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upon her decisions when they were injured or when one of their loved ones was dying. She stiffened and managed what she hoped was a clinical smile. “I’ll see you,” she said to Max, though the words had a hollow and familiar ring to them.
    â€œSure.”
    She walked out the door and into the blasting heat. Grinding her teeth together, she marched to the patch of shade where she’d parked and flung open the car door. She wedged the cat carrier on the back seat and wished to high heaven that she’d never set eyes on Max McKee. Inside the sweltering interior of the Mustang, she turned on the ignition, praying under her breath as the engine coughed and sputtered then finally, with a wheeze, turned over.
    â€œThank you, God,” Skye said as Kildare mewed loudly. Backing out of the parking space, she caught a glimpse of Max’s rough-hewn profile through the window of the café. Just her luck to have run into him the first five minutes she was in town.
    She drove through the familiar tree-lined streets, drumming her fingers on the hot steering wheel and half listening to the radio while she calmed down. It was inevitable that she would see Max again, and probably better to have gotten it over with. This was a small town and now the ice had been broken.
    But her hands were still sweating as she turned down the familiar little avenue with its vintage cottages that were all, aside from the differing, peeling paint, nearly identical. She stopped at the curb in front of her mother’s little bungalow—the house where she’d grown up. Covered in yellow aluminum siding, compliments of Jonah P. McKee, the house had never needed painting, though the porch sagged and the gutters had rusted. The old covered swing had grown dusty beside the living-room window and the hedge separating the side yard from the neighbor’s property was in desperate need of a trim.
    Her chest tightened as she snagged her purse and cat carrier and hurried up the cracked concrete path where dandelions, now gone to seed, grew tenaciously. After rapping softly on the door, she opened it and stepped into the darkened room. “Mom?”
    â€œSkye!” Irene Donahue’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “You here already?”
    â€œCouldn’t stay away.” She followed the sound of her mother’s voice to the small kitchen tucked in a back corner of the house.
    Her mother was stirring sugar and lemon slices into a glass pitcher of iced tea. Balancing a hip against the cupboards, she dropped her wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. Her cane was propped under the windowsill. “Dr. Donahue, I presume,” she said with a proud smile.
    â€œSometimes I still find it hard to believe.”
    â€œNot me. Never had a moment’s doubt.” Frail arms surrounded Skye. “And you’ll be the best damned doctor this town’s ever seen.”
    Hot tears stung the back of Skye’s eyes. “I hope so.”
    â€œI know it. I told old Ralph Fletcher so, too. Now, who’s in here—Kildare, is that you?” she asked, peeking through the screen of the cat carrier.
    A loud meow erupted and Skye set the plastic carrier on the floor. She opened the door and Kildare, a sleek gray tabby, streaked across the kitchen. “He’s not very happy,” Skye said as she found a small dish and filled it with water. “Abused, aren’t you, boy?” Kildare rubbed against her legs, nearly tripping her while she made her way to the screened-in back porch and left the water dish near the door. She scratched the old tomcat behind the ears. Kildare had been her sole constant friend during the long years of medical school.
    Two tall glasses of iced tea were already beginning to sweat on the tiny table wedged between the stove and back door. Irene settled into one chair and waved her older daughter into the empty seat. “Tell me all about your deal with Doc