We made our way along the river walk. Daisy skipped beside me in her sparkly shoes, mostly listening to my admonitions to stay out of puddles and off the grass. The sound of her giggles lifted my heart. Last night’s rain had washed the sky to sparkling blue. The furled masts of sailboats stood out against the bright sky. The white steeples of Bunyan Baptist and First Methodist Church rose over the town. Where Daddy used to preach before he went to war. Before we moved to the farm, back when we had money.

I held Daisy’s hand crossing the street; levered the stroller over a storm drain and onto the curb. The back wheels caught. I was stuck like a rock in a stream of holiday shoppers, couples strolling hand in hand, parents with their children in tow or riding on their fathers’ shoulders.

Not a problem. I yanked. Nothing.

There was a time when I would have looked around for help. When guys leaped forward to open my door or motioned me to go ahead in the checkout line or at intersections. Now? Not so much. I was a mom now. It was like the stroller had some magic power that rendered me invisible to men.

I set my teeth and shoved.

A strong hand gripped the front of the stroller and lifted. The wheels cleared the curb. I looked up, smiling my thanks.

A man—a young man with a short, reddish beard—smiled back. “Heya, Meg. Meg March, right?”

I straightened, flustered. “I . . . Yes? I mean, no. It’s Meg Brooke now.”

“From the bank, right?”

I tugged at my sagging T-shirt. Smoothed my hair. He was very cute. And vaguely familiar, which in a town the size of Bunyan was no surprise. “Yes?”

He gave a short, satisfied nod. “I thought so. It’s Carl,” he said. “Carl Stewart.”

“The sweet potato guy.” I remembered now. His family owned a farm on the other side of town. “You applied for a loan.”

Carl had graduated from NC State a few years ago, full of plans to convert the farm to an organic operation. He’d started implementing organic practices right away. But because of regulations, his produce couldn’t be certified as organic for three full years. He’d needed a bridge loan to meet expenses until then.

“And got it, thanks to you.”

I flushed a little with pleasure. “You got it because you qualified.”

“After you went to bat for me.”

“All part of the job.” My favorite part, actually—guiding applicants through the loan process, making sure they had the best shot at getting the credit they needed to upgrade operations or expand their businesses. The loan business wasn’t all about assessing risk. It was helping people realize their dreams. “So, how’s the organic farm business going?”

“Good. Great, actually.” A smile cracked his scruffy jaw. “Everybody wants sweet potatoes this time of year.”

I laughed. Not flirting, just . . . Well, flirting a little. Totally innocent, perfectly safe. I was happily married. “I’m glad to hear it.”