“Did she now? How are they planning on doing that? I’ll be sure to pick it up tomorrow.”

“I don’t have a clue. Guess it’s one of those stay tuned kind of things. You here for good now?” Pete asked.

“Got in last night. I found an apartment the last time I was here. My stuff will arrive tomorrow. What are you doing these days, Pete?”

“I’m a lawyer. Andy has his own insurance business. Amy is a wife and mother. She married Arnie Chambers. He crunches numbers.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing everyone again,” Mac said.

“What made you come back to Indigo Valley, Boomer?” He would always be Boomer to him.

Mac laughed. “They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I only agreed to a year. I know how small-town politics work. I figure I’ll know in a year if I want to stay here permanently. Nice seeing you again, Pete.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Pete waved him off. “Yeah, sure,” he said, anything but. He licked at his dry lips as he moved forward, knowing his workout was over. Now what the hell was he supposed to do with the rest of the day? Call Cady Jordan. Instead of heading home, he drove to a drive-through fast-food joint and ordered two chili dogs and a giant root beer, which he wolfed down.

Memories, depending on the circumstances, could be either wonderful or terrible. Sometimes tragic.

He drove aimlessly once he left the Super Dog Haven stand, the windshield wipers slapping back and forth. He passed the Super Wal-Mart where Annie loved to browse, a Japanese hibachi-style restaurant, and a new business called Ragtag Outfitters.

This end of town had undergone a transformation during the past several years, with new stores, new medium-priced housing developments, three banks, two churches, and numerous restaurants. He rarely came here and wasn’t sure why. No, that was a lie. He knew why. This part of town was where the Judas tree stood high above Indigo Pond.

It wasn’t a grove of Judas trees, it never had been. It was more like a grove of oaks and maples. He struggled with his memory to remember why it was called the Judas Grove, but couldn’t come up with anything. Maybe it was the young saplings that never seemed to grow. He shrugged because, in the scheme of things, it really didn’t matter. His mother always called it the way station for those waiting to go to Pluto. Everyone else just called it the Judas Grove. One tree a grove does not make.

He could see it now through the rain, high on the hill, its pinky purple buds standing out like beacons. The Judas tree was a late bloomer, and the only thing that looked familiar. Now, bright orange plastic fencing circled the whole grove. Glaring red-and-white signs with huge letters said trespassers would be prosecuted. He wondered when the town fathers had the area cordoned off like this?

Pete climbed out of his car and was drenched within minutes. Once this place had been like a magic fairyland to four lonely little kids. They’d kept the wild grass cropped to make it easy to run through. Where was the beautiful green moss that had felt so wonderful on their bare feet?