“And hopefully, your sisters.”

“If—and it’s a pretty big if, Dad—I’m interested and they’re willing to meet me halfway. What’re the chances?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “I just think it’s all worth it. I’d hate for you—or them, for that matter—to miss out on getting to know each other.”

“We might fight like cats and dogs.”

“You might. Then again . . .”

She plucked a piece of clover from a clump near the fence post and twirled the purple bloom in her fingers. “Okay, okay, point well taken. Tell me about them.”

“Well . . .” He stared off across the fields to a distance only he could see. “You know that Tiffany’s older than you. She’s a widow now. Works part-time as a secretary at an insurance agency in town. She’s got a son Stephen—my oldest grandkid, mind you—almost fourteen and hell on wheels, the way everyone in town says. Then there’s that cute button of a daughter of hers who’s around three. My only granddaughter, so far.”

He looked away quickly, as if bothered by the conversation, and Bliss fought back a feeling of having the rug pulled out from under her. She’d always thought that she would be the one to give her parents grandchildren—when the time came. As the years passed and her friends married and started families of their own, she’d heard her own biological clock ticking away.

“After her husband died, Tiffany moved down here to be close to her grandmother—you’ve heard of Octavia—Octavia Nesbitt?”

Bliss nodded. Who hadn’t heard of Bittersweet’s most prominent and flamboyant citizen? Octavia had inherited the Reed estate years before, as she’d been nursemaid and caretaker of Bittersweet’s oldest and most wealthy citizen. When Cranston Reed had died, he’d left his fortune to the widow Nesbitt.

“Well, when Tiffany’s husband, Philip, died a few months back, she packed her kids into a U-Haul truck and drove south from Portland. She moved into an old house her husband had bought about a year back—it’s been cut up into apartments that she rents out for a little extra money.”

Bliss folded her arms over the top rail of the fence and watched spindly-legged colts frolicking beside their docile mothers. “So how is Tiffany with you?”

His eyebrows lifted and he bent down to pluck a long blade of dry grass from the ground. “Not great. In fact, she won’t talk to me.”

No big surprise there. “Do you blame her?”

He rubbed his chin. “Guess not. She didn’t know much about me or that I was even alive for a long, long time.”

“What?” Bliss couldn’t believe her ears, then mentally kicked herself for being so naive. Hadn’t she been hoodwinked all her life? Why not Tiffany, as well?

“Her mother, Rose, finally told her the truth, I guess, but I didn’t try to get in touch with her until a couple of months ago, after your mother passed on.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I tried to call her, you know, to break the ice, but she hung up before I could say anything other than my name.” He placed the piece of grass between his teeth. “Guess she’s a little ticked. As I said, Tiffany’s mother told her that her father was dead, had died before they could get married—and then she did a quick reversal.” He hesitated, his thinning hair ruffling in the breeze. “Since I never showed any interest until recently . . . well, it’s been hard for her.”