Page 63 of Hometown Girl

She propped a pair of reading glasses on her face. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you have anything in writing?”

She cackled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Harold, Sonya and I were practically family. Sonya had big dreams for this old barn. This one was hers. She wanted to turn it into an art barn, a place that brought people together to create. They asked me to help.”

Had Sonya been an artist? He wouldn’t have noticed back then, but maybe some of the pieces hanging in the farmhouse were hers.

“So what happened?”

Birdie stilled. “Life happened.”

“But you stayed—all this time?”

She came alive again. “Look at the light in this place. I knew I’d hit the jackpot. Plus, painting here got me away from my husband, and that was a very good thing.”

Drew laughed.

“What’d you say your name was again?”

Third time’s the charm. “Drew.”

“You remind me of a little boy I knew once. Used to give him bubblegum too.” Their eyes met, and he quickly looked away.

“I assume you’re not paying rent?” He walked to the other end of the loft, anxious to put some distance between them before the woman pieced together who he was—and yet, after two decades, how could she?

“He had a little scar on his chin.”

Drew resisted the urge to touch his chin. A fall off his bike had left a permanent mark on his face, barely noticeable anymore but still there if someone looked hard enough.

He was thankful he hadn’t shaved that morning.

But when he turned and found her standing inches away, staring at him, he wondered if the scar was more visible than he’d thought.

“I didn’t expect you to ever come back here.”

He put on a confused face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only been here a week.”

“Mm-hmm.”

She wasn’t buying it. Why would she, when he’d done such a rotten job selling it? “The rent?”

“No rent.” She turned back toward her easel, giving him a split second to catch his breath. “Why’d you wait till Harold passed to come back?” She poked her brush into a blob of yellow paint and dotted it onto the canvas at the center of her weird-looking flowers.

“Sorry, lady, I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“I never forget a pair of eyes. Or a scar.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him. “Don’t worry, kid, your secret’s safe with me.”

He eyed her for a long moment, wishing he didn’t have a secret at all. Why hadn’t he just told Beth and Molly the truth about who he was?

Because he didn’t want the questions. He didn’t want the pitying or judgmental looks. He didn’t want to be reminded he hadn’t done right by Jess. And now he looked like someone with something to hide.

Because he was.

But Birdie knew the truth. She’d made him, so what was the point in trying to lie to her?

He sat on the odd-shaped sofa in the corner, sinking down farther than he wanted to and wishing he’d never strolled into the barn in the first place. “I don’t remember you.”

A satisfied smile graced her lips, and she returned to her artwork. “I knew it was you. Something about the way you walk around here. I’ve seen you every night. Got a clear view of the old barn where she went missing. You go in. You stay a while. You come out.”

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