The Way Home Read Online Free PDF Page A

spirit. No guts, no glory, Avery,” he added, as if they were already old friends . . . or familiar adversaries. “Good luck this weekend. If you need anything, just holler.”
    â€œThanks.” She smiled and nodded, though she doubted she would be hollering for Mike Rossi anytime soon. Under all that niceness, she had also sensed a certain “men are better at this business” attitude she knew all too well. And he was too attractive. She didn’t want or need that either right now.
    As the electrician walked up the path, Mike wished her luck again and walked out. She felt relieved to see him go and hoped she didn’t run into him too much. Though their restaurants were so close, he might be unavoidable.
    Well, you don’t have to be so chatty next time,
she chided herself. Mike Rossi was fun to talk with but . . . something about the Lazy Tuna guy just got under her skin.

Chapter Two
    A T this time of year, it took a keen eye to distinguish between the green tufts of leaves that were supposed to be there and the weeds that were not. About two weeks ago, Claire had cleared and hoed the patch of land she used for her vegetable garden and laid neat rows of small plants and seeds—tomatoes, lettuce, squash, string beans, carrots, strawberries, even a few rows of corn.
    But the various sprouts could only be distinguished by her small, hand-lettered signs stuck in the ground on wooden stakes. Everything looked about the same size and color, and weeding was a tricky business. Sometimes the persistent invaders weaseled their way right into the middle of a useful plant, hiding there, hoping to escape her knowing gaze and gloved but nimble fingers.
    Claire knelt in the soil, wearing knee pads over her baggy tan garden pants and a large floppy hat to block the sun. Gardening was so much like life. It took patience and slow, persistent effort, weeding away the distractions in order for the fruit to grow and flourish. That was your reward in the long hot days of summer to come, juicy ripe strawberries, plump red tomatoes, cantaloupe as sweet as sugar . . .
    But Claire was not a long-suffering gardener, toiling unhappily just for the end results. She was as happy working in the dirt as she was in her spotless kitchen. She loved the scent of the damp, dark earth, the digging and yanking, the clipping and shaping. It was not work to her at all.
    Despite her light shirt and hat, she still felt the heat as the day wore on and the sun rose higher. Liza had left for town and would not be back anytime soon. Claire thought she would stay outside until she felt too hot and hungry. She had been working over an hour and was making good progress. If she could weed half the garden today, she would do the rest tomorrow.
    Totally immersed in her task, she didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel drive that continued all the way across the lawn behind the inn. She didn’t realize anyone was there until a long shadow stretched across the rows of green plants, and someone called her name.
    â€œClaire? Is that you?”
    Claire sat back and turned so fast that her hat slipped off her head and fell on the ground.
    She stared up at a young man who took a step closer. The sun was in her eyes and she could barely see his face, though she did see—or maybe just sensed—that he was smiling. She shaded her eyes with her hand but still didn’t recognize him.
    Though something in his voice did sound familiar. And something in the way he stood—his head titled to one side—and his shy, wary smile struck a distant chord of recognition.
    â€œMiss Claire? Don’t you remember me?”
    Miss Claire
 . . . only one person in the world had ever called her that. Then she realized who he was and his words stabbed her heart, a painful but amazing stab that sent her rocking back on her heels.
    â€œIt’s me, Jamie. Jamie Carter,” he said