Moonlight In Vermont. Kacy Cross

the fresh vegetables I really need. But I’m working on a solution.”

      In spite of herself, she was curious. “What’s that?”

      “The neighbor is selling off one of the fields on his farm. The fellow up the road.”

      “Oh, yeah, the kind of cranky guy who favors plaid.” He’d looked at her so strangely, as if he didn’t like her, which made no sense when they’d never met. And she was a very nice person. Most of the time. Present company excluded maybe, but only because she couldn’t help herself.

      “That’s him. Only problem is old Chauncey refuses to sell to me.”

      Fiona rolled her eyes. “I’m shocked that you would rub someone the wrong way.”

      “Thank you,” he shot back with one of his smart-aleck grins. “I have a brunch to prepare.”

      With that, he left the greenhouse, leaving Fiona with nothing to do but follow him through the door, wondering how on earth she’d exited a run-in with Derek and still had all her skin.

      That man was something else. He gave as good as he got and didn’t get offended when her sarcasm gene went a little haywire. Somehow, she’d started to like him a tiny bit.

      And she’d take that to her grave, thank you very much.

      Five

      As Fiona wandered toward the house, she spied her dad in the cute gray barn with white trim. So amused by the idea of her father pulling hay bales out of the loft, she ducked inside. Bonus—she wouldn’t accidentally run into Derek at the house. One run-in per hour was more than enough.

      Her father dropped a bale to the solid wood floor below the loft. It hit with a thud, raising a cloud of dust.

      Fiona smiled up at him, hands on her hips. “If your old pals on Wall Street could see you now…”

      Chuckling, Harris strode down the stairs with his usual vigor. “Look around. This place holds more value to me than any portfolio ever could. I could not be happier. I think maybe you could be happy here someday too. You think that’s possible?”

      And that was the problem. The whole reason she and her dad were at odds. He still couldn’t seem to understand that her heart was in New York, not here with all the livestock and locally-sourced food.

      Once they’d been on the same wavelength. Before her mom had died. Was that the only thing that truly tied them together? Now that her mother wasn’t here to keep the peace, were she and her father destined to be strangers?

      “Dad.” She stared at her feet for a second as she pushed back the tightness in her throat. “I would have been happy with our old place by the park. But we both know that ship has sailed.”

      Her father kicked the hay bale until it was butt up against another one. “Why do you always have to bring up the past?”

      Because if she didn’t, who would? Who would be the keeper of memories, particularly those of her mom, since the building where they’d lived wasn’t accessible anymore? Memories lived in the boards underfoot, in the walls surrounding you. In the ceiling that had seen years of laughter and tears.

      “Why do you always want to forget it?” she countered. “I mean, I know you deserved a fresh start, but that was my history too. It would have been nice to know you were selling.”

      Instead, she’d been blindsided by the casual phone call, as if her entire life hadn’t just upended in one minute.

      “You were in college,” her father protested. “Besides it had to be done.”

      Yeah, she’d heard that one before. Many times. It was his old fallback excuse, as if a college student couldn’t understand real life decisions or offer any bit of advice. To at least have been consulted… But no. This wound still festered, all these years later.

      “Look, I got a million things I gotta do,” Harris said as he rolled a hay bale toward one of the horse stalls. “We’ve got a beautiful weekend shaping up. Brandon’s online promotions are starting to pay off.”

      Nothing ever changed. When Fiona wanted to lay it all out there, her father changed the subject, usually to reiterate how busy he was. No time for emotions. That was the Rangely way.

      Fiona sighed. So much for heartfelt healing over the next few days. “Let’s get some coffee.”

      Her dad slung an arm around her and walked with her back to the house like nothing was wrong. He did denial better than anyone on the planet. And the voices in her head could shut up anytime about how far that apple fell from the tree, which was not far at all.

      “There’s a French press in the kitchen,” he said as they cleared the front door of the main house. And then she lost him to the new guests who were standing in the foyer looking around expectantly. A couple. Young, urban, clearly lovers. Ugh.

      “You made it!” Harris exclaimed and tapped the guest registration book. “I heard about the mess on the Mass Pike. I gotcha right here.”