Hometown

Wendy Rich Stetson

Excerpt

Praise for Wendy Stetson

Hometown

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

A word about the author…

Thank you for purchasing

Love Leads the Way

Excerpt

The girl entwined her fingers in her skirt and tugged the fabric tight. “Your hair is the same color as my cat, and she’s the best cat in the world.” In a heartbeat, she fled and buried her face in the man’s lap.

“My goodness. What a compliment. Thank you.” She fumbled with the clasp of her wallet, discovering only then she smooshed her thumb deep into the whoopie pie.

The elfin child giggled and bounced on bare toes.

Standing, the man swept her into his arms and smiled down at Tessa. “Rebecca has not seen many women with ginger hair.”

Ginger hair. For years, she was tormented by boneheaded boys shouting, “Carrot Top” and “Flame.” No one ever called her mane ginger. Beneath his candid gaze, her curls heated like embers, warming her from top to toe. Who was this man?

The girl wriggled, knocking askew his straw hat.

He tossed her under one arm like a sack of flour and righted it, loosening a tawny curl that escaped the wide brim and fell over one brow. His gaze passed over Tessa’s face.

Her unruly hair and short shorts tweaked at her consciousness. What did the Amish call outsiders? English? She was definitely dressed like an English woman. And not one from a Jane Austen novel.

He deposited the giggling girl right-side up on the floor and approached the table. “I’ve rarely seen hair that color myself. Like a copper penny.”

She stared at the mangled whoopie pie and blushed even deeper. For a brief moment, she felt his gaze trail down her body like a caress. Or did she?

Praise for Wendy Stetson

“What a charming page turner. Wendy Rich Stetson's writing is vivid, sharp, and alive with the beauty of rural Pennsylvania and the love blossoming in Tessa’s heart. I loved it. Please tell me it’s a series…”

~Ellyn Oaksmith—bestselling author of the Blue Hills Series

~*~

“With the lyricism of old-fashioned romance and the simple joy of a well told story, HOMETOWN is filled with whimsy and longing. A perfect escape into an older world made new again, and the journey of a young woman trying to find where she belongs.”

~Gabra Zackman—award-winning audiobook narrator and author of The Bod Squad Series

~*~

“As a regular narrator of romance audiobooks, Wendy’s ranks among the best. Her wit and intelligence don’t ask us to check our brains at the door, making the journey that much more satisfying and fun. Escapist romance at its very best!”

~Kirsten Potter—award-winning audiobook narrator

~*~

“Jane Austen sensibility set in Amish country makes for an addictive read.”

~Julia Duffy—Emmy award-winning actress and author of Bad Auditions

~*~

“I love Tessa. She’s smart and dweeby, and it’s fun to watch smart, dweeby people experience the extraordinary-ness of love.”

~John Cariani—Actor, playwright, and author of Almost, Maine

Hometown

Wendy Rich Stetson

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Hometown

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3564-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3646-6

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my carpenter and my fairy.

You are my home.

Acknowledgments

My most sincere thanks to the many wonderful people who supported me in my writing journey. HOMETOWN wouldn’t exist without you.

To my editor, Leanne Morgena, thank you for meticulous reading and thoughtful guidance. I am so grateful to everyone at The Wild Rose Press for believing in my book and welcoming me with open arms.

Where would I be without the brilliant friends who read early drafts, listened to my story over coffee, and nudged me in the right direction: Gabra Zackman, Liz Wise, Rebecca Asher, Rebecca Lowman, Sarah Cusick, and Rebecca Harris. Big thanks to Gretchen Holly who is as wonderful an editor as she is a friend. My life is so much richer for having you all in it.

Thanks to my mom and dad for years of adventures in the pop-top and for always encouraging me to do what I love to the best of my ability.

For my husband Pete, who is both doctor and carpenter, and my daughter Cate, who fills every day with magic, I have nothing but bottomless gratitude and endless love.

Chapter 1

Green Ridge Farmers’ Market

Wednesdays 7 a.m. - 7 p.m.

Look out, whoopie pies—I’m back in town!

Tessa Meadows yanked the wheel of her father’s 1979 camper van and pulled a hard right into the parking lot of the Farmers’ Market. Gravel sprayed from beneath balding tires. What she wouldn’t give for power steering. Narrowly dodging a gaping pothole filled with fresh rainwater, she muscled the van into what passed for a space, flattening a patch of weeds at the tail end of a long row of cars. She tromped on the brake pedal and huffed a sigh. Had the market always been this crowded?

Wrenching the gearshift into Park, she peered at thick, dark clouds scudding over the line of Amish buggies nearby. With any luck that gusty west wind would banish the humidity with the afternoon storm. She caught a glimpse of crazy red curls in the rearview mirror, stuck out her bottom lip, and blew the hair from her eyes. Ugh. She was a giant fuzzball.

Grabbing her trusty shopping bag, she slid from the van and landed ankle-deep in a puddle. Water seeped under her arches, and she wiggled her toes. The pothole was hardly a swimming pool, but this stifling June afternoon, she’d take any refreshment she could get. Three cheers for waterproof shoes! The inventor of women’s sport sandals deserved a humanitarian award.

Shaking her feet, she scanned the parking lot for familiar faces. She so wasn’t up for getting ambushed by her high school math teacher. Or her parents’ coworkers. Or anyone really. Maybe she’d get lucky, and no one would recognize her. Get in. Get whoopie pies. Get out. Oh, and maybe french fries. She slipped on her chic, new sunglasses.

A little too hip for central Pennsylvania…but perfect for New York City.

She had visions of donning sleek shades as a strapping young man helped her into a horse-drawn carriage.

“How you doin’?” he’d say like Joey on Friends.

Iced coffee in hand, she’d settle into a romantic ride through Central Park, catching the eyes of handsome joggers galore. Granted, she hadn’t set foot in New York in over ten years. But soon…very soon.

Squaring her shoulders, she threw open the door to the Farmers’ Market. The odor of fried onions bowled into her with suffocating sweetness. She chuckled. The sprawling indoor market smelled exactly the same as when she was a little girl. Sacrificing anonymity for clear vision, she slid the sunglasses into her hair and blinked into the dimly lit hall. Heck, it even looked exactly the same.

The town butcher and the stinky cheese man hadn’t aged a day. Maybe sausage and Gorgonzola held the secrets to eternal youth. She peered through swarms of shoppers and breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother’s favorite plant vendor, an ancient little Amish lady, was still hawking tomatoes. Of course, when Tessa was young, her mother insisted on arriving at seven a.m. to get the cream of the crop. Not today. She was flying solo and so not a morning person. Then again, maybe her afternoon arrival was why she had to park in the pucker brush by the creek. And why the place was an absolute madhouse. She dodged a double jogging stroller. What were the odds she could avoid running into someone she knew?

“Why bless my heart, it’s Tessa Meadows!”

Zero, apparently. The piercing voice emanated from behind. She searched for an escape route. None presented itself.

“Over here, Tessa dear.”

Never mind the red hair, why did she have to be five feet ten? Sunglasses or no, she didn’t have a prayer of blending in. She braced herself, plastered on a smile, and turned. With no warning, the short, squat woman moved in like a heat-seeking missile, enveloping her around the midsection. “Mrs. Diefenderfer. How are you?”

The woman plumped her voluminous hairdo. “Oh, getting by. I never imagined I’d see you this summer. Aren’t your folks away?”

“They’re in Tucson. Dad’s on sabbatical.”

“You don’t say. Your mother is working on another cookbook, I suppose?”

“Mexican.”

Mrs. Diefenderfer tugged her purse to her belly. “You Meadows, traipsing all over the country.”

Her mom was a minor celebrity in the cookbook world, and despite Mrs. Diefenderfer’s disapproval, she basked in the reflected glow. “You know us. A bunch of traipsers.”

“Well, we sure miss your mother on the hospital auxiliary board, and we’ve never had a sweeter candy striper than you, dear. Can I get you to come back for a few shifts?”

She flashed a grin, the feel of that crisp, red-and-white-striped pinafore still clear in her memory. “I’m afraid I’ve outgrown the uniform.”

Mrs. Diefenderfer surveyed her from head to toe. “I don’t believe it for a second. You’re as much of a string bean as you were in high school.”

Feeling like a prize-winning pig at the county fair, she dipped her chin. Mrs. Diefenderfer leaned in, and cloying perfume momentarily overwhelmed the odor of fried onions.

“How is our college professor? Your dad must be so proud. Will you be home for a while, or are you teaching summer school?”

So, the news hadn’t spread. She sighed. Better she put the actual story on the gossip line than have someone like Mrs. Diefenderfer concoct her own version of events once the rumors started. “To be honest, I left my teaching job last week. The university closed three branch campuses.” She gave a resigned shrug. “Mine was one of them.”

Mrs. Diefenderfer brought a dimpled hand to her bosom. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake. I heard they were having money troubles up at State, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Yeah…” Getting blindsided by her school closing just weeks before summer break pretty much stank. Luckily, her father’s position at Green Ridge College was secure. She had somewhere to live, anyway.

Mrs. Diefenderfer narrowed her eyes. “Well, since you’re here, we could certainly use a gal with your qualifications on our Special Events Committee up at the hospital.”

How exactly a master’s degree in English qualified her for inclusion on the Special Events Committee, she did not know. Perhaps her genetic tie to Margaret Meadows, master chef and event coordinator extraordinaire, was sufficient. She curled her lips into a remorseful smile. “I’m only in town until I find a house sitter for my parents. As soon as I can, I’m moving to New York City.”

Mrs. Diefenderfer’s blue-lidded eyes went wide. “New York City? Why on earth would you move somewhere you don’t know a single soul?”

Apparently, Mrs. Diefenderfer never once longed for anonymity. “Oh, I’m not going alone. I’ll be living with my college roommate, Jennifer.”

“New York City…” Mrs. Diefenderfer unzipped her purse and rifled through it. “Mr. Diefenderfer’s cousin Harold lived there in the seventies. He moved back to Scranton in 1984. No place for decent people; that’s what he said.”

Welcome back to Life in Your Hometown. In this episode, Tessa’s Sunday School teacher ambushes her in the Farmers’ Market and tramples her dreams.

She snugged her backpack tight to her shoulders. “New York has changed a lot from what I hear.”

With a grunt, Mrs. Diefenderfer extracted a pencil and notepad from her bag. “Well, in case you change your mind, or if you have some time before you go, here’s the number of the volunteer office at the hospital. You give us a call, and we’ll get you on that committee before you can say Statue of Liberty.” She guffawed and dabbed the corners of her eyes with her pinky fingers. “The Sixth Annual Celebrity Auction is in two weeks. We’re expecting an autographed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul, and if it doesn’t get here on time, I’ll just spit.”

She crossed her fingers and prayed a silent prayer Mrs. Diefenderfer wouldn’t be reduced to spitting.

“Well, it sure is nice to have you back home where you belong.” Mrs. Diefenderfer came up on tiptoes and scanned the crowd. “Now, where is Mr. Diefenderfer? If he’s eating another sausage sandwich, I don’t know what I’ll do for supper. If you see him, send him my way.”

“I will. And thanks for the invitation.”

“New York City?” Mrs. Diefenderfer clucked her tongue. “We’ll see about that.”

Tessa pushed down the frisson of anxiety the good woman’s tirade triggered in her belly. She’d heard horror stories, too, and she struggled to separate urban fact from urban legend. City life was nearly unimaginable. Where did you get groceries in New York? How did you hail a cab? Did people really ride the subway after dark?

She grabbed her sunglasses, swiped back her hair, and shoved the shades onto her head. Mrs. Diefenderfer couldn’t scare her. Maybe losing her job at State was just the shot in the arm she needed to make a change. After all, Jennifer had been living in Manhattan almost seven years and was already hunting for a cozy, two-bedroom apartment. They would browse museums, go to the theater, and order takeout every night. Jenn gushed nonstop about the smart, successful guys who worked in the law firm with her boyfriend, Adam. With Jennifer at her side, moving to New York would be the ultimate adventure. No, Mrs. Diefenderfer couldn’t rain on her Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

A vinegar-scented breeze jarred her back to present surroundings. She wasn’t strolling down Fifth Avenue; she was shuffling through the Green Ridge Farmers’ Market. Her stomach grumbled. So much for flying under the radar. Might as well take her time and indulge.

Already tasting the exquisite combination of salt and vinegar, she zipped into line at Troutman’s Famous French Fries stand. New York might be a culinary epicenter, but it would have to work to one-up Troutman’s fries. Mouth watering, she surveyed nearby booths for her second course. Strawberries…hot pretzels…baby spinach…aha! A whole stand overflowing with Amish baked goods. A whoopie pie would complement the french fries beautifully. She licked her lips and made a note to pick up fresh vegetables for tonight. A big salad would cancel the calories from the fries and pies, right?

Scanning the room once more, she let out a wistful laugh. Who needed a time machine when she had the Farmers’ Market? Just standing there, she was thirteen again. The new guy selling kombucha notwithstanding, the whole place existed in a bubble, impervious to progress. Even the clothing styles hadn’t changed. Mrs. Diefenderfer looked the same, and of course, the Amish hadn’t updated their dress.

Tessa never exchanged more than a few words with the Amish vendors. They were private folk. But their whoopie pies…with whoopie pies, she was intimately acquainted: two rounds of rich chocolate cake sandwiching a dense layer of sweet white cream—a little slice of heaven wrapped in cellophane.

Popping a steaming fry, she beelined for baked goods at Rishels’ Farm Stand. The Rishels took their whoopie pie selection up a notch, branching out from traditional chocolate with white icing to pumpkin, peanut butter, chocolate chip, and strawberry. So many options, how would she choose? Then again, who said she had to? She just got fired. Bring on the carbs.

A girl, seven or eight years old, peeped between wide plastic trays heaped with treats. Garbed in a teal dress, the child tucked a bare foot behind the other ankle and scrunched her nose in a smile.

Evidently, some Amish children were permitted respite from the heat, even if it constituted a modest exposure of the flesh.

A handwritten sign dangled from a crate: “Whoopie pies, seventy-five cents.” Had they cost a quarter back in the day? Still, seventy-five cents seemed a darned good price for a taste of paradise. But which to choose? She nibbled her bottom lip. Forget these new-fangled flavors—she was going old school with classic chocolate and vanilla. Surveying with scientific precision, she set down her fries and selected the biggest pie from the tray. As she pulled off her backpack and fished out her wallet, she caught the girl staring with an unabashed openness she’d never seen from the Plain people. She smiled and looped her hair behind one ear.

The child scampered to an Amish man sitting on an upturned milk crate against the wall. She cupped her fingers over her lips and whispered in the man’s ear.

He inclined his head toward the girl and glancing up, met Tessa’s gaze.

In that instant, every fiber of every muscle in her legs turned to barely congealed gelatin. To say his eyes were blue wasn’t sufficient. They were cobalt and cerulean, blue sky on glacial water, infinite, bottomless blue. His expression was as open as the child’s. Not a trace of cynicism darkened the creases at the corners of his eyes. By sheer force of will, she didn’t collapse onto the table of baked goods.

Blood rushed to her cheeks so quickly they burned. She hadn’t believed she could feel any hotter that steamy summer day. She was wrong.

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile. “You may tell her yourself, Rebecca.”

Though the words weren’t intended for her, his voice washed over her like a warm wave, leaving her bobbing in the undertow.

The girl shook her head, waggling a blonde bun coiled like a cinnamon roll beneath a gauzy head covering.

“Go on, if you like,” he said.

With small, skipping steps, the girl approached and peeked from beneath pale lashes.

Tessa gazed into bright eyes nearly as blue as the man’s. “Hello.”

“My goodness. What a compliment. Thank you.” She fumbled with the clasp of her wallet, discovering only then she smooshed her thumb deep into the whoopie pie.

The elfin child giggled and bounced on bare toes.

Standing, the man swept her into his arms and smiled down at Tessa. “Rebecca has not seen many women with ginger hair.”

The girl wriggled, knocking askew his straw hat.

He tossed her under one arm like a sack of flour and righted it, loosening a tawny curl that escaped the wide brim and fell over one brow. His gaze passed over Tessa’s face.

Her unruly hair and short shorts tweaked at her consciousness. What did the Amish call outsiders? English? She was definitely dressed like an English woman. And not one from a Jane Austen novel.

He deposited the giggling girl right-side up on the floor and approached the table. “I’ve rarely seen hair that color myself. Like a copper penny.”

She stared at the mangled whoopie pie and blushed even deeper. For a brief moment, she felt his gaze trail down her body like a caress. Or did she?

“Jonas!”

She started and whipped up her head.

An angular Amish woman stood silhouetted in the doorway at the rear of the stand.

“Mamm!” The little girl whirled and bounded toward her.

The woman thrust out a hand. “Slow down, Rebecca.” She swiveled to the man. “Jonas, see to the horse. The storm—”

“In a moment.” He turned to Tessa. “Seventy-five cents, please.”

“I’m sorry?” She winced at the tremor in her voice.

“For the pie. Seventy-five cents.”

“Right. Of course.” She dug in her wallet and handed him three quarters.

“Thank you.” The change clanged into a metal box, and he smiled. “Have a nice day.”

He sauntered out the door with the easy confidence of a man who earned his right to exist by simple hard work. No apologies. No pretensions.

“Will that be all?”

The wiry woman assumed his place at the table. Her light brown hair was combed so tightly under a white prayer cap that she had a quarter of an inch part down the middle of her forehead. She drummed two fingers on the box and glared.

Tessa felt the woman’s modest dress and the firm line of her mouth like a silent rebuke. “Yes, thank you. Good afternoon.”

The woman sniffed and scowled.

Behind her, the little girl touched her hair and wiggled her fingers in a secret goodbye.

She veered from the booth, and the market swam in a dreamy haze of color and sound. Jonas. His name was Jonas…and he thought her hair looked like a copper penny. As she retreated into the throngs, a rumbling for more french fries vied with the butterflies in her stomach. She pulled up short. All she held was a single, squished whoopie pie. Sneaking a glance over one shoulder, she blew out a breath. Her fries stood forsaken and alone on the Rishels’ table.

Rebecca was there, too, flitting about and re-arranging pies.

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Hometown

Table of Contents

Excerpt

Praise for Wendy Stetson

Hometown

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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