The Sugar House. Christine Flynn

and not defend his family name—though looking back now, he figured the anger he’d felt had less to do with the pushing and shoving that had come with the taunting than the fact that he’d felt so betrayed himself.

      At seventeen, he had been torn between loyalty to a father he’d looked up to and feeling that what his father had done was totally wrong. But the day they’d found the papers, his mother had confirmed that he hadn’t misunderstood the basic facts at all. Stan Larkin had only borrowed five thousand dollars on property worth three times that. Granted, Stan hadn’t paid the loan when it was due, but his father hadn’t been willing to give him extra time and had sold the property for a fraction of what it had been worth. His dad’s only concern had been getting the money back without any further delay.

      His mom had since shared a few details that had apparently justified the action in his father’s mind. And, taken literally, Jack could see the man’s logic. His father had worked hard for his money, and he’d been watching out for his own family. But in Jack’s mind that didn’t forgive why he hadn’t sold the property for nearer to what it was worth and given Stan the difference.

      All his father had cared about was getting back his own. And he had. But it had cost him and his family dearly.

      Jack passed an upright post supporting a wood oval carved with Larkin’s Maple Products and turned on to the snow-packed and winding mountain road that led the two miles into the little community. As he did, he had the disturbing feeling that what his father had done might have cost the Larkins even more.

      That uncomfortable thought curled like a fist in Jack’s gut.

      There wasn’t much room for deviation in his schedule, but he wouldn’t leave without setting things as straight as he could. He’d planned to be home no later than midnight that night. But as long as he could be back in Manhattan by five tomorrow afternoon, he would have time to finish packing up his apartment before the movers arrived Monday morning. As soon as they left, he would head for the office he was taking over in Boston.

      From the day he’d started, nine years ago, he’d systematically worked his way up the corporate ladder of the billion-dollar Atlantic Commercial Development Corporation. He’d put in practically twenty-four hours, seven days a week for the past two years for his latest promotion to regional vice president. His perks alone were worth three times his original salary. Because he wasn’t through climbing yet, and because he had major projects on the table, he didn’t want anything to interfere with his 7:00 a.m. breakfast meeting Tuesday morning with his staff.

      In the meantime he needed Emmy’s legal name. He also needed a notary public to notarize his signature, and a photocopier to copy the new document. He had a blank quitclaim deed in the file in his back seat that he’d brought in case Stan had wanted his wife’s or their company’s name on the document, so redrawing it wouldn’t be a problem. Once that was done, he’d head back to the Larkin place and hope Emmy would be more receptive to accepting the property. Heaven knew he didn’t want it.

       Chapter Two

       M aple Mountain would never be known as a destination spot. As far as Jack was concerned, the place was lucky simply to have a spot on the map. Except for the three seasonal festivals the community sponsored to raise money for its coffers, most visitors were simply passing through.

      Those who did stop for a night could find accommodation at one of the few bed-and-breakfasts in the area, though they were seldom open in winter except for Maple Sugar Days, or they could stay at the Maple Mountain Motor Inn—which stayed open mostly to accommodate the guy who ran the snow plow when the weather turned.

      With no other option, Jack checked into the motor inn. The long, low building on the narrow main road consisted of eight rooms that opened on to a snow-covered parking lot and a postage-stamp-size reception area decorated with knotty pine walls and an impressive set of antlers. The sign on the front door claimed the place to have the friendliest accommodations in Vermont’s Northern Kingdom.

      He didn’t know about the accommodations themselves, but their owners didn’t exactly live up to the advertising. The Mrs. part of the operation didn’t, anyway. The late-thirty-something Hanna Talbot, whose grandparents had owned the motel before they’d retired years ago, had taken one look at him when she’d answered the desk bell and her smile had died.

      “What can I do for you, Jack?” she asked, sounding as if she’d heard he was around.

      “I need a room for the night. Do you have anything available?”

      He’d asked for the sake of polite conversation. All eight room keys hung on their hooks. The parking lot was empty. Yet, for a few rather uncomfortable seconds, he thought the woman might actually claim they were booked.

      “I’ll need your driver’s license,” she said instead.

      He reached for his wallet, only feeling slightly relieved. He didn’t remember much about the curly-haired brunette other than that she was a few years older than he was and that her family had always owned the place. She clearly remembered him, though. Or, at least, judging from the chill that was definitely more censure than natural reserve, she remembered his family.

      Cooking smells, the low drone of a television and children’s voices drifted in from the open door behind her.

      “New York,” she said, writing down his address. “I thought your family moved to Maine.”

      “They did.” He handed over a credit card, wondering at the length of some people’s memories. “I’m the only one in New York.”

      Looking as if she couldn’t imagine why he would have wanted to come back, she pushed his license across the shiny wood surface. “Long drive.”

      It had been a long drive, he thought. A little over six hours, actually. Three of those on snow-packed roads. But driving made more sense than flying or taking the train. There were no direct flights from JFK or LaGuardia to the nearest airport in Montpelier, so it took as much time to drive as it did to fly. At least behind the wheel of his car, he felt as if he were constantly making progress.

      There wasn’t much that frustrated him more than hanging around airports accomplishing nothing. Except, possibly, accomplishing nothing while being stuck overnight in a place he didn’t want to be.

      Feeling that the less he said the better, Jack’s only response was a faint, acknowledging smile as the woman handed his card back.

      The proprietress of the little mom-and-pop motel didn’t seem to expect a comment, anyway.

      “There’s a potluck at the community center tonight, so Dora’s is closed,” she informed him, speaking of the diner down the road. “My family’s headin’ over there now. Since there’s nowhere else to get a meal, I suppose I can bring you somethin’ for supper from there.”

      She seemed to know that he wouldn’t want to eat at a community dinner himself. Or maybe she was thinking more that he wouldn’t be welcome there. From Emmy’s flat tone when she’d said everyone knew he’d bought the acreage next to hers, he’d be willing to bet everyone at that dinner would have an opinion about that acquisition, too. No Travers had been able to do anything right by the time they’d moved. He was getting the distinct feeling from this woman that no Travers could do anything right now, either.

      What bothered him even more was the surprising depth of her apparent disapproval of him. He’d barely known the woman. Yet, her censure felt as fresh as what he’d felt from others when his family had left.

      “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll get something on my own.” The burger he’d grabbed at a drive-through five hours ago had long since worn off, but he wasn’t about to put her out. “What about the burger place?” A little repetition wouldn’t kill him. “Is it still here?”

      “Closed for the winter. Most everything around here is.”

      Hunger seemed to increase in direction proportion to his diminishing culinary options. “How about the general store?” He’d seen the lights