Now Entering Rivermist, Georgia
The faded sign was the same one that had been there for as long as Neal could remember. He was hands-down the most unwelcome person ever to enter Rivermist. But somewhere between his apartment and the office that morning, he’d accepted the inevitable. He had to make sure his father was all right.
He’d been so certain staying away the past three years was the right thing. He’d finally faced his mistakes and he’d moved on. But second thoughts had hounded him the entire drive over.
Neal shoved the transmission into Reverse. Gripping the steering wheel, he fantasized about turning around and barreling back to Atlanta and the people he could actually help. Then with a curse he yanked the gearshift back to Neutral and set the hand brake.
“Jennifer Gardner.”
There. He’d said her name, and it hadn’t hurt a bit. With the discipline that came from years of practice, he refused to let her face materialize in his mind. But as always, the perfection of her crystal-clear laugh haunted him.
What if she was still in Rivermist?
Dear Reader,
You can never go home again, or so the saying goes. You can look back and yearn for a simpler time, or wish that things might have been different, but rewriting the past is beyond man’s power.
But since yesterday plays a hand in our future, in who we are now, gazing back is about so much more than longing and reminiscing. We see ourselves most clearly sometimes in our mistakes and failures, and in the journey we take as we make our way back home.
In The Prodigal’s Return our hero and heroine face what they’ve fought for years to outrun and learn to find strength in how far they’ve come. To claim the freedom of accepting what is broken and in letting that weakness guide them to their second chance.
The weakest thing inside us often holds the promise of our greatest strength. And the lowest man in our midst can be the key to others soaring to their greatest heights—if only they can see that unconditional love is the source of forgiveness, and that it is in the heart that second chances are born.
Whether your dream is to return to a life left unfinished, or to reclaim a loved one let go too soon, I wish for you the acceptance and understanding and hope you’ll need along your journey. Trust your heart to lead the way, and what you are seeking will come back to you.
Blessings,
Anna DeStefano
PS. I love to hear from readers. Come join me at my Web site and in my daily journal at www.annawrites.com.
The Prodigal’s Return
Anna DeStefano
For my editor, Johanna Raisanen.
Your touch flourishes in so much that I do, but The Prodigal’s Return more than others is yours.
This story was years in the making,
but I can’t imagine not having taken the journey, or not having you there at each turn. I pray others, as they read, see what I see: your glorious patience and wisdom shining from every word.
For my agent, Michelle Grajkowski.
You are generosity and strength and grace personified. You believed in the heart of this story long before anyone else, even I, did. It’s your confidence and encouragement that helped me find my own faith.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“DO YOU SWEAR to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” a courtroom officer asked sixteen-year-old Jennifer Gardner.
“What?” She blinked at the bailiff who stood before the witness box, tearing her gaze away from where Neal Cain slouched beside his father at the defendant’s table.
Tell the truth.
That’s what Neal wanted her to do, or so his dad had said.
He knows the prosecutor’s going to call you to testify, Mr. Cain had insisted as he’d prepped her that morning. He’d been more a surrogate father at that moment than the county’s top defense attorney. Don’t be afraid. Just answer the D.A.’s questions, and everything will be fine.
But normally fun-loving Mr. Cain had looked worried. After his wife’s death ten years ago, he’d built his world around his son and his law practice. Now, Neal was on trial for involuntary manslaughter.
Mr. Cain didn’t believe everything was going to be fine any more than Jenn did.
“Miss Gardner?” Judge Pritchard’s voice dragged her attention to where he sat on a dais beside her. “Even though this is merely an arraignment to determine if a trial is warranted, you are required to speak the full and complete truth, under risk of perjury. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and the legal proceeding began, with every eye in the room locked on her—all of them but Neal’s. She fought not to throw up as the district attorney took the bailiff’s place and forced her to relive the worst night of her life, one painful memory at a time. Like a vulture, he kept circling the fact that she’d allegedly chosen to leave the homecoming dance early, to walk the mile and a half home, alone, in her formal gown.
“Did you by any chance arrange to meet Bobby Compton at his car?” The ugly suspicion in D.A. Burnside’s question echoed what many in town had been thinking for weeks.
“No!” Jenn said to the entire courtroom. “I was going home. That’s all.”
Good little Jennifer Gardner, her father’s secretary had whispered to Mary Jo Reece last Sunday. She hadn’t noticed Jenn and her mother sitting only a pew away, so why bother with the charity and tolerance Jenn’s pastor father expected from his staff. I just can’t believe it. The preacher’s daughter, making out in the school parking lot. Drinking. Lord knows what else. And those two boys fighting over her. She was leading them both on, everyone thinks so. What else could it have been…?
“I didn’t know I’d run into Bobby when I left,” Jenn said, her tears blurring the D.A.’s face.
“Your statement to the sheriff says you became angry with Bobby Compton at the dance.” Mr. Burnside made a show of reading notes from a file.
“Yes, because—”
“Yet you left early without your date, so you could have a private moment with the boy in a deserted parking lot? A boy the defendant had just been fighting with.”
“Yes—no!