Ed grinned again, and his perfect white teeth, definitely a new acquisition since high school, beamed at her. "Let's just fill out some paperwork now and schedule a time for me to come out for an appraisal." He looked up expectantly. "And I'll need a spare key to put in the lockbox on the front door. I'm assuming I won't need to call each time I come to show a client the house. You get more traffic that way."

Cassie agreed, then moved her chair closer to the desk, trying not to stare at the light brown hair roots cropping up under the slicked-back dark hair of her newly hired realtor.

Cassie slumped over her father's desk, the drawers open and their innards stacked all around the floor, like an old teddy bear with its stuffing pulled out. The hall clock struck six times, and she rubbed her eyes. She had accomplished virtually nothing. There had been a steady stream of visitors, friends, and neighbors of her father's calling to give their condolences and bring food. Lucinda had made so many trips out to the huge icebox inside the detached garage that a well-worn path now marked her way. There was enough macaroni mousse ring, lemon parsley chicken casserole, and scalloped eggplant to feed an entire city block, and then some.

Most of the visitors were familiar faces, and all had stayed for an extended social call to catch up on what Cassie had been doing in her long absence. Her throat was parched from telling them the same thing over and over: Yes, she lived and worked in Manhattan, and yes, the taxi drivers did drive like maniacs, and no, she had not yet seen the Statue of Liberty, although she had seen a Gay Pride parade, but only because it marched on the street in front of her building.

The desk chair squeaked as its occupant sat back and stretched. She found some comfort sitting in her father's chair, the wide, well-worn feel of it behind her a gentle reminder of her father's never-ending love and support-even when she least deserved it. Especially the last fifteen years. The familiar sting of tears threatened again, and she rubbed her eyes harshly with the heels of her hands.

Almost without thinking, Cassie reached out to the plate carrying old Aunt Millie's famous nut cake. She stared in horror, realizing she had eaten nearly half of it, pinching off a bite at a time. Her thighs seemed to stick to the leather chair as it occurred to her that it had probably been made with real eggs and butter. She just couldn't imagine Aunt Millie, with her jowly arms and double chin, thinking egg or butter substitutes had any business being in her kitchen. Cassie pinched another small bite off the side of the cake. She had to admit that nothing tasted better than the real thing.

With a sigh, Cassie slammed the drawer shut. The drawers had been a jumbled mess, consisting of old letters, paid bills, canceled checks, and an assortment of school papers and report cards from when she and Harriet were in elementary school. There was no rhyme or reason to their organization. They had seemingly just been tossed into whatever drawer had the most room and forgotten. Until now. Now they lay in separate piles, ready to be distributed as Cassie saw fit. The largest pile, with her high school graduation photo on top, had a date with the garbage can.

She stood, grabbing a large fist of cake and shoving it into her mouth. As she crossed the foyer, the doorbell rang. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized that Sam Parker had already spied her through the lead-glass sidelights next to the door. She tried to swallow the nut cake, but such a large amount had been stuffed into her mouth that it couldn't be budged without a tall glass of milk. Resignedly, she pulled open the door, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. As an afterthought, she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You missed some."

"Harrumph?" She dared not open her mouth.

"Crumbs. You've got crumbs all over your chin."

She left the door standing open with Sam on the threshold and quickly ran into the powder room off the hall. When she was done, she came out and found, to her irritation, that Sam had let himself in, closed the front door, and was seated comfortably in a chair in the front parlor. He was staring up at the crown molding on the fourteen-foot ceiling but stood when she entered the room. "The woodwork in this house never ceases to amaze me. They just don't make anything like it anymore."

"Is there something you need?" she asked, wondering if she should have checked her teeth for more crumbs.

"Just you."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Harriet and Joe have requested the honor of your presence at dinner tonight. They know Lucinda's gone to Atlanta to visit her cousin and didn't want you left alone. They think you'll starve if nobody's here to feed you." She could tell he was trying to hide a smile. "As if the fine folks of Walton would let that happen."

Self-consciously, Cassie brought her hand to her mouth to search for crumbs, then dropped it with annoyance.

Sam smiled brightly. "So they've been trying to reach you for most of the day to invite you for dinner, but your phone's been busy."

Cassie shrugged. "I took it off the hook. Everybody and their mother were calling to find out how I was, and I just couldn't get anything done. So I took it off the hook." She didn't know why, but she felt embarrassed to tell him the truth. She wondered if she should have made up a more altruistic story.

He crossed his arms, revealing well-muscled forearms that protruded from rolled-up sleeves. He wore the ubiquitous jeans and cowboy boots, and Cassie had to admit that he looked good in his choice of clothing-even if it wasn't her style. He stared at her expectantly.

"What?" she asked, wondering if something was still clinging to her chin.

"I'm ready when you are. Unless you've spoiled your dinner with too much nut cake." He pointed his head in the direction of her father's desk and the half-eaten cake. "I peeked."

"Of course not. I didn't have that much. I offered some to the visiting hordes today." She didn't feel guilty because it wasn't a complete lie. She had offered some to her visitors but just hadn't had any takers.

"Then let's go."

Cassie tried to think of an excuse, but she was tired of going through her father's things, and maybe some real food would settle her stomach. She also wanted to talk to Harriet-to reminisce about their father, to bring him to mind and to reassure each other that he still lived in their hearts. After discarding so much of his life in piles lined up against the study wall, she needed reminders of his existence.

"All right-hang on. I need to get my shoes." She ran up the stairs, feeling his gaze on her backside and wishing again that all her skirts weren't so short. Everybody was wearing them in Manhattan, but she'd yet to see anything above the knee since she'd been in Walton.

She flicked on the closet light in her bedroom and eyed the various shoes, finally deciding on the beige pumps. Sliding her feet into them, she closed the closet door and went back to the stairs. She found it hard to resist galloping down the wood steps, as she had as a child, but instead walked sedately down to where Sam stood in the foyer.

His gaze slowly swept down the length of her legs, finally resting on her feet. "Heels?"

She looked down. "What's wrong with heels?"

"Nothing at all. In fact, they look real fine on your feet. But wouldn't you be more comfortable in something else?"

She lifted her chin and swept past him, opening the screen door before he could reach it and open it for her. "No, I wouldn't. I'm used to them. Besides, I don't own anything else."

He followed behind her, his boot heels clumping on the wood floor of the hall, then out onto the porch. Cassie stopped and used her key to dead-bolt the door, then pulled on the knob to make sure it was locked tight.

Sam leaned one arm on one of the tall columns of the porch. "That's not necessary. Nobody's going to take anything while you're gone. Unless you're trying to stop people from bringing more food, of course, then by all means you should lock up."

Ignoring him, she turned and walked down the porch steps, spotting Andrew's Mercedes in the circular driveway.

"Finally! I was wondering when I'd see it again."

Sam didn't answer, but instead rapped his bare knuckles against the solid wood column. "This house is amazing. You don't know how lucky you are."

"You think so? Ed Farrell thinks I might have a hell of a time trying to unload it." She dropped her keys into her purse and hoisted it on her shoulder.

He paused for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, then continued across the yard in the opposite direction.

Cassie called after him. "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting into my truck."

"I can see that-but we've got my car back."

He turned on the ignition, and a blast of country music danced out of the open window. "You've got your car back. I'd rather not be seen in it. People round here might think I've gone New York on them."

Cassie stuck her hands on her hips. "Then how'd you get it over here?"

Sam slammed his door, then leaned over to push open the passenger door. "My dad and Mr. Anderson. Looked like a couple of fools going through their midlife crisis two decades late. Now get in or we'll be late for dinner."

Cassie didn't budge. "This is a very nice car, I'll have you know. I could blow the doors off your truck without even trying."

"Can't haul anything in it, and the third passenger has to lie down horizontally in the back. I think they should halve the price, since they're only giving you half the car. Now climb in."

"Where are my keys? We could waste gas and take two separate vehicles." She shifted her feet, already feeling the sticky perspiration under her arms and not wanting to be in the un-air-conditioned air one second longer. She wondered why she was being so stubborn about something so stupid. Yes, she wasn't particularly fond of trucks and dreaded stepping up into them in a short skirt. But it was more than that. Maybe it was his attitude that anything that smacked of the city was something to be avoided.

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. "In my pocket."

A drip of sweat crept down her back between her shoulder blades. "May I have them, please?"

Grinning more broadly, he said, "You'll have to get them yourself."

She pulled the front of her blouse away from her chest where it had begun to stick. The air-conditioning blew Sam's hair off his forehead, and she could almost feel its chilling breeze. She looked again at the Mercedes sitting in the hot sun, then back at Sam's truck. Without another word, she climbed in and sat down, regardless of whom she flashed.

Sam directed the vents to blow in her direction as Cassie donned her sunglasses.

"I can only hope that nobody recognizes me." That was mean, but he asked for it with his snide comments about Andrew's car. Maybe now he'd call it even.

Sam slid the truck into gear. "There are worse things than to be recognized as a small-town country girl, you know. Like being thought of as a big-city snob."

That did it. Cassie's sunglasses had moved down her nose with sweat, and she pushed them up with a well-manicured index finger. "At least I don't think genitalia is an Italian airline."

Sam snorted as he pulled the truck down the gravel drive to the main road. "I think you've been listening to too many Jeff Foxworthy jokes."

They rode along in silence for a few blocks. Cassie tried to ignore the driver, but her gaze kept straying to his side of the bench seat. Even the way he sat, his left knee drawn up casually, his right elbow resting on the back of the seat, and his light hold on the wheel, screamed confident self-assurance. This man, with his pickup truck, cowboy boots, and drawling accent, seemed more sure of himself than anyone she had ever met. And it irked her no end.

"Did you really go to Harvard?"

He glanced at her briefly. "Yep. But only for med school. Went to Yale for undergrad. I transferred there from the junior college after you left."

She studied him for a moment. "Then why on earth did you come back here?"

He kept his gaze straight ahead, the light from the windshield brightening his eyes. "Because this is home. I figured life had to be about more than just work and making money. I wanted a place to grow roots. Become part of a community. Raise a family in a familiar environment." He stole a glance at Cassie before returning back to the windshield.

"You forgot guilt. Your parents must have pulled on you at every chance. At least I wasn't an only child, so I had the option."

Sam sent her a hard glance. "Guilt over my brother, you mean? That had nothing to do with it. My parents never once asked me to come back. I did it on my own."

Cassie was surprised by his vehemence, wondering whom he was really trying to convince.

"But didn't you like Boston? There's so much excitement there. So much to do."

Sam shrugged. "It's fine-to visit. But I never really fit in."

She gave him a sardonic smile. "Gee, I wonder why? Could it be the way you talk or the way you dress?"

He caught her with a withering glance. "And what's wrong with the way I dress?"

Unobtrusively, Cassie eyed the plaid shirt rolled up on his strong forearms, the jeans hugging his well-muscled thighs, and the cowboy boots. She opened her mouth to say something, then swallowed thickly. "Oh, never mind."

He shrugged. "I found out later from a friend of mine that a lot of people at school thought I was gay. Could never figure that one out."

She laughed out loud. "It's the boots. In Manhattan, that's a dead giveaway."

"Humph." Sam pulled to a stop at a light and rested his wrist on the steering wheel. "I guess I didn't date much, either, which probably fueled the fire. Not much time with all that studying, plus those city girls just seemed too harsh for my taste. I guess I prefer something softer." He reached up and adjusted his rearview mirror. "You know, someone who doesn't reveal all her feminine secrets in the first fifteen minutes."

Cassie stared out the window with studied nonchalance. How dumb were those northern girls, anyway? One didn't have to know Sam Parker to know there wasn't a gay bone in his body. He practically reeked of masculinity, and sitting this close to him in his truck made her squirm. She shifted closer to the door.

Sam spoke without looking at her. "I understand you had a long meeting with Ed Farrell today."

Cassie raised her eyebrows. "News sure travels fast in a small town."

Sam nodded but didn't smile. "That's certainly one thing you can bank on here. That and plenty of contestants for the watermelon-seed spitting at the Kudzu Festival. It just is. And that Lou-Lou Whittaker is the biggest gossip this side of the Mississippi."

He turned onto Harriet's street. "What did he have to say besides that it will take a long time to sell your house?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Sam pulled into the driveway of a neat two-story brick colonial. Bikes, bike helmets, and roller blades decorated the neatly clipped yard. He pulled the truck into park and switched off the ignition before turning to her. "There are many people in this town who believe Ed Farrell is in the developers' pockets. The old farm his parents worked was the first thing to be bulldozed. They're building a poultry processing plant on it now. That's all well and good, but now he's focusing on other chunks of land throughout the community."

The front screen door opened, and Sarah Frances and Joey tumbled out and ran down the stairs toward the truck.

Sam continued. "One by one they're selling out, and Ed's pocketing lots of cash brokering these deals. They all know him as one of them, and they trust him. I think that's why the developers are using Ed to work with them. All I know for sure is that if we're not careful, we'll be a commercial wasteland in a few years. Nothing but plants and industrial parks. And big neighborhoods with cookie-cutter houses. No character, no history. Nothing left of what makes this town so great." He yanked the keys out of the ignition. "And don't believe him when he tells you he's one of us and not one of those other developers who want to tear apart our town. If he's not in cahoots with them, he's still cut from the same cloth."

Sarah Frances tapped on the window, and Cassie reached for the door handle. "I think I understand your point, but it's got nothing to do with me. Ed's merely going to help me find somebody to buy my house; he even mentioned a family he already had in mind." She pushed the door open, angry at him for lecturing her on something that was none of his business. "But even if I were to sell it to a developer, that would be my own decision. Ed's opinion wouldn't sway me one way or the other."

Sam held her forearm for a moment, preventing her from leaving the truck. "You're wrong, Cassie. It's not just your decision. Your house is part of Walton's history. There's a lot of people here who would care very much what happens to your house. Including me."

She yanked her arm out of his grasp and stepped out of the truck. Four small arms encircled her waist. A warm glow started somewhere deep inside, surprising her. Even more surprising was that she hardly gave a second thought to the dirty handprints that were bound to be smudged on her skirt.

Cassie hugged them both and rumpled their hair, then reached for their hands. But they pulled out of her grasp and raced to Sam.

"Dr. Parker!" they shouted in unison, running and jumping on him. He eagerly caught them, then adjusted them easily on each hip before sauntering toward Cassie.

She turned her back on him and walked up the three brick steps to the front door, where Harriet now stood. As Cassie neared, Harriet's cheerleader smile faded. She stuck out her hand and gingerly touched the necklace around Cassie's neck, letting the charms slip silently through her fingers.

With a shaking voice, Harriet said, "I remember this. Keeper of hearts, right?"

The memory of her mother's voice uttering those same words stilled Cassie's breath. She felt, rather than saw, Sam slipping by with the two children. She reached up to the charms and touched her sis-ter's fingers.

"Keeper of hearts." The words barely made it past her lips. Before she realized what she was doing, she hugged her sister, holding on tightly.

"Mama! Sarah Frances won't help me set the table." Madison's voice came from back in the house amid shouting and the clatter of small feet on wood floors.

Cassie smiled, then awkwardly pulled away, the silence of fifteen years still heavy between them but the bond of a father's death bringing them together by a degree. Then she followed Harriet back into the kitchen, her hand still clutching the gold charms around her neck.

Seven.

They found Sam in the kitchen, leaning over a steaming pot on the stove.

"Something sure smells good. If you're not careful, Harriet, you're going to find me hanging around your doorstep every night around suppertime."