Chapter One
Eleven hours ago, Stella Fisher was on the other side of the Atlantic.
The day before, after a long day of research at London’s St. Thomas’ Hospital, she’d hurried into the old market building in Covent Garden, weaving through the Christmas crowds. Under the festive bunting of British flags, she dipped into a coffee shop for a decaf latte to combat the cold December temperatures. Then with the hot beverage in hand, her boots clacking along the cobblestones, she rushed past the massive Christmas tree in the square, barely glancing at it as she headed for the station.
Her laptop bag slung across her body, she stole sips from her latte as she swept through the corridors and down the escalator of the underground to grab the Tube back to the edge of the city. She was ready to get home to relax and warm up, unaware that the next morning she’d be on a crowded flight out of the country.
When she’d finally arrived at 27 Finchley Road, the serene little flat where she’d been staying, she’d dropped her things just inside the door. She set her half-empty cup on the kitchen table that she’d also been using as a desk because it overlooked a charming back garden. Then she went over to the window, taking in the frosty hedges that sparkled under the fading light of an unusually clear winter sky and the curved flowerbeds that were sure to have blossoms in the spring. Unlike her cramped New York apartment, this flat gave Stella an indescribable feeling of comfort after her long hours in the busy city.
She sank down into the velvety sofa. With a groan, she unzipped her boots and wriggled her sore toes. Her feet had not acclimated to London life as well as the rest of her. They couldn’t quite get used to the manic pace, sprinting around all day.
Being by herself was oddly quiet following the daily bustle, and it always took her some time to get used to it, in whichever city she’d been in over the last eight years. At first, the silence had bothered her, but gradually it had become a vital part of her day, giving her space and time to work through her thoughts.
That night, however, she didn’t have much time to rest before her mother, Anna Fisher, called from Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee, asking her to come home.
Now Stella was sprinting again, but this time down the sprawling, shiny floors of Atlanta’s airport, trying to manage the ridiculously short gap between flights for her connection to Nashville, the final leg of her journey. Having spent two hours at Heathrow, and nine and half hours in the air, she was too tired and starving to notice her surroundings, and in too much of a hurry to pause. She had to get to the gate first and then see if she had time to grab a bite to eat. Her carry-ons dangled from her aching shoulder like two boulders as she pushed through the colossal holiday crowds, gripping her boarding pass.
She was making good progress, maneuvering skillfully around groups of people while checking her phone. The texts that had piled up during her flight were now pinging one after another since she’d regained cell service. One was from her mother, asking when she should pick her up, and another was from her sister, Lily, that simply said, “Hey.”
She texted her mother her arrival time, adding that she was headed toward her connection and would see her in a few hours. Her next two texts were to her sister, but both said they were undeliverable. She sighed. Airport Wi-Fi… Just as she thought she might have enough time to grab a magazine and a muffin at the terminal shop—whack—she was on the floor, covered in burning coffee.
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” a woman said as she picked up a dripping paper cup and helped Stella to her feet. “I was searching for my hand lotion inside my bag and not looking where I was going. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Stella said, checking her boarding pass to make sure it was still legible. She tugged at her saturated shirt, the coffee seeping all the way through to her skin and making her smell of caramel. “I was paying attention to my phone and not looking either. It could easily have been my fault too.”
“I’ll get us some napkins,” the woman said, shaking her head in bewilderment. But then she stopped short, bending down. “Oh, you almost lost this.” She picked up a silver necklace with a blue stone pendant and held it out in her fist. “That would’ve been just terrible.” She took Stella’s hand and thrust the necklace into it.
“This isn’t—” Stella tried to tell the woman the necklace wasn’t hers, but the woman was already running from shop to shop, asking for napkins. Stella looked around frantically to see if anyone seemed to have lost a necklace, but everyone was striding past her at a clip, not a soul looking as if they’d misplaced something.
Then the flight information display rolled over with an update, and she realized she only had fifteen minutes to catch her flight. Seeing the freezing drizzle glittering on the planes out the window, she knew she could be stuck there for the night if she didn’t get to her gate in time. With zero minutes to spare and not wanting to abandon the necklace for fear it would get swept into the trash, she shoved it into her pocket and dashed off.
When she finally skidded to a stop at her destination, she was the final passenger to board.
“Ah, you only just made it,” the perky flight attendant said, her red lips curling into a smile. Then she announced the final call into the handset intercom receiver as she reached out for Stella’s boarding pass.
Sticky and out of breath, Stella handed the stained paper to the woman who scanned it and gave it back to her. Then she rushed down the passenger bridge, onto the plane, and toward her seat. She wedged her bags in the nearest overhead bin with available space and squeezed herself between an elderly woman with an overpowering scent of roses and powder, and a teenager who was already slouched in his seat, hoodie over his eyes, earbuds in.
The plane started to taxi down the runway, and the crew began their pre-flight safety demonstration. Stella settled in, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. Soon the engines whirred to full speed, pressure pushing her torso against the seat, and rousing her back to consciousness. The plane lifted into the heavens, and with a shift to the right, she caught the view out the window over the teenager’s shoulder. Atlanta shrank to a patch of green beneath them.
When she arrived in Nashville, famished, weak, and a little squeamish from the sour caramel smell of her shirt she’d endured for the last few hours, she followed the herd of passengers to the concourse and popped into one of the airport souvenir shops to buy a T-shirt with swirling red letters on the front that said “Music City.” She went into the bathroom and changed, stopping at her reflection in the mirror. The sight took her back to her youth when she’d lived in jeans and T-shirts. With a punch of nostalgia, she pulled the hem together and tied it in a knot the way she had when she was a girl, so it didn’t get in the way when she was at her potter’s wheel creating her latest masterpiece. Pop had found the old contraption in the attic of their 1820s farmhouse when they moved in, and he’d restored it with her. For Christmas that year, he’d gotten her a small kiln that they kept in the shed out back. She’d lost count of how many bowls and vases she’d made over the years.
Jenny is available for speaking engagements, interviews, and appearances. She also loves speaking with book clubs and writer groups via video chat or in person (distance and schedule permitting).
