“A break?”

“Some time apart. To see how we really feel.”

She huffed in disbelief. “Where would I go?”

“Home?” he offered.

She looked at him, standing wide-legged in jeans with his fingers tucked into his pockets, his button-down shirt wrinkled and hanging out, his dark hair disheveled. A final snapshot. With that one word, Linnea knew it was over.

LINNEA SHOOK THE memory away, looked at the note, and felt anger surge. Oh, hell no!

She crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the garbage bin, missing it. The paper ball rolled to the corner. Linnea rested her face in her palms. “Shit, shit, shit…” Once again John Peterson was sending her into a tailspin. She’d thought she’d gotten over him. She’d ignored his texts and e-mails for a year. Refused his phone calls. Not a word had passed between them. And now he was back living next door and her foolish heart was betraying her.

She straightened and went to retrieve the crumpled paper. Smoothing it out, she read his words again. Can we talk?

She brought the wrinkled paper to her nose and breathed in. There was no scent.

Words… she thought, crumpling the paper again. John was good at words. This time, when she tossed the ball it went into the trash.

Linnea put the frozen food and milk in the fridge, leaving the rest of the groceries on the counter for later. She hurried out of the house and furtively looked up at the window. John was not in sight.

She crossed the driveway with a determined gait, passed through the white picket gate into Emmi’s garden. If she turned right, she’d head to the carriage house. Turn left, she’d head toward Emmi’s kitchen door. It was a path that young Rutledge girls had traveled for generations.

Big pots overflowing with purple and yellow pansies greeted her on either side of the brightly painted blue door. John’s mother, Emmaline Baker Peterson, opened the door promptly. Emmi was Cara’s lifelong friend. When she’d divorced, she moved in with Flo next door to Cara. Emmi was a force of nature, full figured with red hair too bright for natural, pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her unmade-up face broke into her signature Carly Simon grin of recognition.

“Linnea! What a surprise! Come in!”

“I’d better not,” Linnea said, taking a step back. “We’re not supposed to go into each other’s houses. Especially with Flo’s advanced age.” Her lips twitched. “And yours.”

Emmi skewered her with a faux scowl. “Oh, Lord, I keep forgetting. I haven’t got used to all that yet. You’re right, of course. I—I don’t have a mask. I meant to get one.”

“That’s okay. I don’t have one yet either. I thought I’d sew some up. I’ll make you a few. Flo, too.”

“Why, aren’t you precious. Thank you, I’d love that. Tell you what—let’s sit outside. We can keep a distance and it’s a beautiful day.”

Linnea followed Emmi into the garden. She was right—it was a beautiful day, and her large, impressive garden was abloom with azaleas taking center stage. The green shoots of perennials were peeping through the earth with the promise of beauty yet to come.