Dream Big, Stella!
Page 24
Naomi grunts. “I highly doubt that,” she says, but I hear skepticism in her tone.
I hold up a finger. “There’s one more rule. The most important one. In order to work at the inn and be allowed visitation with Jazz, you’ll have to attend regular meetings at Alcoholics Anonymous. I’m happy to help you find a sponsor.”
She spins around and stalks off.
I call after her, “If it were up to me, I’d kick you off my property right now and never let you come back. I’m giving you one more chance, Naomi. But only because you’re Jazz’s mother.”
I don’t wait for her response. I stroll off in the opposite direction toward the cottage. For the first time since coming to Hope Springs, I feel in control. I’m behind the wheel, and Billy is riding alongside me in the passenger seat. While I’m in charge of my own destiny, I trust Billy and Brian and Jack not to let me go off course.
In the bedroom at the cottage, I remove the photograph of Mom and Billy from the Bible in the nightstand and study it closely. I am the product of these two people, each talented in his and her own way. Managing the renovation project has enabled me to discover some of my own hidden talents. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’m just getting started. With my newly acquired confidence, I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. I have a vision for the future of the inn, and thanks to the Jameson fortune, I can make that dream a reality. Billy has entrusted me with his family’s heritage and his beloved daughter. Regardless of the terms of the will, my little sister is the rightful co-owner of Hope Springs Farm. I will rebuild the inn bigger and better than before, not only for me but also for Jazz. During my first days in Virginia, my Uncle Brian encouraged me to dream big. And I aim to do just that.
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Show Me the Way-Excerpt
(Hope Springs Series #2)
Presley waits in her parked rental car across from the address she found on the torn envelope in her adoption folder. When she discovered the file in her mother’s desk drawer late yesterday afternoon, she booked the next available flight to Virginia. What is she even doing here? She’s not interested in medical history. A genetic testing website could determine if she possesses the dreaded breast cancer gene or whether she’s at risk for Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s. But Presley’s test kit, purchased over a year ago from 23andMe, remains unopened in her bedside table drawer back in Nashville.
Kids on bikes and young mothers pushing baby strollers pass by, seemingly oblivious to the stranger in their midst. The neighborhood is Norman Rockwell picturesque, like one might expect in a small town called Hope Springs. Maple trees with brilliant orange leaves line the street. Pansies in yellows and purples border sidewalks leading to small front porches bearing displays of pumpkins and gourds and mums. Most of the houses are two-story brick colonials with well-tended lawns. But the whitewashed brick and Wedgewood-blue front door make number 237 stand out from the rest on Hillside Drive.
Presley drums her fingers against the steering wheel. She’s been here two hours. Should she leave and come back later? She checks the time on the dash. Five forty-three. She’ll stay until six.
What does she want from the people she’s waiting for? Another family? Because her mother . . . her adoptive mother, Renee, died two months ago and left her all alone in the world. That’s not it. Presley isn’t afraid of being alone. She has no siblings. She lost her beloved father to cancer when she was a young child. This inner sense of disconnect has nothing to do with Renee’s death. Presley feels a calling, like there’s someone else in the universe searching for her. She’s not looking to disrupt anyone’s life. She simply wants to know who her people are. To look into the faces of others and see something of herself.
All her life, Presley has been a square peg trying to fit into Renee’s round hole. Renee was an overachiever, a producer with one of Nashville’s top country music record labels. Renee prided herself on being a hard-ass and faulted Presley for being soft. Presley prefers to think of herself as easygoing and good-natured. Renee’s death was permission granted for her to find her round hole.
When a burgundy minivan rounds the corner at the far end of the street, Presley sits up straight in her seat. She glimpses the attractive middle-aged blonde behind the wheel when the van pulls into the driveway at 237. A pair of teenage girls, dressed in athletic shorts and tank tops with field hockey sticks tucked under their arms and backpacks over their shoulders, emerge from the van. Tall and lean with blonde ponytails, they look enough alike to be twins. Could these girls be her half sisters? Their mother, an older version of her daughters, is slower to get out of the car. She holds a phone to her ear and wears a scowl on her face, either angry or upset with the person on the other end.
From a distance, Presley sees no physical resemblance between the three blondes across the street and her own auburn hair and gray eyes. There’s always a chance the torn envelope got stuffed in her adoption folder by accident. But not likely, since her mother’s other files were in meticulous order. According to Zillow, number 237 was last sold seventy years ago. Presley assumes to this woman’s parents. The official website for the town of Hope Springs identifies the owners of said property as Samuel M. and Carolyn H. Townsend. For what it’s worth, the free online background check Presley conducted lists additional occupants of the home as Anna and Rita Townsend, presumably Sam and Carolyn’s daughters. But this woman must be Rita because, according to Facebook, Anna Townsend—originally from Hope Springs and a graduate of Hope Springs High School—currently lives in Washington state.
This woman appears in her upper forties. No older than fifty. Presley is thirty years old. Which makes the timing right for that woman to have had an unwanted pregnancy in her late teens or early twenties.
Where are Sam and Carolyn? Do they still reside in the house? And what about this woman’s husband? Is he late coming home from work? Or is she divorced?
The woman ends her call and drops her phone into her purse. Removing the mail from the black box to the right of the blue door, she sits down on the front steps and sorts through a stack of envelopes. She’s smiling now, her phone conversation apparently forgotten. Presley is tempted to introduce herself. But what would she say? “Hey. You don’t know me, but I think I may be your daughter.”
The woman looks up from the mail and across the street at Presley. They lock eyes for a fraction of a second. A shiver runs down Presley’s spine, and she averts her eyes. Did the woman see her? Is she making note of the license plate number and make and model of the rental car? Presley’s not ready for this. Breathing deeply so as not to hyperventilate, she starts the engine and drives off.
Other Books in the Series
Two lost souls meet by chance in an explosive tale of romance and suspense.
Merriment and mayhem collide for a chaotic holiday season at the Inn at Hope Springs Farms.
Also By Ashley Farley
Hope Springs Series
Dream Big, Stella!
Show Me the Way
Mistletoe and Wedding Bells
* * *
Stand Alone
Tangled in Ivy
Lies that Bind
Life on Loan
Only One Life
Home for Wounded Hearts
Nell and Lady
Sweet Tea Tuesdays
Saving Ben
* * *
Sweeney Sisters Series
Saturdays at Sweeney’s
Tangle of Strings
Boots and Bedlam
Lowcountry Stranger
Her Sister’s Shoes
* * *
Magnolia Series
Beyond the Garden
Magnolia Nights
* * *
Scottie’s Adventures
Breaking the Story
Merry Mary
Let’s Connect
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Acknowledgments
I’m grateful to many people for helping make this novel possible. Foremost, to my editor, Patricia Peters, for her patience and advice and for making my work stronger without changing my voice. A great big heartfelt thank-you to my trusted beta readers—Alison Fauls, Kathy Sinclair, Anne Wolters, Laura Glenn, and Jan Klein. And to my behind-the-scenes team, Kate Rock and Geneva Agnos, for all the many things you do to manage my social media so effectively.
I am blessed to have many supportive people in my life who offer the encouragement I need to continue the pursuit of my writing career. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my advanced review team, the lovely ladies of Georgia’s Porch, for their enthusiasm for and commitment to my work. To Leslie Rising at Levy’s for being my local bookshop. Love and thanks to my family—my mother, Joanne; my husband, Ted; and the best children in the world, Cameron and Ned.
Most of all, I’m grateful to my wonderful readers for their love of women’s fiction. I love hearing from you. Feel free to shoot me an email at ashleyhfarley@gmail.com or stop by my website at ashleyfarley.com for more information about my characters and upcoming releases. Don’t forget to sign up for my newsletter. Your subscription will grant you exclusive content, sneak previews, and special giveaways.
About the Author
Ashley Farley writes books about women for women. Her characters are mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives facing real-life issues. Her bestselling Sweeney Sisters series has touched the lives of many.
Ashley is a wife and mother of two young adult children. While she's lived in Richmond, Virginia for the past 21 years, a piece of her heart remains in the salty marshes of the South Carolina Lowcountry, where she still calls home. Through the eyes of her characters, she captures the moss-draped trees, delectable cuisine, and kindhearted folk with lazy drawls that make the area so unique.
Ashley loves to hear from her readers. Visit Ashley’s Website @ashleyfarley.com
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