Lakeside Sweetheart. Lenora Worth

country in one capacity or another. It’s a bond they share.”

      A bond that might not be broken, Vanessa decided. “I have to get going,” she said. “I had a great time.”

      “I’m glad you came,” Marla said. She hugged Vanessa close.

      “And if you ever need to talk—”

      “I’ll call you,” Vanessa replied. She didn’t want to get emotional in front of everyone.

      “Of course,” Marla said. Then she inclined her chin toward Rory. “But you should call him, too. No matter what you’ve been through, he’s the best person to listen and help you.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” Vanessa replied, remembering how he’d mentioned late-night calls from his congregation members. But she said it with a smile...and a shred of hope.

      * * *

      A few days later, Rory worked his way around the church yard, clearing away broken limbs and picking up palm fronds. A storm had moved over the area the night before, leaving debris in its wake. He didn’t mind the busywork, though. Not on a nice morning with a cool breeze pushing over the nearby waters of the lake. A few seagulls cawed at him as they came in for a low flight, probably hoping to find some morsels for breakfast.

      After dropping some twigs and leaves into a nearby trash can, he stopped to look over the grounds. The little clapboard chapel had survived worse storms than this one. It was over a century old and not much bigger than a shotgun house, but the people of Millbrook Lake loved their church.

      He loved it, too. Once he would have gone on by this place, but that Rory was long gone. This Rory loved this place. He stared out over the moss-draped live oaks that edged the old cemetery behind the church and prayed that he’d never have to be anywhere else.

      Purple wisteria blossoms rained down each time the wind blew through the trees, their old vines wrapped like necklaces around the billowing oaks. The sound of the palms swaying in the breeze sang a comforting, serene tune. Blue jays and cardinals fussed at each other near the bird feeders one of the church members had built and hung near the pergola where people liked to hold picnics. And the ever-present, pesky squirrels chased each other through the trees with all the precision of drag-racing champions.

      What a view.

      “You’re not working.”

      He whirled to find Mrs. Fitzgerald standing with her flower-encased walker near the sidewalk, her hat today black straw with red cherries around the rim.

      “I’m taking a thankful break,” he explained with a grin.

      “Can I come and take it with you?” she asked. “I’m thankful and I have corn fritters.”

      Rory brushed his hands against his old jeans. “Bring yourself on over to this picnic table,” he said. “How did you know I had a hankering for corn fritters this morning?”

      She gave him a mock scowl, her wrinkles folding against each other, her gray hair as straw-like as her hat. “Since when have you not been hankering for something to eat? I declare, I don’t know how you stay so fit.”

      “I pick up limbs and trash all the time,” he said with a deadpan expression.

      “Yes, you do. And you ride that bicycle and carry that board thing out to the water.” She moseyed over to the table and fluffed her yellow muumuu. “You swim and fish and surf and jog all over the place. When do you rest, Preacher?”

      “I’ll rest when I die.”

      She shook her head. “Oh, I doubt that. The Lord will put you straight to work when you reach the Pearly Gates.”

      They both laughed at that notion. Then she pulled out the still-warm corn fritters that were her specialty. Part hush puppy and part corn bread, the fat mushy balls were filled with real corn nuggets and tasted like nectar to Rory.

      “So good,” he said. “I think I’ll be able to finish this mess before lunch, thanks to you.”

      Mrs. Fitzgerald chewed on her food and studied the water. “Nice sermon yesterday. I think you impressed that newcomer.”

      Miss Fanny, as she liked to be called, took impish pleasure in stirring the pot.

      Rory played coy. “We had a newcomer?”

      The older woman playfully slapped his arm. “I saw you looking at her. And I’m pretty sure she was looking back.”

      “Don’t you have cataracts?”

      “Not since that fancy eye doctor up on 98 did some sort of surgery on me. I can see a feather caught in a limb up in that tree yonder.”

      He glanced at the tree and squinted. “Feathers are a bit different from watching me and making assumptions.”

      “I know what I see,” she replied on a prim note. “It’s springtime. Love is in the air.”

      “Well, aren’t you the poet.”

      “I used to be, you know.”

      “You? A poet?” Miss Fanny was full of surprises.

      “Me.” She pointed to the houses lining the lake. “See that Craftsman cottage with the blue shutters?”

      He nodded and grabbed another fritter. “The one near your house that’s in need of serious repair?”

      She lived in a small Cape Cod style two-storied house across from the church.

      “That’s the one. I used to run around with the woman who lived there. We were artists. She dabbled in mixed media and men. I dabbled in poetry and one long and loving marriage.”

      “You don’t say?” He’d heard about how much Miss Fanny loved her husband, but she was already a widow when he met her. “So what happened to your friend? That house has been vacant since I’ve been here.”

      “That was her home at one time, but after she remarried, it became a vacation home. The last man she married also had a home in Birmingham, Alabama, and they used to travel back and forth. But...she died recently.” Fanny took off her hat and gave him a direct stare. “That woman you’re pretending you didn’t notice in church yesterday, that’s her daughter. She’s come back here to fix up and sell the house.” Putting her hat back on, she added, “Vanessa hated her mother. And I might as well tell you she’s not too fond of preachers either.”

       Chapter Three

      Rory stood up to stare over at the rambling one-story house with the blue shutters. Well, the shutters used to be blue. Now they were a peeling, weathered blue-gray mess. The whole place wore a facade of neglect even though the neighbors kept the yard mowed and the flower beds pruned and trimmed, as a courtesy and in keeping with the pretty factor that Millbrook Lake prided itself on.

      So that was the house Vanessa had mentioned the other day. And Miss Fanny had been a friend to her deceased mother.

      “I’ve often thought someone needed to buy that place and fix it up,” he said. “So that’s where Vanessa Donovan used to live?”

      And now she was back.

      “Her mother lived there for years, but Vanessa only lived there for a couple of years after Cora and Richard got married and moved here. She finished high school and then she left. To my knowledge, this is the first time she’s been back.”

      Rory thought about how long the house had sat vacant. “But somebody kept up with the place. I mean, it’s still full of furniture and belongings.”

      Miss Fanny sat staring across at the house. “Cora, Vanessa’s mother, went to a nursing home in Alabama near where her last husband had property, right before you came to town. After Vanessa graduated high school, Richard and Cora split their time between