Falling Home.

Karen White.

To Chris, for all your encouragement.

I miss you.

Acknowledgments.

As always, thanks to Tim, Meghan and Connor for putting up with me and my need to write.

Thanks also to Wendy, Susie, Jenni, Vicky and Karen-for all your great advice, commiseration and hand-holding. And no acknowledgment would be complete without mentioning Donna Michael, whose begging for more chapters kept me writing.

And, of course, thank you ladies of Georgia Romance Writers. Your support has meant so much to me.

One.

Cassie was dreaming again. It was of her old summers; the summers of bare feet, skinned knees, and homemade peach ice cream that dripped down her chin and made her fingers sticky. Aunt Lucinda rang the supper bell, and Cassie and Harriet raced each other past the gazebo toward the back porch, their sun-kissed legs pumping under white sundresses. The jangling of the dream bell seemed so real, Cassie felt she could touch the cold brass and make it stop.

Her fingers touched Andrew's arm instead, his skin warm under her hand, and she jerked awake, the smells of summer grass and Aunt Lucinda's lavender perfume lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. But the jangling continued, filling Cassie with dread.

She held her breath, looking at the glowing numbers on her clock, and listened for the next ring of the telephone. Only bad news came at three in the morning. Births and engagements were always announced in the bright light of day. But bad news came at night, as if the sun were already in mourning.

Andrew stirred briefly, then rolled over, away from her. Rising from the bed, she stumbled across the darkened bedroom and into the liv-ing room so as not to awaken him. She hit her little toe on a chair leg and let out an expletive, her choice of words the only thing about her still reminiscent of her background.

"Dangnabit!" she muttered, reaching for the phone and knocking it off the hook. She grappled with it on the floor before finally placing it to her ear. "Hello?"

There was a brief pause, then, "Hi, Cassie. It's me. Harriet."

Cassie's blood stilled as she gripped the receiver tighter. "Harriet," she said, her voice sounding strained and unsure to her ears. "How are you?"

The words were so inadequately stupid that she wanted to bite them back as soon as they left her mouth. It was three a.m., her estranged sister was calling after more than a decade of silence, and she was asking about how she was in the same kind of voice she would ask a coworker if they liked sugar in their coffee.

"It's Daddy. He's dying."

A siren screamed outside in the dark beyond Cassie's window. She reached across the table and flipped on a lamp. "What happened?" The marquise diamond on her left hand sparkled in the dim light. Andrew came and sat next to her, his forehead creased with a question. Cassie put her hand over the receiver and mouthed, "My sister."

"Hang on a second." Harriet's phone clunked as the sound of a baby's crying trickled through the line. It must be Amanda, Harriet's new baby. Cassie knew each child from pictures her father sent. There were five of them, spread evenly over fifteen years of marriage. Each birth announcement from her father had opened the old wounds, scraping away the scabs, making Cassie bleed again.

Harriet came back. "I'm sorry. The baby's been fussy all day."

Cassie swallowed. "What's wrong with Daddy?"

Harriet sounded as if she'd been crying. "He's had a stroke. We did-n't think it was so bad, but he says he's dying. And you know he always means what he says. He's in the hospital now, but he wants us to bring him home tomorrow. It was his idea to call you right now in the middle of the night. He says he won't rest in peace until both of his girls are here. He wants you to come home."

Cassie didn't say anything, but listened to the sounds of the phone being put down again and of the fretting baby fading. She glanced over at Andrew, who had put his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. Her gaze wandered the living room of her Upper West Side apartment. Nothing in the cool, crisp space, with its black-and-white checkerboard of color and harsh angles, resembled the old house in which she had grown up. The house with porch swings, ancient oaks, and screen doors. Just as the woman she had become no longer resembled the girl of twenty who had left the small town of Walton, Georgia, fifteen years before without a backward glance.

Then a man spoke, his words deep and resonant. "Cassie? It's Joe."

She looked away, trying to focus on the abstract splotch of color on the painting behind her sofa, wanting to block out the memories his voice stirred. The memories of moonlit nights, serenading katydids in the gazebo behind the old house, and Aunt Lucinda's gardenias drooping in the heat, spreading their seductive aroma.

"Cassie? Are you there?"

"Yes." Her voice cracked, so she said it again, more firmly this time. "Yes. I'm here."

Andrew sat up and took her hand, his eyes guarded.

Joe spoke again. "Are you coming home?"

The receiver slipped in her sweaty palm. Every day, she handled difficult clients, the bread and butter of the ad agency, but nothing had ever made her as unsettled as the sound of Joe's voice and the mere thought of returning to the place she swore she would never set foot in again.

"I am home," she said, defiant.

"You know what I mean, Cassie." She could barely hear him, he was speaking so low. "Harriet needs you now. More than either one of you imagines. He's her father, too."

She looked over at Andrew. He wore only boxer shorts, his skin pale in the glare of the lamp. She stared at the contours of the muscles on his chest, every ridge etched in her fingers' memory. Cassie had worked for Andrew Wallace for five years and been his lover for three and his fiancee for one. Like her, he was a transplant to New York, all the way from Newport Beach, California.

Cassie reached for his hand resting on his thigh. He jerked awake, an annoyed expression quickly turning into a smile. She squeezed his fingers, feeling the bond between them, the bond that made her regard them as wild hothouse flowers, uprooted from the tropics and moved to an intricately landscaped formal garden. They understood each other, sharing a mutual passion for their work and never talking about how very far from home they both were.

Cassie blinked hard. "I'll come. For Daddy."

Joe sighed into the phone. "Whatever it takes to get you here, Cassie. Just come as soon as you can."

Cassie heard whispering on the other end of the phone, then Harriet spoke again. "Let me know which flight you'll be on and I'll pick you up."

"No." She said it too quickly. She wasn't ready for an hour alone in a car with Harriet. "I mean, I think I'll drive. I'll need a car while I'm down there, and . . . I'd like the time to think. If I drive straight through, I can be there by tomorrow night."

"You be careful. The roads aren't safe for a woman driving alone."

"Really, Harriet. I can take care of myself."

Harriet breathed into the receiver. "I know, Cassie. You always have."

Cassie waited a moment, then said, "Tell Daddy . . . tell him I'm coming."

They said good-bye, and Cassie hung up, staring into space for a long moment. Finally, Andrew stirred next to her, and she pulled her hand away. "I've got to go back to Walton. Daddy's sick and wants me there now. He may be dying."

Andrew looked down at his carefully manicured hands and drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry." He looked up. "I can't come with you, you know."

Cassie regarded him calmly. "I know. That's fine. I think it's better you stayed, anyway. Walton's not your kind of town. You'd be screaming to leave after five minutes."

He set his mouth in a straight line. "It's not that. It's just that one of us needs to stay behind to see to business. You know the BankNorth campaign is scheduled to hit next month, and we've got lots of work to do."

She touched his shoulder. "Really, Andrew. You don't need to explain. I understand."

He nodded, looking down and breaking their gaze.

Cassie rubbed her face as if trying to erase old images. "It's so hard to believe. I just spoke to him on the phone last Sunday. He was telling me yet again that it was time to come home." She smiled at the darkness outside the window. "He said the most peculiar thing."

Andrew flipped off the lamp, then stood, pulling her into his arms. "What did he say this time?"

Cassie nestled into the soft spot below his collarbone, wrinkling her nose at the tang of stale cologne. "He said that Georgia dirt would always stick to the soles of my shoes regardless of how many elocution lessons I took."

Andrew snorted softly. "The old judge never gives up trying to argue his case, does he?"

Cassie shook her head. "No, he doesn't." She closed her eyes, knowing her Italian pumps would never have the patience for the clinging red clay of Georgia.

They stood in their embrace in front of the large plateglass window. The never-ending traffic below pulsed and vibrated like an electronic serpent, moving with the city's energy. Cassie lifted her chin and stared out at the glittering city skyline, the hulking outlines of the surrounding buildings like the bruises on her memory.

Without being conscious of it, she lifted her hand to the frail gold chain on her neck and placed her fingers around the four small charms that hung from it. The gold was cool to the touch, but it com-forted her soul, just as it had many times since her mother had given it to her.

Andrew's voice was muffled. "You're nervous."

Cassie looked up at him. "I am not. Why would you say that?"

His smile lacked mirth. "Because you always play with that silly necklace whenever you're nervous. It's one of your bad habits."

She pulled away. "I'm not nervous. Just . . . thoughtful."

Cassie dropped her hand, and Andrew bent to kiss her neck, his lips warm and lingering on her skin. He lifted his head. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

She felt a prickle of annoyance. "I don't know, Andrew. My father's sick and may be dying. I'll go for as long as he needs me."

He rubbed his fingers through highlighted hair. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound callous. It's just that I've got an office to run, and I need to make plans." He sent her a dim smile. "And don't forget I'm here if you need anything."

Placing her hands on his chest, she fixed him with a steadying gaze. "Actually, there is something. I'm going to drive. And I was wondering if I could borrow your car."

She could see the internal struggle in his eyes from the glow of the lights outside.

He dropped his arms from her shoulders. "My car? You want to drive my car?" He gave an exaggerated groan. "I was afraid you were going to ask me that."

Nobody she knew in the city needed or wanted a car, but Andrew had a house in Connecticut complete with horse barn and garage.

His shoulders slumped slightly. "Couldn't you rent one?"

She took a deep breath, wondering if he would be as protective of her as his wife as he was his car. "I want something safe, reliable-and fast. You know I'll take good care of it." Trying to add some levity, she said, "And it is insured, right?"

"Very funny, Cassandra. But what if it breaks down? I don't know if I want a redneck grease monkey under her hood. Those people barely know how to speak English, much less understand the intricacies of a German performance car."

Cassie put her hands on her hips, reminding herself of Aunt Lucinda. She quickly dropped them. "Just because they have accents doesn't mean they're ignorant, Andrew. Most of the boys I grew up with could rebuild your car from a junk pile and it would perform better than it does now." Cassie chewed on her lip, wondering why she had jumped to the defense of Southerners. It wasn't as if she were one anymore. She had rid herself of her accent along with her long hair and penchant for fried foods, although she still couldn't bring herself to wear white shoes after Labor Day or before Easter.

Andrew sighed. "All right. You can borrow my car. But you have to promise me you'll take care of it and have it waxed at least once."

She pulled him closer and kissed him. "Thank you. I promise I'll take care of it."

Several hours later, in the predawn morning, they took the earliest train to Greenwich, Connecticut, and took his car out of long-term parking. Andrew loaded her luggage into the small trunk of the Mercedes and spent twenty minutes going over things she could and couldn't do with his car.

When there was nothing left to be said, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, his hands sliding down her back in the practiced way he knew she liked. "I'll miss you," he murmured into her neck. "And I hope things go well for your father. Call me and let me know how things are going."

"Thanks, and I will." She brushed his lips with hers. "I'll miss you, too," she said as she pulled away and sat in the front seat.

She shut the door, put the car in gear, and sent him a brave smile. She couldn't shake the feeling that this parting was somehow permanent.

Swallowing the thick lump in her throat, she shouted, "I'll call you," then pulled away.

Her glance in the rearview mirror revealed Andrew standing in the parking lot, staring after his car until it rounded a corner and he disappeared from sight.

Two.

It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning by the time Cassie started out, the late June sun not yet warm enough to burn the dew off the grass on the immaculate yards she passed. If she drove fast, she'd be in Walton around midnight. She knew the directions by heart. Shortly after moving to New York, when the pull of things familiar was almost more than she could stand, she had stopped at an AAA office and received a Trip Tik. The pages were now worn and crinkled, the holes around the plastic binding torn in places. It lay on the passenger seat, unopened, but there just in case she got lost.

She fed CDs into the stereo, singing aloud to keep her thoughts at bay. She would have to deal with them soon enough. The little red car took her first through New Jersey, then Pennsylvania, then across the Mason-Dixon line and into Virginia. As the sun slipped behind the painted edges of clouds, she swung through North Carolina, the smudge of the Blue Ridge visible on the far horizon. The temperature and humidity rose in steady degrees the farther south she drove, but she was somehow loath to raise the windows and turn on the air-conditioning. Feeling the dampness on her skin and hearing the screeching of the summer insects brought her closer to home faster than the steady roll of road under her tires. She thought of her father but dared not think of anything beyond that; not of seeing her sister again, or Joe. Instead, she studied the endless asphalt stretched out in front of her, the dotted line like a yellow brick road to follow home.

After nightfall, she clipped the northwest corner of South Carolina and entered Georgia. She wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but the air seemed to change. It was as if the red dirt permeated the air, altering it somewhat, distinguishing it from the more ordinary air of other states. She could almost smell the Confederate rose and jasmine that clung to the back porch of her father's house, and a longing to be there, to see her father, consumed her so fiercely that she pushed the gas pedal down farther.

She had just passed the Walton welcoming sign, Where Everybody Is Somebody, when the gas indicator light blinked on the dash, then glowed a solid red. She was sure Andrew had told her how much reserve was in the tank once it hit empty, but she didn't remember. There were no other cars on the road, just hers and the black stretch of highway. A thousand miles from nowhere with an empty gas tank. Cassie shivered.

She spotted a small reflector sign that said: Gas-24 Hours. Cassie followed the arrows off the interstate onto a road that led through the small business district of Walton, Georgia. The road was familiar to her but not the landmarks. Things had changed. She recognized the corner where Virgil's Soda Shop and the drive-in theater had once been and blinked hard. A carpet warehouse and a fast-food restaurant, in squat square buildings, stood there instead.

The streetlights were the only illumination, all of the businesses shrouded in darkness at the late hour. A flickering sign guided her down the street toward the gas station, and she paused in front of it, almost smiling as she read the neon lettering: Bait. Gas. Cappuccino. The cappuccino part was new, but Cassie knew the gas station well. It had been a high school hangout and was owned by the father of a boy she had gone to school with. She couldn't think of the boy's name but remembered how he had hung around the fringe of their group, as if basking in the light of Harriet's glow but afraid to get too close.

Cassie pulled up to a gas pump and jumped out of the car, eager to be done with it and on her way. She was so close now. A handwritten sign was duct-taped to the front of the pump: After Dark, Please Pay Inside First. She opened the car door, yanked out her keys and purse, then locked the door, with a quiet beep from the remote. Squinting to see in the dim yellow glow of outdoor lighting, she spied a large plate-glass window and door, and a man standing inside behind a counter. She walked across the parking lot and through the door.

Cassie crossed the cracked linoleum tiles, passed the racks of MoonPies, breath mints, and chewing tobacco, and handed the man her American Express card. "I'd like to fill my tank with gas, and get a cup of cappuccino for me, please."

Deep blue eyes stared back at her from a face of well-worn leather surrounded by a cottony strip of white hair and beard. The face looked vaguely familiar, but she preferred to remain incognito. She was back in town to see her father, not to stage an embarrassing homecoming. A homecoming that would surely dredge up unwelcome memories.

He smiled, then handed back her card. "Sorry, ma'am. I cain't take American Express."