kind of obstruction? The London County airport wasn’t exactly LaGuardia. Blane peered out the window, in spite of his desire to remain disinterested.

Cows, said his pilot. It appears that there are several.

Blane experienced a sudden flash of memory. He recalled watching a little boy in overalls getting cows off the runway, with the assistance of a very impressive shepherd dog. What was his name? Lincoln, Linton, … oh, yes, Lester. That was it. Thomas Lester. Thomas, affectionately known as Tom-ass to his friends, was the best third baseman in the whole county. Sometimes they had to wait for what seemed like forever for Thomas to finish his job and get to baseball practice. He made $5.00 per cow, though, which seemed like a fortune to his teammates. And he always had the coolest cleats.

We are starting our approach, sir. The runway is cow-free.

Blane shook himself out of his reverie and frowned. He would not do this. He would not let every sight and sound trigger some memory from his childhood. He was a grown man, and he had let go of all the sentimental attachment he had to this place years ago. He had put off coming back as long as possible, and he wanted this ordeal to be finished … for good. He intended to handle his return to Honeysuckle Creek as he would a business deal and, well, like everything else in his very orderly life: by being detached and professional. Always professional … and numb, emotionally numb. It had taken years for him to reach a place free from emotional stress. To be honest—and Blane was always brutally honest with himself—there was a lot to be said for being emotionally distant. He didn’t spend his time worrying about how people felt about things or how he felt about people. He just kept nearly every person in his life at arm’s length and treated them all in exactly the same manner: detached, but kind. It had been a battle to put the past behind him and to find some sort of peace in his life, and that was the way he wanted to keep it: free from sentimental old memories, useless regrets, and the pain that accompanied them.

With the plane finally on the ground Blane prepared, with trepidation, to set foot on familiar soil for the first time in sixteen years. Get a grip, McCallum. This is not a big deal.

Let me know when you’re ready to fly out, Mr. McCallum, Hawkins said, respectfully.

Thank you, Hawkins, for an excellent flight. Enjoy your time off. I will be in touch. Polite and professional. Blane took a deep breath and felt his facade slip firmly back in place as he exited the jet. He was calm. He was in control. He could get through this.

His comfortable detachment, however, came to an abrupt end the minute his feet touched the pavement.

Well, hell! I don’t believe it. It’s really you. I thought it might be when I heard your pilot call in. It’s been too damn long, my friend.

And before he could reply, Blane was engulfed in a bear hug from a blonde giant with an enormous grin on his face. In his exuberance, the giant didn’t notice Blane’s awkward response to his greeting.

Finally come home, have ya? Well, it’s about damn time, the giant continued.

Blane still hadn’t moved. His brain was paralyzed, just like the rest of him. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him with such familiarity.

There was an awkward pause and the giant stepped back and looked at him. You haven’t said a damn thing since you stepped off that plane. Do you even know who I am? His grin disappeared as he eyed Blane with genuine disappointment.

Suddenly, it all clicked into place. The memory vault in his brain, the one he had so carefully kept closed all these years, cracked open and his professional facade fell away. He knew this man. The only thing that was missing were the overalls. Tom-ass Lester, Blane said, shaking his head, as the first genuine smile in a long time touched his face. Best third baseman in the county. How could I ever forget your ugly face? Still chasing cows off the runway, I see?

Thomas’ easy grin reappeared, and he threw an arm around Blane’s shoulders as they walked toward the airport office. Naw, I got a young’un for that now. Come on in and meet the family.

Greg Hawkins stood still for a minute, in complete shock, as he processed what he had just seen. Blane McCallum had smiled, really smiled. He had laughed with his old friend and had a real conversation. Apparently, he used to play baseball. They talked about cows. Mr. McCallum had a past. Maybe he wasn’t always the consummate professional that he seemed to be. It was a revelation. Greg pulled his phone out of his pocket. He couldn’t wait to tell someone. It seemed Blane McCallum was human after all.

Meanwhile, Blane was getting an unexpected but surprisingly interesting version of the last sixteen years of Thomas Lester’s life.

You remember Lindsay, my wife? She was Lindsay Fields before we got married. No, wait, she moved here in the eighth grade and you were already gone by then. Anyway, this is Lindsay, and this is my boy, Thomas Junior. A small, blond boy of about seven grinned at Blane. The boy was wearing overalls, and he was missing both front teeth. Tommy, said Thomas Lester, this is Mr. Blane McCallum. He was the best pitcher on our team when we went to Nationals.

Hey, Mr. McCallum! Tommy said, holding out his hand. He sported a very serious expression on his face.

Hey, Tommy, said Blane, sporting the same amount of gravity. It’s nice to meet you.

Tommy leaned close to Blane and whispered, Were you really as good as they say? Blane leaned in too and whispered back, I was lucky to have a team behind me with players like your dad. They made me look good.

Oh, said Tommy flashing his toothless grin, that’s what I thought.

Blane grinned back. Say, Tommy, what’s the going rate for cows on the runway these days?

What do you mean? Tommy looked puzzled.

Your dad used to get five dollars per cow when he was your age. Here… Blane reached into his wallet and extracted fifteen dollars. I’ll start you off since it was my plane and you helped me out today, but don’t let your dad forget to pay you next time. You might want to buy some new cleats.

All right! Thanks, Mr. McCallum!

Tommy slipped the money into the back pocket of his overalls then skipped out the door, eager to look for more cows.

Thanks a lot, Blane. Thomas shook his head sadly, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. He’ll never let me forget about those cows now. Already causin’ trouble—and you’ve only been here a few minutes.

The door opened. A distinguished, impeccably dressed man approached the group. He sported a dark Alexander Julian suit, punctuated by a flashy yellow-and-blue striped tie. He wore his silver-gray hair short, clipped tight, in military style. He appeared to be in his early seventies but was obviously in prime physical condition, still a powerful and imposing man.

He approached Blane. The expression on his face was serious, although his bright blue eyes were brimming with laughter. Mr. McCallum, your car is ready.

Blane rolled his eyes and sighed. Thank you, Rafe. Allow me to introduce you to my old friend, Thomas Lester, and his family. This is Rafe Montgomery, Blane announced, looking at Thomas, my most valuable employee. He emphasized the word valuable slightly then glared at Rafe, who was chuckling.

Thomas launched into a hilarious story about Blane’s legendary middle school baseball career, and Rafe started asking questions, enjoying himself immensely. As the stories continued, Blane shook his head and sat down. Thomas was wound up now, and Rafe found himself learning all kinds of fun facts he would enjoy using later to torment Blane.

Thomas’ wife took pity on him. She smiled across to Rafe. I’m sure Mr. McCallum is worn out from his trip and is about ready to get on the road.

Rafe waved his hand. He’ll be all right, he said. He turned his attention back to Thomas, who continued to regale him with another of Blane’s childhood antics. Each antic he recounted proved to be more entertaining than the last.

Lindsay looked at Blane anxiously.

Thanks, Lindsay, Blane said, but Rafe is enjoying himself too much to leave right now. He smiled and added, as an afterthought, And it’s Blane.

Lindsay’s worried expression vanished. Her whole face lit up. All right, Blane. I’m going to go to the kitchen right now and cut you and Mr. Montgomery some of the cake I just baked. It’s apple cider pound cake, on account of it being fall and all. And it’s still warm. I’ll just wrap some up for y’all and when I come back, I’ll bring some for Thomas. Cake is one thing that always makes him stop talking.

She turned and hurried through the door beyond Blane. Amazing how a little thing like telling her to call him by his first name could make her smile like that, Blane thought. He supposed he was something of a celebrity to a lot of people, although he felt like anything but. Try as he might to stay out of the spotlight there was always some crazy article or blurb on late-night TV that made him sound a lot more exciting than he really was. People loved hearing about money and power, and Blane had both.

As Rafe went on listening to Thomas’ stories, Blane glanced at the small rack attached to the wall and picked up the first magazine that he saw, the brand-new issue of Heathcliff’s Personal Finance Weekly. Of all the magazines on the planet, Heathcliff’s just happened to be his least favorite. It reminded him of what would happen if Forbes married The National Enquirer: part solid financial news and part intrusive and damaging rumors and gossip. He thumbed to the index and groaned as he saw his own name in the title of an article… Blane McCallum, What’s Next for the Financial World’s Rising Star? Good question, Blane thought, maybe they know something I don’t. After glancing at Rafe and Thomas—they were still enjoying each other’s company, laughing uproariously—Blane found the beginning of the article and started to read.

His business acumen is flawless. His prowess as a negotiator and his ability to keep a cool head under pressure have gained him the admiration of colleagues and competitors alike. At the age of twenty-eight, Blane McCallum is already something of a legend in the financial world. After graduating from the London School of Economics and assuming his rightful position as CEO of McCallum Industries, he has nearly doubled the net worth of the North American branch of the company in only two years. He is definitely all about the business.

Blane stopped reading and closed the magazine. He supposed he should be flattered that Heathcliff’s continued to portray him in such a positive light. Some of his business associates weren’t so lucky. To date, he had never had anything remotely unflattering or scandalous written about him, and it wasn’t too hard to figure out why. Their assumption that he was all about the business was correct. As a matter of fact, he was all business. All business, all the time. He made it a point to avoid social gatherings, business or otherwise. He didn’t frequent the hot spots or the club scene. He didn’t date and, while he did have a wide circle of acquaintances, no one would say he had a wide circle of friends, or that he had many friends…or that he even had one of two friends. Blane worked alone. He was known for his business skills, not for his sparkling personality. His classic poker face, almost always devoid of expression, and his stoic demeanor should have been off-putting or, at the very least, uninteresting, but, his self-imposed isolation had the opposite effect. The public couldn’t get enough of him. They were fascinated with everything McCallum, from his political opinions to his wardrobe. And Blane hated it. He never gave interviews, never talked to reporters, never encouraged women to throw themselves at him. But all of his efforts to remain in the background only made him more desirable. Being named one of Heathcliff’s Sexiest Singles of 2014 was another bizarre example of Blane’s appeal. He could have done without that. Really, he could. Why couldn’t people understand that he wanted to be left alone? Why couldn’t they see that he just wanted to work, to pin his mind on something that he could understand and control?

If the past sixteen years had taught him anything, they had taught him that very few people had his best interest at heart. The shock of losing his parents and being forced to leave everything else that he held dear had nearly destroyed him. No less devastating was the betrayal of his Uncle Douglas, who had used his role as temporary guardian to spirit Blane over to the Herbert M. Ward School for Adolescent Boys in upper Vermont. The School for Rich, Twisted, and Cruel Adolescent Boys would have been a more accurate title. The fact that Blane survived his first two weeks of school could be attributed more to luck than anything else. None of the other boys would have anything to do with the new boy; he was totally alone for the first time in his life. Desperate for a human connection with anyone he could find, Blane had placed his trust in the wrong people. Instead of taking him for a swim in a nearby pond, as they had told him they would, his newfound friends had taken turns beating Blane until he was a bloody mess. He remembered that night like it was yesterday; now, it chilled him to think how differently it could have ended.

Is he dead?

Blane slowly regained consciousness.

Callahan didn’t tell us to beat him to death.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he recognized the voice. Billix Watson, the older teenage boy that he thought he could trust.

Why are you telling us that now, you freakin’ moron?

That was Frederick Dillinger, the one who had made Blane so nervous. If he had listened to his gut, he would never have gone anywhere with Dillinger; but Billix had insisted, and Blane was so desperate for a friend that he would have done anything Billix wanted.

Blane feigned unconsciousness as he tried to silently access his injuries. If beating him to death had been their goal, he felt as though they had almost succeeded. It hurt to breathe…he could taste the metallic tang of blood from one too many blows to the mouth. He felt something nudge him in the ribs—the tip of a boot?—and flinched at the sharp pain that blossomed in his side.

He isn’t dead, Billix. That was Dillinger again. What the hell did Callahan tell you we were supposed to do with him, anyway? And would it have been too much trouble to mention it before now?

Blane had pegged Dillinger as the instigator of the ganglike beating he had just received, but Dillinger didn’t seem to be the one in control.

Why don’t we just throw him in the pond and be done with it? Landon Gates asked, in what sounded like a bored voice. I’ve got other things to do with my time.

Callahan didn’t want it done that way and he’s the one calling the shots, Billix whined. It was supposed to look like a suicide, like he drowned himself.

What? Like he beat himself up first? Are you freakin’ crazy, Billix? I was only kidding about the pond, anyway. Landon didn’t sound bored anymore to Blane. He sounded nervous. I didn’t sign up to kill anybody. Beating the crap out of some stupid new kid is one thing, but helping you drown somebody is not what I had in mind. Nobody deserves to go like that. That’s murder one, man. You can tell your daddy, Callahan, that I’ll visit him in prison. Both of you are crazier than hell. I’m out.

Blane heard Landon’s footsteps as he walked away.

To hell with Callahan, Dillinger snarled, and to hell with you, Billix. Blane heard the crunch of twigs and leaves as Dillinger walked into the woods, Billix’s voice trailing after him. We don’t need Landon, Dill. We can split the money two ways instead of three. Nobody will ever find out.

The sounds of the argument grew fainter and fainter as the boys went farther into the woods. Blane began to pray. He hadn’t prayed since the day his parents were killed. He had spent quite a lot of time being angry with God…angry about losing his parents…angry about leaving the only home he had ever known…angry about being sent to the Herbert M. Ward School.…Just…angry.

The woods became quiet. Blane tried to sit up, desperate to get away from this place. He crawled a little ways into the woods on the far side of the clearing: as far from the pond as he could get. A wave of nausea hit. Blane collapsed on the ground, flat on his back and covered with the sweat of his efforts. He lay there, thanking God for every second that passed without his tormenters returning to finish their job. He didn’t know how long he had lain on the dew-covered ground when he heard the grass rustling nearby. His heart nearly beat out of his chest in terror…he was certain this was the end. He felt their hot breath on his face, and he refused to look up at his tormenters’ triumph.

When a few seconds had passed and nothing happened, Blane opened the one eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut. He was surprised to see, not the faces of his enemies, but the calm and peaceful eyes of a beautiful, white horse. The horse whinnied softly, leaning his head down to nip at the ripped sleeve of Blane’s T-shirt. Blane reached out, holding on to the horse’s front legs, and pulled himself up. It was a slow and painful process, but he finally found himself seated on the back of his equine rescuer. He leaned over gratefully and draped his arms around the horse’s neck. The horse turned and trotted slowly away from the pond...somehow it seemed to know exactly where to take him. Blane tried to relax and breathe through the jarring pain. He preferred this pain to the other option. With the arrival of the horse, he had been infused with a new courage. The pain meant that he was alive. He had every intention of staying that way.

Blane sighed quietly, remembering that night. The horse had taken him to Rafe Montgomery, the stable master. Rafe remained remarkably calm as the runaway animal entered the stables carrying a broken and bleeding twelve-year-old boy on his back. He had almost behaved as if helping badly beaten boys was a daily occurrence.

Rafe addressed Blane’s injuries with the efficiency of a surgeon, although he had mumbled every swear word Blane had ever heard, and some that he hadn’t, as he worked. If Blane hadn’t been enduring so much pain, he would have been impressed with Rafe’s ability to swear in multiple languages. Rafe wrapped Blane’s ribs, cleaned up the mess that was his face, and put him to bed in the spare room of the tiny apartment attached to the back of the stables. The next morning, Rafe made Blane tell him the names of his attackers; shortly thereafter he purposely approached Headmaster Callahan as he was in the middle of conducting an interview with the very wealthy and influential parents of a prospective student. After their horrified outrage at the accusations Rafe made, Callahan had no choice but to expel Billix and to put Dillinger and Landon on probation with the promise of dismissal for any more infractions. Blane was permitted to remain indefinitely in the extra room in Rafe’s apartment; being able to continue to pursue his lifelong love affair with horses helped him to regain his equilibrium. Any awkwardness arising from occasional encounters with Dillinger and Landon was nullified by the fact that they left him very much alone. He never did find camaraderie among the other students in his four years at the Herbert M. Ward School, but because he lived and worked in the stable, he remained so far beneath their notice that no one bothered him.

He did, however, develop a deep and abiding respect for Rafe Montgomery even though he couldn’t figure him out. Rafe was a conundrum. With his swarthy complexion and unshaven and rather careless appearance, Rafe blended into the background. He rarely attracted any attention. When he did have to talk to someone, Rafe spoke haltingly and seemed to weigh each word before speaking it. The general consensus within the school was that while Rafe worked well with the horses, he wasn’t much smarter than his four-legged friends. If one of the students made fun of him, Rafe would stop what he was doing, open his mouth, and stare blankly at the offender until the student became unnerved enough to move on. The students were a little frightened by Rafe’s unpredictability. Most steered clear of him. To Blane, however, Rafe was articulate, supportive, and ridiculously intelligent. It seemed as if he knew something about everything. There weren’t any questions that Rafe couldn’t answer. In his four years at the Herbert M. Ward School, Blane learned more from Rafe than from his teachers; as a consequence, he was better prepared for classes and exams than any other student.

Physically, the appearance Rafe presented to the world was also carefully cultivated and meant to distract. Oversized clothes, along with a stooped posture and an awkward limp, hid his athletic physique. Once, when Blane had forgotten a project and had returned between classes to pick it up, he heard a strange noise coming from one of the horse stalls. Investigating, he walked in on Rafe, shirtless and covered with sweat, working out with a punching bag and looking for all the world like a professional boxer, muscles and all.

Mr. Rafe, said Blane in a hushed voice, will you teach me how to fight?

I won’t teach you how to fight, Blane, said Rafe, calmly, but I will teach you how to take care of yourself. I will teach you what to do so nobody will want to fight you. Do you understand, Blane?

No, Mr. Rafe, said Blane. He knew that Rafe wasn’t just talking about teaching him to defend himself.

Rafe sighed. He stopped punching the bag then leaned against the back of the stall. People see what they expect to see, Blane.

You mean that when people look at you they expect to see an old man who isn’t quite right in the head? Blane was trying to understand what Rafe wasn’t saying.

That’s right, said Rafe.

But, why, Mr. Rafe?

Because that is what they need to see, Blane. That’s the way it has to be….Do you trust me, Blane? Rafe asked quietly.

Blane felt like the answer to this question was somehow extremely significant and could have long-lasting implications. Yes, Mr. Rafe, I trust you.

I trust you, too. So we won’t speak of this again. Do you understand?

Blane nodded, but he couldn’t resist asking one more question: Mr. Rafe, where is your son?

Rafe’s whole demeanor changed. He sucked in a surprised breath and looked hard at Blane. What makes you think that I have a son?

Blane shrugged his shoulders and shook his head sadly. He hadn’t meant to upset Rafe. He didn’t want to hurt him. He thought about it for a moment and said, very softly, not looking at Rafe, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. You know how to be a dad. You have been a dad. You remind me of my dad.

I had a son, Blane… said Rafe. He died.

Blane looked at Rafe again. He saw the grief in Rafe’s eyes before he turned away and walked out of the stable. Neither one of them ever mentioned that conversation again or referenced it in any way. But over the years Blane had often wondered what had happened to Rafe to bring him such tragedy and to send him into hiding. He wasn’t sure if Rafe was being protected by the government—maybe in some sort of witness protection program?—or whether he was hiding from the government. He wasn’t even sure which government, since he wasn’t completely convinced that Rafe had been born in the United States. But Blane trusted Rafe with his life, and he respected his mentor enough to let him have his own secrets.

And here’s the cake! said Lindsay, in a loud voice.

Blane’s meandering thoughts came to an abrupt end; his eyes focused on the large, foil-wrapped package being thrust into his hands.

Cake! Linds, you’re the best, said Thomas. He smiled warmly at his wife then turned back to Blane. Well, I know y’all have to get moving. Great to see you again, Blane. He turned to Rafe. And to talk to you, Mr. Montgomery. Come back any time.

Blane thanked Lindsay for the cake. After shaking hands all around, he and Rafe left the airport office.

Rafe opened the back passenger door of the shiny, black Lincoln Town Car waiting outside, and Blane exhaled a sigh of relief. He had been surprised at just how glad he actually was to see Thomas Lester and how much he had enjoyed their conversation. He felt good…confident and in control. Maybe this trip to his past wouldn’t be as bad as he had anticipated.

Rafe climbed in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

You didn’t have to play dress-up today, Blane said from the back seat. This is Honeysuckle Creek, not New York City…and you certainly don’t have to be my chauffeur here! I would have been happy to drive, you know.

I know, but old habits die hard. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t like it! Rafe looked in the rearview mirror and grinned. And as for driving, I thought it would be safer for me to drive since you would want to look around your old hometown. I didn’t want you to get distracted by some sweet Southern belle and put the car in a ditch. Rafe had dropped all pretense of formality now that it was just the two of them. He spoke to Blane as a friend. We’ll be stopping at the gatekeeper’s cottage to meet your tenant, a Mrs. Ellison.

Not now, said Blane firmly. I could use a shower and a change of clothes before meeting anybody, especially a little, old widow who will talk my ears off. I’m just not up for it. Maybe later. Or maybe never, he thought. "Why do I have a tenant anyway? We certainly don’t need the income." He had set Lindsay’s pound cake on the seat beside him; now he began unwrapping it. It was still warm and smelled delicious.

"You have a tenant because Mrs. Sofia Hanover said it was a good idea and, after a week in Honeysuckle Creek, I have learned that if Miss Sofi thinks it’s a good idea, then it becomes law. And she says we are to stop by and meet the tenant, so that is exactly what we are going to do. If you choose not to get out of the car, you’re on your own." Rafe nodded his head once for emphasis.

Blane was impressed in spite of himself. Sounds like Grandma Sofi hasn’t changed a bit. She has to be a hundred years old by now. He studied the cake from all angles, trying to decide which piece was the largest. He chose the one second from the bottom and took a big bite, closing his eyes in ecstasy. Few things in life were as good as a piece of pound cake fresh from the oven. The one thing he fully intended to enjoy about his Southern homecoming was the food.

Well, what do you think of Honeysuckle Creek? Blane asked with his mouth full. He tried to be offhand about it…he tried to pretend it didn’t matter; but he wasn’t doing a very good job of fooling his old friend.

Well, I’ve had a good week, checking everything out. Your property looks fantastic and the scenery here is beautiful. I’ve spent a lot of time with the Finches and the Parkers. Good people. Kind and very genuine. They are living proof that the phrase ‘southern hospitality’ really exists. Hmm…what else? The food is delicious—but it looks like you already know that. Rafe chuckled. He glanced in the rearview mirror again, watching Blane devour his cake. Don’t even think about eating all of that cake by yourself.

Blane stopped chewing for a second, looking a little guilty.

Seriously, Blane, Rafe continued, if I stay here much longer, I may never leave. He turned the car onto the main highway and drove towards town. "I guess I don’t have to tell you that I was pleasantly surprised to see you enjoying a conversation with an old friend…a very large old friend!"

Yeah, said Blane, thoughtfully. It was good to see him. I was surprised, too.

Rafe was quiet a moment and then said carefully, You know, Blane, it’s okay to like your own home town and to enjoy seeing old friends. It’s one of the reasons that you’re here, even if you won’t admit it. Like I said…good people, good place.

If you say so, but I think Uncle Douglas was right. I could have dispensed with the property from a distance.

Rafe might get a weekly paycheck from McCallum Industries, but the majority of the time, he was more mentor than employee. When it was in Blane’s best interest, he could be counted on to be brutally honest. He continued in an even tone: It’s time for you to stop running, Blane. You know it and I know it, and I don’t care what your Uncle Douglas says. You have some decisions to make that you have ignored for too long. Do you want to sell the house and property or, after you’ve seen it, do you want to hold on to it? Who knows? You may even decide you want to live here part of the year.

That will never happen, said Blane, tonelessly.

That decision is up to you, but I think it’s worth considering. The place is beautiful and secluded and…kind. You might find peace here. Give it a chance before you call your real estate agent.

Blane didn’t reply. He was glad that Rafe had enjoyed his time in Honeysuckle Creek, but he almost wished his hometown had given Rafe a bad impression. Blane was afraid to like anything about Honeysuckle Creek. He had blocked out those memories years ago. It was easier to live day-by-day, keeping his mind firmly in the present.

Leave the past in the past, boy, his Uncle Douglas said every time Blane had mentioned returning to the place of his birth. "You’ll find nothing but trouble digging into the past…and not the good kind of trouble, either. If you want that, you should…" He always had a hundred suggestions of other ways Blane could spend his time, usually something to do with illicit women—and lots of alcohol. That was Douglas for you…businessman by day, playboy by night. That was his lifestyle; it worked for him, but not for his nephew. Blane didn’t have time for Douglas’ kind of trouble, and he wouldn’t have lived that way even if he did have time. That kind of life held no appeal for someone like him. No matter how much Douglas had encouraged his nephew to be his partner in vice, Blane could manage to muster only a modicum of familial attachment to his egotistical relative. Basically, he tolerated his uncle, and he cleaned up his messes. He hadn’t delved too closely into why he did these things. Douglas had done nothing to earn his loyalty. Blane was pretty sure that he would never forget the day his uncle dropped him on the doorstep of the Herbert M. Ward School, with nothing but a book bag and one small suitcase. That terrified twelve-year-old orphan would have given anything for one kind word of encouragement….

Please don’t leave me here, Uncle Douglas, Blane begged. He sat in the car, not daring to move. I’ll do anything you want, and I promise not to be any trouble.

McCallums don’t beg, boy. Douglas looked at his nephew in disgust. And they sure as hell don’t cry. Get out of the car and stop acting like Donovan’s spoiled brat.

Please…! Blane whispered, desperately.

Move, boy, Douglas snarled. You need this place more than I thought.

It still stung, even after all these years. Blane had gotten out of the car and watched as his uncle drove away without a backward glance. In spite of his desertion and his ever-increasing tendency to be a liability to the company, Douglas consistently managed to avoid complete censure by his nephew. Blane had no idea why he was unable to deal with his uncle as he deserved. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that Douglas looked exactly like Blane’s beloved father. Whatever the reason, Blane couldn’t seem to give up on his father’s duplicitous twin.

Rafe turned onto the ramp, exiting the highway. A left turn put them on the road to the town of Honeysuckle Creek. Blane sank deeper into his reverie, allowing his mind to revisit places it rarely had a chance to go. At this point in his journey, it was easier to look backward than forward.

After four long years, he was removed from the Herbert M. Ward School by his father’s older half-brother Ian and his wife Alina. They had been furious when they had learned of Blane’s forced exile to the school, and within days of their arrival in the states, they had traveled to Vermont to take Blane back to Scotland. After learning the full extent of Blane’s treatment at the school from Rafe, they had pushed for and achieved the dismissal of Headmaster Callahan. Blane was tremendously fond of his aunt and uncle, and he was grateful for the way they had tried to take care of him ever since. It was their support and encouragement that had propelled him to graduate from the University of Edinburgh in three years and to obtain an advanced degree from the London School of Economics. As repayment for Rafe’s loyalty to their nephew, they offered Rafe a position in their household. After Blane assumed his high-profile role at McCallum Industries, he hired the former stable master as his personal assistant. But Blane had no doubt: Rafe was also there to watch his back.

Rafe was a true asset to the company. He was really a jack-of-all-trades. From technology to security, Rafe seemed to know…well, a lot about a lot. Blane never posed any personal questions to the man who had unintentionally become his father figure, nor did he ever ask any questions about him. Rafe was one of the few people he trusted—and that was enough.

As he got closer to his former hometown, Blane felt his heartbeat speed up and his muscles begin to tense. He allowed himself a moment of self-ridicule. He was an adult with tremendous responsibilities. Every decision he made affected hundreds of people. Here he sat, a businessman known for being both confident and competent, yet he was terrified of spending time in one small North Carolina town. He would just have to figure out how to get through this visit without getting tangled up in the memories of the boy he used to be. He would stay for a few days and then he would go to Edinburgh…home of his grandfather, uncle, and aunt: it was the closest thing he had to a personal sanctuary. He would allow himself to have only casual contact with the town and people he used to know; then he would talk to his real estate agent and sell everything he owned in Honeysuckle Creek.

Having reached his decision, Blane relaxed against the cushions of the Town Car and closed his eyes. If his reunion with Thomas Lester was any indication of what was to come, sticking to his plan might be easier said than done.

Returning to his past was almost surreal. After only a short time, Blane forced himself to open his eyes again and look around. He felt curiously detached as he viewed the sites that had been so dear and familiar so long ago. Autumn was always wonderful in Honeysuckle Creek. The leaves were orange, yellow, and red—and hundreds of variations in between. This fall they were putting on quite a show. The air was crisp and cool and invigorating. There wasn’t a cloud in the beautiful blue sky. Carolina blue, his mother had always called it, in honor of her beloved University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

They passed the London County baseball stadium, which had been renamed McCallum Field, in honor of his father, whose anonymous donation had built the park in the first place. Everyone in town knew that Donovan Mac McCallum had donated the money anonymously, but everyone pretended ignorance. Mac never wanted the credit for his philanthropic activities. He was the most generous man whom Blane had ever known, and Blane tried very hard to follow his example. He strained to see if the sign on the baseball field was still there, and was rewarded with a glimpse of history: Home of the 2000 North Carolina State Champions, Regional Champions, and National Semi-Finalists. What an incredible experience that baseball season had been. With Blane as pitcher and Joey as catcher, they were practically unstoppable. Blane hadn’t touched a baseball since, and he had no idea if Joey had continued to play or not.

He turned his attention to the rapidly approaching town of Honeysuckle Creek. They quickly reached the historical residential section of Broad Street. The majority of the houses here had been built in the early 1900s. They were all beautifully preserved, their lawns and facades for the most part well kept. Blane had always enjoyed the graceful architecture and wide front porches indigenous to this part of town. They passed the Finch house on Broad Street, where he had spent so many happy days…playing catch in the backyard, teasing Joey’s sisters at sleepovers, eating cookies in Juli’s big, bright kitchen, laughing until he couldn’t breathe. He looked away from that beloved house before his traitorous emotions could get the best of him.

Rafe continued driving slowly down Broad Street. Eventually they reached the back of Honeysuckle Creek Park. Several hundred years ago the original village green had occupied the same area. The park was rectangular in design, beautifully landscaped with dogwoods, azaleas, and flower beds, the latter being under the sole authority of the Honeysuckle Creek Garden Club. A paved trail, popular for walking and running, wound around the perimeter of the park, and a large, white gazebo held the place of pride in the center of the park. Broad Street flanked the length of the park along the west side, and Second Street ran along its east flank, before both streets ran into Main Street. Here Second Street ended while Broad Street crossed Main and continued to the less populated side of London County. A large and stately courthouse stood in the middle of Main Street, directly across from the park. Its graceful lines soared skyward. The building was topped by a large clock tower, which still chimed every hour on the hour. The town’s business district, flanking the park and both sides of Main Street, was crowded with stores, housed in quaint buildings built during the last century. It was a typical small Southern town, Honeysuckle Creek: full of shops, restaurants and cafés, and the occasional law or medical office. The whole town looked like a movie set—the proverbial Main Street USA. If he was honest with himself—and Blane always prided himself on his honesty—he would have to admit that Honeysuckle Creek was warm and welcoming, whether he wanted it to be or not. Just seeing it again after so many years made his solitary heart feel a little less lonely.

As the car stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of Broad and Main, Blane decided, with some relief, that the town looked good: Healthy. Thriving. Loved. He didn’t know what he had expected, and he didn’t want to examine too closely why he even cared.

When the light turned green, the Town Car crossed Main Street, and Blane caught a glimpse of the law offices of Parker and Finch halfway down the street, on his right. How many times as a kid had he and Joey ridden their bikes to that office to see Joe and Will and, hopefully, be given a few dollars for candy or ice cream? Turning left and continuing down the hill would have taken Blane to the old train depot, now serving as the Honeysuckle Creek Public Library. Freight trains still used the tracks several times a day; Blane knew their mournful whistle could be heard for miles.

Turning right at the courthouse would have led to the three buildings that made up Honeysuckle Creek Academy, the town’s pride and joy. When Blane was four years old, the state mandated a merger between the Honeysuckle Creek City School System and the London County School System. They planned to demolish the town’s elementary, middle, and high schools, which had been the hub of the community for years, then sell the land to the highest bidder. Students from Honeysuckle Creek were to be sent to the county schools, a bus ride of over an hour and a half for many and at least thirty minutes by car. Mac McCallum had been instrumental in rounding up investors to buy the soon-to-be-vacant buildings…and Honeysuckle Creek Academy was born. As a result of the town’s wise investments, generous donations from successful alumni of Honeysuckle Creek High School, and the establishment of numerous scholarships, no student who lived in Honeysuckle Creek had ever been turned away due to their inability to pay tuition. The Academy had gained an excellent reputation statewide for academics and athletics and was particularly well known for its strong programs in science, math, and the arts. Although the majority of the Academy’s students lived in Honeysuckle Creek, the waiting list of students living outside the town who were eager to attend the institution never seemed to grow shorter. Blane remembered how he and Joey had loved wearing those Fighting Eagles jerseys and how proud they had been to represent their school on the football field, the basketball court, and, especially, the baseball diamond. They had always planned to play ball for their high school team…together. Sometimes plans had a way of changing, even if nobody did anything wrong. Blane sighed, trying to take it all in, as Rafe drove across the intersection and they continued their journey.

Several small streets broke off from Main Street and Broad Street; those side streets led to a variety of churches, most of which were Protestant in denomination. Only one Catholic church stood in the town center, and it was small. Other than the courthouse, the most prominent building on Main Street was the First Methodist Church, a large brick building with an enormous steeple. Blane craned his neck, peering at the steeple, and remembered the last time he was there…..

He had worn his only good suit that day, a black jacket with matching pants that were barely long enough to accommodate the recent growth spurt he had just suffered through. He had walked in with Joe on one side and Will on the other. The church had been completely full of family and friends and many people Blane didn’t even recognize, the large crowd forcing some of the guests to stand along the perimeter of the sanctuary. Juli and Maggie came in behind his little group, holding each other up, pale and silent, and then Grandpa Archie, who was carrying Grace, because of her cast. He had Joey’s hand in his. Grandma Sofi came next with Darcie. During the long service, Darcie