A Mother's Homecoming

Chapter One

Maggie Arledge made it a point to never attend church on the second Sunday in May.

Yet here she stood on the sidewalk outside Truelove Community Church.

She’d spent the last three years trying to forget what had happened to her. And she’d been largely successful. Wrapping herself in a cocoon of numbness. Taking each day as it came. Staying too busy to dwell on the past.

Calling out greetings, friends surged around her. Like the river diverting around the boulder in its path before the water merged once more.

Her own personal boulder hadn’t proved as easily overcome. Life and love flowed around her. Leaving her feeling high and dry. Unable to find a way to rejoin the flow.

Last year, she’d made a lame excuse for missing church. But this year she traded toddler duty with her friend AnnaBeth before realizing she’d signed up for the second Sunday in May.

Normally, she loved working in the toddler room. But today was fraught with reminders of what she’d lost. Compounding the loss, after church she and her dad would go to the cemetery to put flowers on her mother’s grave.

During her childhood, she and her mom often had to attend church without her father. In a small-town police department, there was usually an emergency demanding the police chief’s attention. He used to joke that crime didn’t observe the Sabbath.

On the steps in front of the sanctuary, she spotted her dad talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a police uniform. He must be the town’s new police chief.

With the opening of the town’s new community center and her teaching schedule, she’d been too busy to pay much attention to the man hired to take her retiring father’s position.

Early thirties, she estimated. Three or four years older than her. He had short-cropped black hair. Beard stubble shadowed a strong jawline.

Waving, her dad beckoned her over. Magpie, come meet Bridger, our new chief.

The police chief’s head snapped around. She walked toward them. Smile lines crinkled out from the corners of his startlingly blue eyes.

Miss Arledge, he rasped in a gravelly voice.

And inside her chest, something altogether surprising fluttered like the barest flicker of a butterfly’s wings.

She slammed to a standstill. I—I’m late for the nursery. Sorry. Abruptly turning on her heel, she called over her shoulder, N-nice to meet you.

In her haste to be away, she raced into the building. What was it about him that had affected her so? When he’d glanced at her, the sensation she felt sent her into flight. Somehow threatening the carefully protective barriers she’d placed around herself.

She didn’t believe in love at first sight. Nor instant like, either. But she couldn’t deny the awareness—a kind of recognition—that pulsed between them.

Inside the doors, she stopped to catch her breath. Recalling her inglorious dash, she cringed. The new police chief probably thought her the rudest, strangest person he’d ever not quite met.

But she had needed to go inside. The other worker was probably up to her eyeballs in toddlers.

A woman wearing a red rose in remembrance of a living mother bustled past Maggie, urging her brood toward the elementary classrooms.

Her stomach knotted again. During the unsettling encounter with the new police chief, she’d somehow managed to shove the significance of the day to the back of her mind.

Since moving home, she’d reconnected with her childhood faith. Become a regular attendee. Just not on the second Sunday of May—Mother’s Day.

You can do this, she whispered.

She pushed off toward the toddler room. If she could get through today, she’d be home free for another eleven months.

Keep moving forward.

Her motto for the last three years. Not fixating on the event that changed her life forever. Not wallowing in the wrenching loss that changed her heart forever.

She rushed down the hallway. Disengaging the child lock on the half door, she slipped into the toy-strewn classroom.

A small girl concentrated on building a tower of blocks. A little boy pounded on the play workbench. She was thrilled to realize that the other worker was her close friend Callie.

Maggie stowed her purse in the cabinet underneath the sink. Sorry I’m late.

The very pregnant Callie McAbee smiled. Just in time.

With four-year-old Maisie, her husband’s child from his first marriage, this baby would make a sweet addition to their family.

Callie was a dear friend. Yet sometimes her radiant happiness scraped still-raw places in Maggie’s heart. Reminding her of all she’d never have.

Inexplicably, her thoughts flitted to the new police chief.

Callie nudged her chin toward the open door. I think our numbers are about to double.

Holding tightly to the hands of two toddler twin boys, an older woman hesitated on the threshold.

Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. But she pushed forward. I’m Maggie Arledge. She ushered them inside. I don’t think we’ve met.

Not identical, the twins did share the same big brown eyes. So, so adorable in their pint-size khakis and blue button-down shirts.

I’m Wilda. We’re new in town and decided to visit GeorgeAnne’s church today. The sixtysomething woman with kind blue eyes brought the two boys forward. My grandsons are almost two. Are we in the right place?

GeorgeAnne is my aunt. She reached to take the navy blue backpack from the woman with the salt-and-pepper hair. And you are most definitely in the right place.

Letting go of one boy’s pudgy little hand, Wilda eased the backpack off her shoulder. She handed it to her. You must be Tom Arledge’s daughter.

Clinging to his grandmother’s side, the darker-haired twin peered uncertainly at Maggie.

She deposited the backpack into an empty cubby. You know my dad, too?

My son is Truelove’s new chief of police. He had to finish a case at the office so we’re meeting him here.

As she clicked the half door shut, heat bloomed in her cheeks over her out-of-the-ordinary reaction to Wilda’s obviously married son. Weekend duty is tough.

The matronly woman shrugged. We’re a law enforcement family. Weekend duty comes with the territory.

Her father had been a good police chief. The citizens of Truelove knew he’d taken his duty to protect and serve seriously. Sometimes to his own family’s detriment. He would be missed.

She handed Wilda the check-in paperwork to complete. Hello, guys. Carefully tucking her skirt around her legs, she crouched to their height.

Letting go of the other child’s hand, Wilda filled in the blanks on the paper. Everyone in Truelove has been so friendly. Boys, introduce yourselves to Miss Maggie, please.

The twin with the short blond curls stuck his baby thumb into his chest. Me Wostin.

Wilda’s lips twitched. This is Austin.

She turned to the other child, who had straight brown hair. And what’s your name, sweetheart? Shy, he hid his face.

Austin flung out his arm. He Wogan.

She arched her brow at Wilda.

Their grandmother smiled. Logan.

She vaguely recalled hearing the new police chief was from Raleigh, the state capital. But why was his mother, and not his wife, dropping off their sons?

Aunt GeorgeAnne would probably have the scoop.

Would you mind if I stayed with the boys this morning? Wilda bit her lip. With all the changes in their lives, they feel a bit uprooted. We’re protective of them, you see.

Maggie didn’t understand, but she didn’t mind, either. We’d love for you to stay.

Callie drifted over to introduce herself. You may be put to work. Needing a village takes on new meaning in the toddler classroom.

The older woman laughed. Land of lakes, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She waved the clipboard. Where do I put this?

Callie deposited the paperwork in the tray on the counter for the church staff.

GeorgeAnne has been so helpful. Wilda steered the twins toward the toys. She’s even introduced me to two members of the Double Name Club.

Maggie and Callie exchanged amused glances.

GeorgeAnne Allen. ErmaJean Hicks. IdaLee Moore. Better known as the Truelove Matchmakers, the elderly trifecta were notorious for taking their civic duty and the town slogan—Truelove, Where True Love Awaits—to heart.

Maybe because she’d always been a tomboy, Maggie had never been caught in their crosshairs. Which suited her just fine. Marriage and family would never happen for her.

And she’d done her best to reconcile herself to making the most of the life God had given her. Her second chance.

Spotting a plastic big rig truck, Austin fell to the braided rug. Logan squatted in front of a toy barnyard. Callie removed a large box of cheese crackers from an overhead cabinet.

Maggie’s aunt GeorgeAnne poked her iron-gray cap of hair around the frame of the half door. Hey!

The three of them jerked.

Angular and somewhat bony, GeorgeAnne pushed the black-framed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. Did my niece tell you about the kid classes she teaches at the rec center, Wilda?

What kind of classes?

Maggie sank to the carpet between the boys. Good morning to you, too, Aunt G.

Typical GeorgeAnne. She blew in like a hurricane. No-nonsense and straight to the point.

Seventyish, GeorgeAnne flattened her thin lips into what, for her, constituted a smile. The class is for little kids who like to jump and run and roll. Does that sound like something your boys like to do?

Looking up, Austin nodded. Me do. Logan kept his eyes glued to the small barn.

I think your tumbling class sounds perfect. Wilda settled herself in the gliding rocker. I love them dearly, but I don’t mind telling you they can wear a body out.

That’s what Tumbling Tots does best. GeorgeAnne smirked. Teaches a few basic skills. And tuckers them out two mornings a week.

Fantastic. Wilda blew out a breath. Where do I sign up?

We’re starting a new session Monday morning. Class begins at nine. Sitting crisscross applesauce on the rug, Maggie handed Logan a toy sheep. Austin zoomed a plastic tractor around them. Dress them in loose-fitting, comfortable play clothes, and they’ll be good to go. She resisted the impulse to touch their silken baby hair.

Wilda smiled. Isn’t it just like God to allow our paths to cross? Right when we need it most?

The morning flew by. She so enjoyed getting to know Austin, Logan and their grandmother. After the service, parents started coming in to collect their children. Wilda and the twins were the last to say goodbye. Emotion clogged Maggie’s throat.

Mustn’t cry. She dug her nails into her palms. Not now. Not ever.

After setting the room to rights, she and Callie left at the same time. Callie, on the arm of her wonderful husband, Jake. Treacherous tears once again stung her eyelids.

Stop with the self-pity, Mags.

Outside, her father waited for her under the shade of a towering oak. She sighed. He was probably annoyed by her strange behavior earlier.

I’m sorry, Dad.

No need to be sorry, Magpie. He ducked his head. I miss your mother, too, he whispered.

Maggie was taken aback to see moisture dotting his dark eyes.

She missed her mother more than she could say, but today it wasn’t her mother she missed the most. Though if her mother had been alive three years ago, maybe she would have made different choices.

That night in Atlanta, she could’ve so easily died. God had spared her life. And she didn’t mean to waste it.

Yet in the wee hours of the night, when the sorrow was at its peak, she consoled herself with the knowledge she’d done the right thing. The unselfish thing.

Because that was what mothers did.

Her gaze was drawn to Wilda and the twins. Crossing the little footbridge spanning the creek, they headed toward the parking lot. The handsome new chief stood between his pickup truck and a black minivan.

Maggie sent a prayer of gratitude skyward for what she did have—her father, her home and a job she loved.

Plus she was excited at the possibility of getting to know Austin and Logan on Monday.

Her dad offered his arm. Ready to head to the cemetery?

Eyes flicking toward the minivan and the pickup pulling out onto the highway, she exhaled. The Father of good gifts had given her a special gift on this hardest of days. Wilda was right.

Just when she’d needed it most.

Early Monday morning, Bridger Hollingsworth parked the white SUV that came with the new job in the last available spot outside the Mason Jar Diner. The parking places out front and along the side of the town green were filled.

According to his predecessor, Tom Arledge, the Jar was a popular local hangout. Tom had invited him for a quick debrief before he headed to the police department down the block.

Overhead, a bell jangled as he entered the café. Bustling waitresses carried trays of food from the cutout window behind the counter to customers. As was his habit—a habit that had kept him alive thus far—he immediately scanned the occupants of the diner, scoping out potential risks.

With an accompanying hum of conversation, men and women of varying ages sat scattered around the café. A young guy in blue overalls from an automotive shop. At a far table underneath a bulletin board, a trio of elderly ladies. The town and its inhabitants were everything his research had led him to believe about Truelove.

Farmers. Ranchers. Local businessmen. A tight-knit, friendly community. Low crime rate. A good place to put down roots and raise his family.

The aroma of yeasty biscuits and fried potatoes wafted across his nostrils. His stomach growled. Maybe not such a bad idea to talk shop with Arledge and feed his belly at the same time.

Spotting him in the doorway, the lanky ex-lawman motioned him toward the section of booths. Good to see you again, Hollingsworth.

He shook the older gentleman’s hand. Good to see you, too, sir. Taking off the regulation hat, he cut his eyes at the crowded diner. Is it always this busy at the Mason Jar?

The usual breakfast crowd. Tom grinned. Before we order, though, I want to introduce you to some of the fine citizens of Truelove.

Leaving his hat on the table, he followed Tom to a cluster of men seated on the counter stools. Bridger’s late father had been a police chief in a Raleigh suburb. And although this was his first venture into an administrative position, he knew the drill.

As police chief, his job was threefold: to maintain a good working relationship with the town council, to provide leadership to the officers he’d supervise and to bolster law enforcement’s relationship with the community.

He appreciated Tom’s efforts to help him become part of the community. A subtle stamp of approval. A passing of the torch. Bestowing the mantle of responsibility in the eyes of the Truelove public.

Amid jokes of being put out to pasture, Tom led him from table to table, greeting the townspeople and shaking hands.

Nash Jackson, an orchard grower. Dwight Fleming, owner of a white-water rafting company. The mayor’s wife. A pastor.

The three elderly ladies belonged to something called the Double Name Club. Whatever that was. He flicked his eyes at Tom, who appeared to have stuck his tongue in his cheek.

But everyone was welcoming. The Double Name Club members were especially enthusiastic.

He was good with names and faces. He had to be. More than once, his life had depended on it.

Finishing the rounds, Tom slid into their booth. How’d your first case go this weekend?

A waitress left a carafe of coffee and two empty cups on the table.

Patrol caught a couple of teenagers tagging the side of an old barn with spray paint. No big deal. He sank onto the vinyl seat across from Tom. But paperwork is paperwork.

Tom poured the steaming coffee into the porcelain mugs. Good ole American bureaucracy at its finest. Not as exciting as those drug busts you used to work. I hope you won’t get too bored in sleepy ole Truelove.

He wrapped his hand around the mug. I’m hoping those adrenaline-and pulse-pumping days are behind me.

After the humiliation of what happened with his former fiancée, Chelsea, he