Maybe they’d be sitting by the fireplace in the gray brick bungalow in Midtown Atlanta that she and Kyle had bought and restored together. Their Christmas tree would be aglow with lights and festooned with all the heirloom vintage ornaments from Kyle’s family that Ivy had lovingly packed away the previous year, unaware that it would be the last time she would do so.

But no, Ivy thought. It was past midnight. They’d be in bed. Together, in the master suite she and Kyle had carved out of the bungalow’s attic space. But the fireplace there might be burning.…

Ivy pulled the quilts over her head and repeated the mantra she’d taught herself during the torturous, futile months of the unraveling of her marriage. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.…”

Punkin must have sensed her sadness. He placed his warm muzzle against her collarbone and gave it just one delicate lick.

“Good boy,” she murmured, scratching his head. “I feel stronger already.”

Ivy awoke to a landscape covered in snow. She pulled on another pair of socks and her boots and went out to the kitchen to boil water for coffee.

“Look, Punkin!” The dog was scratching at the kitchen door, eager to get outside. He’d never seen snow before, and it seemed to suit him just fine, as he raced excitedly across the backyard, barking his approval.

“Chickchickchickchick!” Ivy called, opening the door to the chicken coop. Her girls came running toward her, chirping excited greetings, pecking at the feed she spilled onto the floor.

“Everybody have a good night in your new house? I’m glad I put out some extra straw for you. Did you girls huddle up together to stay warm?” She filled their water dish with fresh water and poured chicken mash into their feeder.

“Okay, stay warm, ladies.” Ivy dashed for the kitchen door with Punkin at her heels, her breath making clouds in the chilly morning air

She shed her damp boots, jacket, mittens, and knit cap and poured herself a cup of the coffee she’d brewed before going out to check on her flock.

“I feel like a real farmer girl,” she confided in Punkin, who seemed puzzled that she was still in her pajamas—although with a sweatshirt pulled over them for warmth. “Do you feel like a farm dog? Maybe, in the spring, I should get you a cow to herd?”

Ivy stood, staring out the kitchen window at the winter wonderland that had transformed the landscape overnight. Footprints—hers and Punkin’s—were the only things marring the thick white layer of snow covering everything in sight.

Snow! That sound she’d heard in the middle of the night was sleet, turned to snow. It blanketed the hard-packed ground, the weathered toolshed; even the newly rebuilt chicken coop was covered with snow. She’d been living in Atlanta—where it snowed only rarely—for so long that she hadn’t considered how frequently snow came to the mountains of North Carolina.

She heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.