He turned to walk away and she said to his back, "So what would you ask her? Your mother? If she turned up suddenly?"

He pivoted. "I guess I'd ask her if she had any regrets."

"Yeah," she said. "Makes sense."

"How about you?" he fired at her.

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know. Any regrets? About finding yourself a single, twenty-three-year-old apple-picking mother?"

Remarkably, coming from him, she took no offense. After all, they shared some difficult history. And she was going to have to get used to that very thing he said-that everyone knew and everyone talked. "About having my daughters?" She shook her head. "I could never regret having them. They're miracles. About not having them after being married to a handsome, rich investment banker for about six years? Yeah, that's regrettable."

That brought out his grin and she realized he had a very attractive dimple. Left cheek. "Investment banker, huh?"

"Okay, neurosurgeon. Astronaut. Computer genius. CEO of a Fortune 500 company."

He laughed. In fact, he tilted his head back and guffawed, hands on his hips. "Damn, kid-an ordinary old apple grower wouldn't stand a chance!"

She stared at him, watching him laugh at her for a long second. Then she headed for the office door. "I'll make the coffee," she said.

Well. If he'd been looking for something to take her mind off her current challenges, he'd certainly done it with that statement. He probably had no idea what a luxury it seemed to someone like her to raise a family in the healthy and pristine beauty of these mountains, in a great big house right in the middle of a delicious orchard. Or the fantasies it could inspire to think about being wanted by a man like Tom Cavanaugh.

He drove her back to the road to Virgin River after her shift. "You can't do this every day," she said. "It's too much."

"It's two miles," he replied. "And when you get a ride, you pick more fruit."

"Well, I have to admire a man who knows what he wants," she said. Then she jumped out of the truck and headed for home. Even though Adie was expecting her, she stopped at the church, looking for Reverend Kincaid.

She stood in his office doorway and waited until he looked up. "If that offer is still open, I'd like to set up a meeting with my father. If you'll contact him and go with me."

"Be happy to," he said. "Any particular day?"

"Doesn't matter to me. Weekend, if he's available and if you're available. Saturday? I could take a day off I think, but I don't want to do that to the Cavanaughs-work weekend overtime and take off on a regular pay day. But if that's the only option, I think Tom Cavanaugh would give me a break."

"I'll call him," Noah said. "Jed Crane, not Tom."

"Tell him I want some kind of evidence-that he's my father, that my mother is dead, that he's employed... . I don't know what to ask. I just want to be sure he's not a fraud. Or a creep who's just after something. I'm not sure I can remember his face."

Noah stood from behind his desk. "I'm glad you're doing this. No matter where it goes from here, you deserve some answers. I'll ask Ellie to help with your girls."

They chose a public park in Santa Rosa as a meeting place and Nora was so stressed out, she barely spoke all the way there. She did say, "Please don't leave me alone with him and don't mention that I have children." Once Noah had to pull over because she was afraid she was going to throw up. When they got to the park at noon, Nora knew Jed immediately. The memory of him came back instantly-he was the same, though older. He was very tall, his brown hair was thin over a shiny crown with a lumpy shape, his eyes kind of sad, crinkling and sagging at the corners. He had thick, graying brows, had a bit of a soft center-a paunch-and wore his pants too high. And he wore a very unfashionable short-sleeved plaid shirt with a button-down collar that she thought she recognized from the last time she saw him.

Apparently he knew her right away because he immediately took a few anxious steps toward her. And then he opened his arms to her and she instinctively stepped back, out of his reach. That just did him in-he almost broke down. A huff of air escaped him and she thought he teared up. "I'm sorry," he said. He carried a large padded envelope which he held out toward her. He swiped at invisible tears, embarrassed by this display. "I apologize, Nora," he said. "I was afraid I'd never see you again."

And what were her first words to her long-lost father? "Did you ever take me bowling? When I was too little to even think about bowling?"

Sudden laughter joined his tears. "I had no idea what a weekend father was supposed to do-so yes, I took you bowling. It was a disaster, but you seemed to have a fun time. Your ball never once made it to the pins. Here," he said, pressing the big envelope on her. "Copies of all the papers Reverend Kincaid said you'd like to have." Then he stuck out his hand to Noah. "Thank you for helping with this. Thank you so much."

But Nora said, "Weekend father?"

"Let's sit down somewhere," Jed suggested. "There's so much to catch up on."

As he turned in the direction of a picnic table, Nora put out a hand to his forearm and stopped him. "Do you..." She faltered, then took a deep breath and asked, "Do you have any regrets?"

"Nothing but regrets, Nora. I just don't know how I could've made things better for you."

They found a table in the shade of a tree and even though there were lots of people around, began to forage through the past. "My mother said the bowling never happened. I remembered bowling, planting a garden, you reading me stories, that kind of thing, but she said..."

"It's going to be so hard to explain her," Jed said, shaking his head dismally.

"What's in here?" she asked, holding up the envelope.

"Reverend Kincaid said you had no documentation at all, that you weren't even sure your mother and I divorced. It's all there-copies of the marriage license, the divorce decree, the order from the court that Therese retain custody and that I would have visitation one day a week. Then I lost even that. I had a few pictures-you as a newborn, your first birthday, a day in the park, the first day of preschool. I didn't get many."

"But why?" she asked. "Why did you leave us?"

He seemed to take a moment to compose himself. "I've wanted to explain and yet dreaded this moment for years," he said. "Therese and I were at terrible odds-lots of conflict. I suggested a separation, suggested we might've made a mistake and could work it out amicably, and that did it. Pushed her right over the edge. I could say she threw me out, except that I'd already suggested separation. Her anger with me was phenomenal and I left because I'd had all I could take.

"I was over forty when we met and though I was plenty mature, I wasn't exactly a ladies' man. I had so little experience with women. We weren't a young couple. We met, dated and got married too quickly because we were getting older and wanted children-your mother was forty when you were born. The sad truth is, we weren't happy for long. She was sick when she was pregnant and suffered terrible depression when you were a baby and it took about a year for her to recover. Maybe she never did-I'm not sure. Therese was a loose cannon. I never knew what might set her off. She lashed out at me constantly. I suggested maybe motherhood didn't make her as happy as she thought it might and that..." He shook his head and looked down. "I always seemed to say the wrong things."

"Were you ever happy?" Nora asked.

"I thought so," Jed answered. "At the very beginning. Then there were issues I thought had to do with pregnancy and new parenthood. But by the time a few years had passed, I knew we were doomed.

"But I thought she loved you, Nora. As long as I wasn't around, she seemed to take good care of you. When I came home after work, you sparkled. You were so happy and showed no signs of suffering. I was afraid of what a life with her might do to you in the long run, but there didn't seem to be much I could do." He shrugged. "The truth is I was afraid you could become like her-so over the years I watched from a safe distance. I checked on your school progress, went to school events to catch a glimpse, asked questions about you. When Therese got wind that I was around, she lashed out, lost her temper. I was very circumspect, but I was never far away."

"And I never saw you?"

He leaned toward her, his brows scrunched. "You might remember when your mother stopped talking to the lady next door," he said.

"They had a fight," Nora said. "I was never sure what that was about. Mom said she'd been insulted and accused of something. They stopped talking and I was not allowed to go to their house. Sometimes after school I'd say hello or we'd talk in the yard, before Mom got home from work, but we had a pact-we'd keep it our secret."

"The fight was about me calling the neighbor and asking how you were, how things were going in my home, with my daughter. She let it slip. So, it kept Therese from talking to her neighbor, but it didn't keep the neighbor from watching, from talking to me." He swallowed hard. "She moved when you were about to graduate from high school. I lost my best connection to you."

"This isn't happening," she said. "This is my worst nightmare. She was a therapist!"

"I've never understood that," he said, shaking his head. "That should have guaranteed a certain level of stability. Civility. Understanding. I think she was crazier than half the people she counseled. What I've learned since is that, sadly, she was hardly the only inept counselor-they are plentiful. So are competent, helpful, talented counselors. There were times she raged at me in a way that made me think she was truly insane. Nora, there was something wrong. It's been suggested by professionals I've seen that maybe she was a borderline personality-not mentally ill, but narcissistic, hostile, perhaps a bit sociopathic. Very manipulative. Successfully manipulative. Quite functional. We were like oil and water. I wanted to take you with me but she wouldn't have it. There was something about me that set her off."

"There was something about everyone..." Nora mumbled. "You could have at least called me."

"I should have, but I didn't want to force you to lie or be secretive. There's no other way to put it-she was vengeful when she didn't have her way. That worried me."