Chapter One

Bianca

 

If there’s any magic in Apple Ridge, it lives in the old bench atop the hill in Gallagher Park. It’s well over a century old but looks and feels as solid as if it had been built yesterday.

​

Legend has it if you throw seeds from that bench and make a wish, your wish will come true if any of the seeds sprout. After all, our town’s founder, Elliot Gallagher, threw an apple core from this very spot, and it grew into the first apple tree in Apple Ridge.

​

It would be just like the Gallaghers to dump their trash without a second thought, but everyone agrees it was for the best that Elliot was a litterbug, because we’re famous for our orchards. We may be smaller than Hendersonville to our north, but anyone who’s honest will attest that our apples are a damn sight better.

 

Of course, the story of the bench’s magic can’t be disproven, which is probably why it has been passed down for so many years.

​

Personally, I think it’s a crock of shit. But I need hope as much as the next person, and that’s why I’m here this evening. That, and because this is where I come to talk to Kitty.

​

When an Apple Ridge native dies, their family can purchase a memorial brick engraved with their loved one’s name and have it placed here in this park. Kitty got a good view. Her brick is up here next to the bench she loved. I lean down and rub the tips of my fingers over the rough surface of the brick beneath the bench to trace her name—Kitty Gallagher.

​

Yes, she was one of those Gallaghers, a great-great-grand-descendent of Elliot’s and the great-aunt of Rhett Gallagher, current mayor and part owner of this entire town.

​

I am not a Gallagher, even though I almost made the mistake of marrying Rhett. But Kitty was one of my patients when I was a hospice nurse, and she soaked into my heart and changed me. She’s been gone for nearly a year, but the wound of loss is still raw.

​

“I need something good to happen, Kitty,” I say softly. “Great-Uncle Ted’s with you now. Has been for about a month. His will stirred my brothers up something fierce, not that the farm’s turning a profit anymore anyway. Everything’s falling apart. I need help bringing my family together. But I’m not like you. I’m not…”

 

Charming.

​

Kitty had possessed that rare ability to talk in a way that made people want to listen.

​

“Well, you know. And I don’t believe magic’s real.”

​

The only kind of magic I believe in is the everyday kind—the wonder of the leaves turning from green to red and orange and yellow. The way the world cycles through the seasons each year as if it’s falling asleep and waking again. That magic is setting in now, wrapping its arms around Apple Ridge.

​

I heave a sigh, feeling stupid as I pull a handful of zinnia seeds I pocketed from my brother’s shed and scatter them in front of me. My breath catches when a warm breeze practically snatches them from my hand. I watch with wonder as they skitter away with the wind.

​

“Is that puke I smell?” asks a familiar voice behind me, pulling me back to earth.

​

It’s my best friend Emily. I’d recognize her dry tone anywhere. I asked her to meet me up here, a short walk from her bookstore downtown, for a quick chat before I head home to my grandmother’s house.

I take a big sniff, and discover she’s right.

​

“I’m a mess,” I complain. “The Rotten Apple felt like the inner circle of hell today.”

​

That’s not the actual name for the retirement home I work at, but everyone in town uses it. Its actual name, the grandiose “A Room with a View” is an open joke, given none of the units have a view of anything pleasant.

 

Emily circles the bench and sits beside me, leaning in close for a hug before she has second thoughts and scrunches her nose.

 

“I know. Believe me, I know. Don’t fuss, but Luanne threw up this morning. You know how she is. She says she has a toxic relationship with dairy.”

 

Emily pulls a face. “I suppose this isn’t a good time to tell you that I snuck ice cream in to her.”

 

Luanne isn’t any relation to Emily, but a few months back I started a buddy program, pairing up older people who don’t have much family with younger people willing to visit them regularly. The two of them hit it off immediately, bonding over their love for romance books and shows.

​

“So I have you to blame for the puke smell?”

​

“Will it help if I don’t complain about it anymore?”

​

I shrug, and Emily gives me a sidelong look.

​

“Any news about Miles?” she asks.

​

Miles is my twin. He took off from Apple Ridge five years ago, when we were twenty-four. He had his reasons for leaving, and I don’t blame him.

​

As his last act, Great-Uncle Ted did his damnedest to lure my brother back by leaving the family orchard and Christmas tree farm to both of my brothers.

​

Theo, who was named after Uncle Ted and has worked for him since high school graduation, has not taken it well. Especially since the only time Miles has come back to Apple Ridge since leaving was to see Uncle Ted buried in the cemetery.

​

I’ve seen Miles more than that, because I’ve gone to him. To the tattoo shop he was apprenticing at in NYC…the bar he tended in Pittsburgh…the wilderness camp he worked at just a few hours’ drive from Apple Ridge, which Theo called a slap in the face since Miles still wouldn’t visit home. There were a few other stops too, including a six-month stint in Los Angeles, after a talent scout met him in a shopping mall while he was on vacation and cast him in a TV pilot. But acting ability was a requirement, apparently, and Miles is no actor. He’s in Vermont now, working at…wait for it…someone else’s orchard.

​

Nonna Rose says Miles has been “sowing wild apple seeds.” But maybe he’s ready to stop. He texted our whole family a couple of days ago, saying he was going to be out of touch for several weeks, without access to his phone, but we shouldn’t worry, because he was going to come home a new man.

​

“We haven’t heard back from him since he sent that cryptic text,” I say with a sigh as I pull a couple of final loose seeds from my pocket and let them fly.

​

Emily huffs out a laugh. “You’re taking no chances. How many have you thrown?”

​

“Enough that one of them is statistically likely to sprout.” I wave a hand at the land in front of us. “Not that I believe it’ll do any good. But I might as well stack the odds in my favor. One of the old guys at The Rotten Apple has tokens from dozens of religions ‘just in case.’”

​

She laughs. “I’ll bet the pastor loves that.”

​

I hesitate, watching the sun continue to descend over the rolling blue mountains spread out before us. It’s mid-September, and the air already cools faster at night. Enough that I need the black cardigan I have on over my scrubs. The leaves haven’t started changing yet, but it will happen soon. At this time of year, it’s hard to believe anyone would purposefully stay away from Apple Ridge.

​

I have half a mind to hire a mercenary to drag Miles home, and yet…

​

“I don’t even know if I want Miles to come home to stay,” I admit, immediately feeling like a traitor. It must be against some social law to throw your twin under the bus.

​

She lifts her eyebrows, probably because she can’t think of anything nice to say about Miles and figures it would be best to say nothing. Of course, she doesn’t really know my brother. He left town soon after she arrived, and they didn’t interact at my uncle’s funeral. She’s only seen what’s happened in his wake.

 

My phone starts buzzing, and I pull it out.

​

I flash the screen at Emily. “It’s Nonna Rose.”

​

“So you’d better answer,” she says with a knowing smile. “I don’t want that woman pissed at me.”

 

Grinning back, I answer the call. “Nonna?”

​

“Where are you?” my grandmother hisses into the receiver. “I thought you’d be home by now. You’re going to ruin the surprise.”

​

My heart immediately starts beating faster. “What surprise?”

​

“Come home,” she says fiercely. “We’ll be expecting you for dinner.”

​

With that, she hangs up on me.

​

I stare at the phone as if it might spontaneously give me answers. And hell, maybe it will. This bench is supposed to be magic, isn’t it?

​

“What’s wrong?” Emily asks.

​

Without glancing up, I answer, “Unless my grandmother has started using the royal we, she’s with someone. She said there’s a surprise.”

​

Emily’s eyes widen behind her glasses, proving that she definitely gets why I’m concerned. “Do you think…?”

 

“She would have said if it was Miles,” I insist, even though I’m not sure I believe it. Nonna Rose has been acting erratically ever since Uncle Ted passed. While he was her brother-in-law, not her brother, they’d always been close. She’s grieving—we all are—and I’m trying to support her, but some of her decisions have been flat-out strange.

​

Just last week, I saw her emerging from Theresa’s storefront on McIntosh Way. Theresa, my brother Theo’s ex-girlfriend, is a “psychic” whose “clear sight” can’t get her safely out of the grocery store parking lot. About ninety percent of her clientele is made up of bored tourists. The rest are elderly people desperate to connect with lost loved ones, which puts her firmly on my shit list. It doesn’t help that every time she sees me she rattles off the names of all the people in town whose deaths I’ve witnessed, acting like it’s impressive and not depressing.

​

When I asked Nonna why on earth she’d been talking to Theresa, she told me to stay out of her business. Then, a few days back, Nonna was watching something on the laptop Theo bought her a few years back, which she never uses. As soon as she saw me, she slammed the lid shut so hard I was surprised it didn’t crack. I joked about it being silver fox porn, and the glare she gave me was so withering, I felt it in my soul.

 

Even this morning, she did something strange. She got up at the crack of dawn to prepare the dough for panettone, which is so labor intensive we stopped making it at Christmas nearly a decade ago.

 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Emily asks, tucking a lock of red-gold hair behind her ear.

 

“No, that’s okay. But I feel like a shitty friend. You didn’t tell me anything about your day.”

 

She snorts. “There’s nothing to tell. Mr. Campbell frightened away a few tourists, and someone came in asking about the Gallagher treasure, but that’s hardly unusual.”

​

Mr. Campbell is her boss, a crochety old man who adores her, and the Gallagher treasure is another Apple Ridge legend—though it’s clear as glass that the Gallaghers would never risk someone else finding their goodies. They’d rather spend every penny they have on themselves than bury it in the ground for future prospectors to discover.

​

Emily hugs me, despite the pukey smell, because “that’s what friends do,” and we head down to the park gates together. When we get there, she peels off to return to the bookstore, and I climb into my Honda, parked in a lucky spot on the side of the road.

​

My grandmother’s house is only five miles away, located at the back of our farm, but they’re Apple Ridge miles, down narrow, twisty roads that should be one-way but are technically two, doubling the drive time. So I have a few minutes to worry about the “surprise” I’m about to find there.

​

Would Miles have really come home without saying anything to me first?

​

And if he had, wouldn’t my other siblings have been all up in my business about it? I haven’t heard from Theo or our little sister, Isabella, at all today.

​

I turn in beneath the wooden Evergreens & Apples sign my grandfather hung over twenty years ago, replacing my great-grandfather’s weather-beaten sign. He’d done that before my parents’ divorce, and my father had helped. A few weeks later, he asked my mom for a separation and informed her that he’d already accepted a job across the country. So we moved into the farmhouse with my grandparents, and we’d seen that sign every day since—a reminder of what was lost.

​

We didn’t see my father much after that, just for phone calls and holidays. Then it slipped to every other holiday, and now we only do very occasional check-ins and visits.

​

The four of us talk to our mother more, but she’s happily settled with another man, in another state, and the last thing she wants to think about is the “prison” she escaped.

​

My heart rate escalates when I see a car I don’t recognize parked next to my grandmother’s in front of our old farmhouse. It’s a green Range Rover with Maine plates.

​

Maine? Why would someone with Maine plates be here? It’s not like they could wind up here by accident. While my brother Theo’s house is close to the apple barn, our farmhouse is on the evergreens side of the farm, hidden away down a winding gravel road with a No Trespassing sign. Even the hot chocolate shack, which is open from just after Thanksgiving through the New Year, is much easier to get to from the main road than from our farmhouse.

​

A feeling of foreboding forms in my stomach.

​

“Surely not,” I mutter under my breath. “She wouldn’t…”

​

My grandmother lived in coastal Maine when she was a young woman, before meeting my grandfather. She’d kept in touch with her best friend from Maine, Francesca Cafiero, for decades.

​

In fact, “Nonna Francesca” used to bring her four grandchildren to the farm every summer, sometimes for weeks. Nonna Francesca was practically raising them the same way Nonna Rose was practically raising us. The summer visits continued right up until sixteen years ago—when the nonnas got into a shouting match at the farmer’s market that escalated into the two of them throwing apples at each other like grenades.

 

Nonna Rose had declared the other woman was dead to her and hasn’t so much as mentioned her name since. My siblings and I had stayed in touch with the grandkids for a while—at first with mailed notes, emails, and texts—and then with a passive slide into social media. Only Miles and the middle Cafiero brother, Giovanni, stayed friends after we grew up. My brother isn’t an over-sharer, so I don’t know if they’ve been in touch recently, during his remaining years, but they went on an “epic” camping trip together six or seven years ago.

​

Giovanni was the first boy I kissed, on a dare. I never doodled his initials in hearts on any notebooks, though. He was too much of an attention seeker for me, and I was convinced he was a bad influence on my brother.

Miles broke an arm one summer because Giovanni had dared him to jump over a ravine, and they were both caught stealing apples from the Gallaghers’ farm—an idiotic act, since we grow our own apples.

 

I haven’t thought about any of the Cafieros in years.

​

Frowning, I climb the porch steps and pause by the front door. I can hear voices inside speaking in rapid-fire Italian. This seems like confirmation that our visitor is Francesca Cafiero. Nonna always loved speaking Italian with her. She didn’t get to use her native language much in Apple Ridge.

​

It also explains the early-morning panettone preparation. It’s Nonna Francesca’s favorite breakfast.

I open the door and step inside, and am immediately immersed in the rich, mouthwatering scent of tomato sauce. I follow the rapid-fire Italian down the foyer and into the kitchen, my eyes widening when I step inside and see my grandmother sipping from a glass of red wine—a rare indulgence for her—next to an older woman dressed all in black like I am, stirring sauce in a massive pot I’ve never seen before.

​

Nonna Francesca looks frailer than the stout woman from my memory. This version of her would probably be less lethal with an apple, but there’s nothing soft about her features or her posture.

​

“Ah, finally.” My nonna grins as she lowers her wine glass onto the worn wooden counter next to the stove.

 

Nonna Francesca sets the ladle down on a ceramic plate and turns toward me, surprising me when she steps forward and wraps me into a hug.

​

“You’re too thin, amore. But all grown up and such a woman. You look just like your grandmother did when I first met her.” She pulls back, holding me by the shoulders. “Madonn’, the passing of the years.”

Unlike my grandmother, who immigrated to the United States when she was a small child, Nonna Francesca moved from Sicily as a young woman. She still has a lilting accent.

​

Nonna Francesca dabs at her eyes, leaving me completely baffled. I don’t remember her as a woman who cries. The last time I saw this woman, she told my grandmother she was going to outlive her so she could spit on her grave.

​

Admittedly, my grandmother has a hot temper too—all of us Murphys do.

​

I cast a confused glance at my nonna, who’s smiling and nodding. “Isn’t this a good surprise?”

 

Not really. We’re in the middle of a family crisis. The last thing we need is a visitor who enjoys throwing apple grenades.

​

But I force a smile. “Of course. Are you passing through on your way to somewhere exciting, Mrs. Cafiero?”

 

She gives me a disapproving look, her lips thinning out. “Nonna Francesca.”

​

“Of course she’s not passing through,” Nonna Rose contributes, clucking her tongue. “I invited her and her—”

 

“Bianca,” a deep, rich male voice says from behind me.

​

I whirl around and find myself face to—well, chest—with a tall, delicious-smelling man. I glance upward, and the view only improves. He has light-brown eyes, fringed with dark lashes, dark hair, and stubble. He’d look like he’d been ripped from a Versace ad if he weren’t wearing an old green T-shirt, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a gold chain, and a pair of worn blue jeans.

​

He’s one of the Cafiero boys, no doubt about that.

​

It’s been years since I’ve seen any of them in person, but somehow I know he’s Giovanni. Maybe when you kiss someone, they leave an imprint on your soul.

​

For a second, it feels like the air has been sucked from my lungs, but I know better than to be drawn in by a pretty face. Rhett Gallagher, the man I almost married, has a pretty face, and I promised myself never to fall for another showboat.

​

I straighten my back and stare up into Giovanni’s eyes as if they’re the color of dishwater, not pools of sin.

 

“You look exactly the same,” he says, sounding pretty pleased with himself. His grin stretches wider, revealing white, even teeth.

​

I cross my arms under my substantial chest. “You’re saying I look exactly like I did at thirteen?”

 

His gaze wanders downward before returning to my face, which shouldn’t feel like a victory but does. “Your personality seems unchanged too.” He sniffs, his brow creasing. “Is that…?”

 

“Your nose doesn’t deceive you. It’s vomit.”

 

Amusement dances in his eyes. “And do you smell like that on purpose?”

 

If I hadn’t already guessed which Cafiero he was, I would have known now. His brothers used to call him Chief Shit Stirrer when their grandmother wasn’t listening.

 

“Giovanni,” I say tightly. “You seem exactly the same too. What are you doing here on a Monday night? Don’t you have a job?”

 

Last I heard, he and his little brother were running the family’s business—a gourmet grocery-slash-catering business called Hidden Italy—in their small coastal Maine town whose name I can’t remember.

 

His grandmother gives him a sour look as she lifts an age-spotted hand to her neck. “I’ve prayed many rosaries for this boy.”

 

Not exactly an answer, but Giovanni seems to know exactly what she means. He has a hangdog look as he runs a hand across his stubbled jaw. “My brother Nico’s taking care of the family business for a while. Nonna Francesca and I were invited to spend a couple of months helping out at your farm. I thought you knew. Your

grandmother said everyone was cool with it.”

 

I whip a disbelieving glare at Nonna Rose.

These people are going to be living with us for two months?

​

What adult male willingly abandons his life for that long to visit his grandmother’s friend?

 

Either a saint or a sinner, and judging by past experience, I have a pretty good guess as to which he is.

 

I shift my gaze back to Giovanni, who at least has the grace to look uneasy.

 

My nonna beams at me, as if this situation is perfectly normal. “We could use help with the fall rush,” she says as if she expects there to still be one after our recent setbacks. “There’s plenty of room in the house, God knows, and they’ve offered to stay until the end of October. There’ll be plenty of work for your brother now that Ted’s gone.”

 

That’s when it hits me.

 

My grandmother doesn’t do anything without a purpose.

 

She didn’t just invite Giovanni as an add-on to his grandmother.

 

They’re here because she’s hoping Giovanni, my brother’s best friend from childhood, might be the bait that lures Miles home.

 

Chapter Two

Bianca

 

“Nonna Rose, may I speak with you in the sunroom, please?” I say tightly.

​

She doesn’t argue, for once. In fact, as soon as we’re alone, she spills the entire story.

​

The sunroom boasts an epic view of the Christmas tree half of the farm—a canopy of unchanging green. It’s usually a breathtaking view, but right now, I’m struggling to breathe through the eruption of my Murphy temper. “So after Nonna Francesca called you, you visited Theo’s fake psychic ex for guidance, and she told you to invite your mortal enemy and her grandson to live with us?”

​

I’m definitely going to exact payback on Theresa. Maybe I’ll bribe the barista at A Latte a Day to slip normal milk into her next drink.

​

 “Not my mortal enemy.” Nonna Rose waves a hand dismissively. “It was a silly argument. Our blood was up.”

“And what was this silly argument about?” I ask. Both I and all of Apple Ridge would still like to know.

 

“Water under the bridge. The point is that I called Francesca back after talking to Theresa, and we worked everything out.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s good to have her here. Like being reunited with a sister.”

To be fair, my little sister has also thrown apples at my head and told me she wants to spit on my grave. I feel myself softening. About Francesca’s presence, not Giovanni’s. “You realize Miles isn’t going to suddenly run home because he hears his old bestie is hanging out with us.”

​

She gives a world-weary shrug. “The Lord God works in mysterious ways. Miles adores that boy. Don’t you remember how he used to follow Giovanni around everywhere like a puppy dog?”

​

“Miles broke his arm because of it.”

​

I don’t mention that I also caught them drinking Grandpa’s old whiskey behind the apple barn. It would seem petty after fifteen years.

​

Nonna Rose smiles at me and nudges my arm. “You bear more grudges than I do.”

​

She’s not wrong.

​

Hurt me, fine. Hurt someone I love, and I’m not so quick to forgive and forget.

​

“Miles will come back when he comes back, Nonna. We can’t twist his arm. He’s twenty-nine.”

 

She sighs and clucks her tongue. “And still sowing those wild apple seeds.”

 

“Can we please stop calling it that?”

 

She studies me with sad eyes, probably because she knows I have a weakness for puppy dog stares. “At least Francesca’s oldest boy has chosen a wife. I have four grandchildren, and none of them are even close to settling down.”

​

“Good for Francesca.” I’m dangerously close to pouting and know it, so I add, “You know it’s a good thing Rhett and I broke up. He’s a jerk.”

​

She shrugs, pursing her lips to one side. “Your grandfather was one too, and we had a very productive marriage.”

​

“Excuse me if I don’t want a ‘productive’ marriage. And quit trying to change the subject. Don’t you think it’s weird that Giovanni packed up his whole life to come here? He’s up to something.”

​

“Yes, he’s being a loving grandson. Those other boys tried to get their grandmother to let a strange woman move into her home and take care of her. A home helper, they called her. Francesca went along with it at first, but when the time came, she couldn’t bear it. I don’t blame her one bit.”

​

“Nonna, you know I basically am a home helper, right?”

​

She cups both of my forearms, wine nearly sloshing out of the glass she’s still holding. “You didn’t go to school for all those years to become a home helper. You are a nurse.”

​

“Who spends her days getting puked on, peed on, and—”

​

“Not before dinner, cara. You go take a shower and relax.”

​

I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that, knowing Giovanni is lurking downstairs, wandering around without any supervision. Who knows what mischief he’ll get up to. Although, if he tries sneaking some whiskey, he’ll soon realize it’s the same bottle he watered down nearly two decades ago. I only drink outside of the house, and Nonna Rose never drinks at all, other than right now.

​

I’d feel better if Theo were here to keep watch.

​

I study my grandmother. “Theo doesn’t know about this, does he? You didn’t tell Isabella either.”

She takes a sip of the wine. “This is still my house, is it not? Whoever I ask to stay here is my business.”

 

“But Theo runs the farm now.”

​

“Miles owns half of it, and I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to have his friend helping out. You know those high schoolers Theo rounded up to work at the pumpkin patch on the weekends are no good. Theresa said they’ve been selling weeds.”

​

I sigh. “Nonna, you grew up in the 1960s. You know what weed is.”

​

“You treat me like an old woman,” she scoffs. “You don’t let me speak.”

​

“Okay, sorry, go on. Theresa had a vision of them selling weed, so now you want to replace them with the strange man you invited to live in our house.”

​

“She saw them selling it last weekend. With her own eyes, not in a vision. They couldn’t even be bothered to answer her questions about the pumpkins. Giovanni would be much better. Theo can put him in charge of the pumpkin patch before it gets busy next month, and I would love for Francesca to help me with all the baking. It gets lonely in the kitchen all by myself.”

​

“I’ll get you a dog.”

​

“And who’s going to vacuum all the hair?”

​

I recognize a circular argument when I’m stuck in one. “Yeah, okay. I’m going to go take a shower. But I’m telling Theo and Isabella about all of this. They deserve to know.”

​

“Very well. But wait until after dinner. I don’t want their fuss ruining our spaghetti,” she says with a sigh, as if she planned on keeping a six-foot-something man, his grandmother, and their Range Rover hidden.

 

Knowing her, she just might have managed it.

***

I take a long shower and then pull on a fresh outfit, relieved to throw today’s scrubs into the dirty clothes basket. I step into the hallway, ears attuned to sounds of our guests.

​

A low rumble of conversation drifts up the stairs, along with the smell of the sauce. I turn the corner toward the staircase, my toes burying into the soft runner, and smack into a hard body.

​

Alarm lights up every synapse, and I don’t think—I lift up both hands and shove.

​

Horror floods me as my human brain catches up. Giovanni was standing at the top of the steps, and now he’s teetering, his eyes rounding with alarm.

​

He grips the old carved banister at the same moment I fist handfuls of his shirt and pull him toward me.

He steps onto the landing, into my space, and even though he’s safe now—no chance of being accidentally murdered—I don’t release his shirt.

​

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Oh my God.”

​

He raises his arm and soothes his big hand up and down my back, seemingly unbothered by my wet hair. I’m so relieved he’s okay that I lean into him, feeling his firm, warm chest beneath my fisted hands. He must have been driving all day, but somehow he smells good. Like a spicy forest. I burrow into him for a few seconds, letting him run his hand down my back, until he whispers into my ear. “I knew you wanted me gone, but I didn’t think you’d resort to murder this fast.”

​

I don’t push him. I’m not about to make that mistake twice within thirty seconds, but I shrug out of his embrace and step backward until my back hits the wall, covered in wallpaper so old there are multiple pockets where air has gotten in. “It was an accident. You crept up on me.”

​

His big grin spreads easily across his pretty face. “I’m a six-foot-three man who lifts weights. I don’t creep up on anyone.”

​

I suck a deep breath, letting it ease out, and slide down the wall until I’m sitting. “Of course you had to mention you lift weights.”

​

“What’s the point of doing it if no one notices?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

​

“What are you doing here? Be honest.”

​

He approaches and sits against the wall beside me, his knees nearly touching mine. I want to pull away, but if I do it’ll feel like some kind of tell.

​

It strikes me that we’re sitting against the wall next to the stairs, the way two children might do if they wanted to spy on a grown-up party.

​

“Here in North Carolina, or here on this landing?” Giovanni asks.

​

“Both.”

​

He gives me a sidelong look, his face a disconcerting echo of the boy I remember. He was softer then and so much smaller. It’s wild to think that this same rug was on the floor the last time I saw him. That same paper was covering the walls. He’s been transformed, but this house has not, as if time marches slower here.

 

Do I truly look the same? Am I as unremarkable to him as this old, creaky house?

​

Finally, he says, “I’m up here because your grandmother asked me to see what was taking you so long.”

 

A half laugh spills out of me. “That was quick.”

​

“What was?”

​

I shake my head, bemused, and run my fingers across my bare ring finger. “I broke off my engagement about a year ago, and she’s impatient. She’s trying to play matchmaker.”

​

Truthfully, I might have married the asshole if Kitty hadn’t saved me. You have to be the worst kind of snake in the grass to have your own flesh and blood, not to mention a sweetheart like Kitty, warn people to run from you.

​

After I checked her vitals one morning, she gripped my wrist, the pressure surprisingly strong, and said, “My darling girl, my great-nephew asked you to take care of me because he was hoping you’d spy on me. He thought you’d feed him information about who I was leaving all of this to.”

​

All of this being her considerable fortune.

​

“Kitty, he wouldn’t do that,” I objected, but she’d given me one of her classic bless your heart looks, and after that, I paid more attention to the way he talked about her.

​

It wasn’t the fond way you’d talk about a beloved great-aunt. No, he was hungry. The Gallaghers had plenty of ancestral money, but Kitty had married a wealthy man and never had any children.

​

When he flat-out asked me if I knew what was in her will, I told him the truth: she planned on pouring the majority of her money into a fund for the town’s children and elderly. He looked me in the eye and said, “You have to help me convince her not to do that.”

​

In other words, she was absolutely correct about him.

​

Kitty was a woman of her word, and she established the fund she’d spoken about—and surprised me by appointing me the executor. But her will has been stuck in probate for nearly a year, so I haven’t been able to do anything with it.

​

Rhett and his family have slowed down the process as much as possible, filing legal objection after legal objection. It doesn’t matter to them that this was what his great-aunt had wanted, or that she didn’t forget her family in her will.

​

He’s tried to make me buckle, too, by taking shots at my family, and when that didn’t work, he bought The Rotten Apple days after I took a job there. He made it out to be a romantic gesture to win me back, but I knew the truth. He still wanted to control me, and he wanted access to that money.

​

Of course, my grandmother has been devastated by the whole thing. She’d thought the world of Rhett, right up until he showed his true colors. Now, she’s taken to throwing pretty boys at me as if they were candy.

Giovanni’s not the first. She took a shine to one of the young men who delivers packages, and for a week, we had near constant deliveries until I caught on.

​

Giovanni looks embarrassed, which is adorable, damn him. “Oh. Well. I’m not really—”

​

Laughter gushes out of me. “Oh my God. You think I’m interested in you?”

​

“What’s wrong with me?”

​

Now, I’ve offended him, but I can’t help smiling at his puppy dog eyes. “You’re not my type. Besides, you completely sidestepped the question of why you’re here in North Carolina. I don’t buy that you’re here just to protect your grandmother from a big, bad home health nurse.”

​

“Why not?” He cocks his head, smiling at me. He’s probably used to those smiles paving the way for him, but they won’t soften me. “If the nurse is anything like you, it would be a worthy cause.”

​

I glare at him.

​

He lifts his hands, his eyes sparkling now. “Don’t try to kill me again. My grandmother needs me.”

“Sure she does. You know, you don’t really strike me as the selfless, giving type.”

​

The sparkle goes out of his eyes. “And I suppose you are?”

​

“So I’m told. Is that why you’re here? You figured you could hand your grandmother’s care over to me?”

 

I’ve clearly hit a nerve, because his expression instantly hardens, his jaw resembling marble. “No, that’s my job. I’m going to take care of her. She needs to be with family, not some stranger.” Silence lingers between us for a moment before he adds, “I heard you used to be one of those death nurses. Taking care of people on their way out. Nonna doesn’t need someone fussing over her constantly to see if she’s declining. If you ask me, that kind of thing makes people go faster.”

​

“I didn’t ask. But I’d argue it allows them to pass peacefully and in the comfort of their own homes.” I just barely avoid rolling my eyes. Plenty of people, mostly men, have said the same to me.

​

“Nonna’s doing fine. She doesn’t need someone putting ideas into her head, telling her she’s got dementia.”

I can only assume that word has been floated around by someone. His siblings? Or was it a medical professional? I should know, if she’s staying here, but he’s obviously not interested in telling me.

 

“I didn’t invite either of you here,” I point out. “If you have trouble with what I used to do for a living, then you should have stayed in Maine. But no, in case you were wondering, I’m not going to follow your grandmother around with a wheelchair at the ready, or trick her into taking drugs. That’s not what nurses do outside of whatever teleromanzi you watch.”

​

He smiles. “Your grandmother watches those too?”

​

“She doesn’t have anyone to speak Italian to most of the time. I only know a few words, but I don’t need the subtitles to understand the shows. Everything is said like this.” I clap my hands and lift them up.

 

His smile slips. “Look, I shouldn’t have said all of that to you. It was shitty. It’s just…anyway…”

 

“Was that an apology?” I ask incredulously.

 

His smile reappears, showing those white teeth. Still straight, although I notice a slight overlap in his lower teeth, thank God. It makes him more human.

 

“A shit one,” he acknowledges.

 

“I’ll accept, but I notice you still haven’t answered my question.”

 

He sighs, shifting his gaze toward the stairs as if he’s considering whether taking a tumble would indeed be worse than talking to me. “Have you ever wanted something so bad and then regretted getting it?”

 

“Not really.” I try not to sound bitter, but at this moment I feel that way.

 

He runs a finger along the pile of the rug before glancing over and meeting my gaze. “Well, it’s a hell of a thing.”

 

I raise my eyebrows and make a keep going hand gesture.

 

He smiles again. “You’re no more patient than my grandmother.”

 

“I’ve lived with Nonna Rose nearly my whole life. What do you expect?”

 

“I’m here because I don’t know what I want to do. I just know that I don’t want to be stuck anymore. That’s what it felt like being in my hometown. It’s been like that awhile.”

​

“How does this translate to you getting what you want and finding fault with it?”

​

He ducks his head, his hair tumbling a bit, then looks up at me with an impish smile. “Same old Bianca. You still give Miles a hard time too?”

​

My skin prickles, and I sit up straighter. “You don’t know the first thing about my brother.”

 

“Don’t I?”

 

He groans as he gets to his feet. He lifts an arm, the bicep bunching beneath the fabric, and rubs the back of his neck before cracking it.

​

My mind is racing. Does this mean…?

​

I’d figured he hadn’t talked to Miles much since the car accident. Maybe I got it wrong, though.

Maybe he knows more about my brother right now than I do.

​

It’s a dark thought, and I snap, “You shouldn’t do that. It’s bad for your neck.”

​

Giovanni watches me, and does it again.

​

“Very mature.”

​

“Thank you,” he replies. “Now, let’s go downstairs and be told we haven’t eaten enough before we take our first bite.”

​

He holds out his hand, and I feel a small tremor of—

​

Let’s call it stupidity.

​

Still, I accept the boost, feeling his easy strength as he closes his fingers around mine and hoists me up.

 

“Have you talked to Miles recently?” I ask, trying to sound like the answer is meaningless to me.

 

He studies me with bemusement. “You changed your clothes, and you smell good, but you’re still wearing all black. Is it because of the hospice thing?”

 

“I like black. I’ve always liked it. The same way you like that necklace you always wear.”

 

He lifts a hand to the golden chain beneath his shirt as if to say, This one?

​

“Yes, that one. I’ve noticed you don’t like answering questions. Have you talked to Miles?”

​

“Sure. He’s still a good friend.”

​

Jealousy spears into my heart. “What have you talked about?”

​

“He’s working through some things.”

​

“When isn’t he?” My voice sounds bitter even to my own ears, so I swallow and try again. “What’s he working through this time?”

​

“That’s between me and Miles, Dr. Death.”

​

“That’s Nurse Death to you.” I stand up straighter. Doesn’t matter much. I’m five-three, and he’s a foot taller. But I will not let any man think he can look down on me, even if it is true in a literal sense.

 

“Enjoy the promotion, Bianca.”

 

With that, he heads down the stairs, whistling, and I very nearly regret not having let him fall.

 

Chapter Three

Giovanni

 

I’m still shoveling food onto my plate at the dinner table when my nonna says, “You eat like a bird, Giovanni. How are you going to survive if you eat like this? Here, take more bread.”

​

She plops what looks like half a loaf of bread onto my plate.

​

I catch Bianca’s eye, hoping she’ll smile, but she gives me a flat, unimpressed glower. The black she always wears makes her eyes look a richer brown. They’re dark but luminous, fringed with lashes as dark black as her outfit and wet hair. Her lips are pressed into a thin, pink line that can’t hide their plumpness.

 

She’s a knockout, and no more into me now than she was all those years ago.

​

In fact, she looked at me pretty much this same way when Miles dared her to kiss me when she was thirteen—and then leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine with as much enthusiasm as if I were a frog. Because Bianca Murphy wasn’t the kind of girl who’d pass up a dare—or enjoy it.

​

I’ve always enjoyed dares. I’ve been told I enjoy them too much, by people who know what they’re talking about. And it would seem they have a point, given that my weakness for dares is one of the reasons why I’m in this mess.

​

Bianca is still giving me a dirty look as I resume my seat. Watching me as if she wishes I’d blink out of existence.

​

It’s kind of nice to be looked at that way after the past couple of weeks of being ogled by people in the grocery store and the gym. Not to mention the people who’ve been lining up around the block to get into Hidden Italy so they can get a glimpse at me. So maybe that’s why I’m tempted to keep riling her.

​

I pick up the bread and chomp into it, lifting my eyebrows at her in a taunt.

​

“Should we say grace?” Bianca asks pointedly, glancing at our nonnas.

​

I grin as I swallow the hunk of garlic bread. “Grace.”

​

I’m not surprised when my nonna gives me a testicle-withering glare. “Sei pazzo. What’s the matter with you? You apologize to Nonna Rose. Mother of God. I never thought I’d see the day…”

​

I apologize, chastened, because Bianca was right about one thing: it’s my fault we’re here.

​

My grandmother declared last winter that she was nearing the end of her life and wanted to right all of her wrongs. Hurling the first apple in her infamous fight with Nonna Rose was one of them. But we came to Apple Ridge because of my wrongs, which, according to my grandmother, would fill the devil’s book.

 

Just a few weeks, my brother Nico told me. Go there for a few weeks, and everyone will forget what happened by the time you come home. It’ll blow over.

​

He’s wrong, of course. I turned on my cell phone before I went upstairs to look for Bianca, and there were dozens of voicemails and messages on it. People are looking for me.

​

They want to know where I’ve gone so they can follow me again. Ask me questions. Take my photo. Ask me what happens next in my story.

​

My heart races at the thought, so I shove it down and take a mouthful of food. It’s hot and good, the taste of my nonna’s sauce so familiar I feel my nervous system settling.

​

Apple Ridge is even sleepier than my hometown, and so full of elderly people, Bianca and the other medical professionals in town are guaranteed job security.

​

It’s a safe hiding place.

​

No one will be looking for my alter ego at a farm in a mountain town in the middle of North Carolina. Very few people even know about the connection between the Cafieros and the Murphys. It’s been so many years. There’s so much water under that particular bridge.

​

Yes, I’ve kept up with Miles, but Miles has barely kept up with his family. The person he’s closest to is Bianca, mostly because she won’t let him fall off the face of the earth. Which means he’s told me a few things about her over the years. So I already knew she had a broken engagement and that she works at a retirement home after she quit two better nursing jobs. I’m also aware that the farm isn’t doing well. There’s too much competition, too many rising costs, and a couple of apple harvests in the last few years were ruined by late frosts.

​

“So, Giovanni…” Nonna Rose says.

​

I set my fork down and smile at her. “Yes?”

​

“Your grandmother told me your ex-girlfriend just got married.”

​

I can feel Bianca staring at me with her big brown eyes. Her lips are probably parted, her wet hair tucked primly behind her ears. She’s growing out bangs but they keep tumbling into her face like they want to tickle her. It’s strange that I’ve already memorized her adult appearance, but maybe it’s only because she’s the first girl I ever kissed.

​

She doesn’t know that—that’s not a thing you tell a girl. But it’s true.

​

Bianca never liked me, and it’s not like I had a thing for her, but my heart did try to escape from my chest as she dipped her head toward me.

​

You remember your first kiss. Everyone does.

​

I still recall the way she tasted, like strawberry gum, and how soft her bottom lip had been. Enough that I’d wanted to test it with my teeth…

​

“Giovanni?” Nonna Rose prompts.

​

Right. She asked me about Janine.

​

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I’m happy for her. She’s a…nice girl.”

​

Because you can’t tell a woman you’re expected to call “nonna” that your ex-girlfriend sucks.

 

Up until last year, I’d been enough of a dumbass to think Janine and I were it. We’d dated all through high school, and after she moved back home, we picked up where we’d left off. I figured we’d settle down, have a couple of kids, and I’d keep running the family business with Nico. It would be a good, solid life.

Sure, I used to imagine bigger and better things. I’d dreamed of being an explorer. Acting in movies. Opening a big restaurant. But those were pipe dreams, and anyway, I could always live vicariously through Miles’s adventures.

​

There’s no room in my own life for big adventures, not anymore. Before my grandfather died, I’d promised him that I’d take care of my grandmother. That promise changed the trajectory of my life, but I don’t regret making it. Nor would I ever risk breaking it.

​

When Janine and I had been back together for about a month, I got a little drunk and told her all about my settling down plan, and she laughed at me. She told me we were just having a little fun, and fun was all I could deliver. Why, I could barely even keep a mom-and-pop shop running. According to her, my whole life was about coasting and making the easy choices, and she’d prefer to create her own waves.

 

So when I found out Hidden Italy was in big financial trouble because my grandmother had messed up the books, I decided I wouldn’t rely on my older brother Enzo to swoop in and save us, the way he always did. He did come home, and he did help, but by then I had my own plan for saving the day, one I’d only shared with my brother Nico.

​

Of course, just about everyone at home now knows what I was up to, from my grandmother to my little sister to my second-grade teacher.

​

Which is why I’m hiding in a North Carolina farmhouse, like a damn coward.

​

I heave a sigh and rub my temples, suddenly feeling every single hour I spent behind the wheel of that Range Rover, a present Enzo bought for our grandmother. Of course, we all know it was actually for me, since Nonna refuses to wear glasses and would be a menace to every man, woman, child, and squirrel in the continental United States.

​

Enzo isn’t happy with me right now either, a thought that makes me feel worse.

​

He’s my big brother, but he’s more than that. Our mother left us when we were kids—drove off one day and never came back—and my father’s solution was to isolate himself. So Enzo and my grandparents took on the job of raising the rest of us.

​

“Why you no eat?” my grandmother presses, reaching for my elbow as if she’s going to physically force the food into my mouth.

​

I’m not the slightest bit hungry anymore, but I shove in another couple of bites for her sake. “Delicious as always, Nonna.” I nod at Nonna Rose. “Nonna Rose, thank you for your hospitality and the bread.”

 

“I’m so pleased you’re here,” she says with a genuine smile. She looks like an older Bianca, although her hair has gone completely white.

​

Remembering what Bianca said about matchmaking, I decide to have a little fun. I smile at Bianca. “And I’m pleased to be here. Some of my best childhood memories were on this farm.”

​

“Is that why you came?” Bianca asks smartly. “Or do you have a sudden passion for North Carolinian pumpkins?”

​

She’s clearly fishing for information about Miles.

​

He very distinctly asked me not to tell his family anything yet. Miles hates disappointing his family, a feeling I understand all too well.

​

“I do. I remember that fifty-pound one your great-uncle grew one year. Your brother sent me a picture. Actually, I figured maybe I’d write some poetry about farming life. Start a blog.”

​

She lifts one eyebrow. “Cute.”

​

“Do you like poetry, Bianca? Maybe I’ll write one about you.”

​

She looks like she wants to throw her garlic bread at me. I’d kind of enjoy it if she did.

​

“What a charming boy,” Nonna Rose says, reaching over to pat my hand. “Such a good grandson.”

 

My grandmother snorts but continues eating her spaghetti.

​

Wheels crunch on gravel outside of the old windows.

​

My back straightens. That’ll be Theo. Miles has already warned me that his brother won’t appreciate the intrusion.

​

Nonna Rose darts an accusatory look at Bianca, who lifts her hands. “I didn’t tell him. But you do have a strange car parked in front of the house. You know Theo. He likes to drive past the house to check on us.”

 

Sure enough, the front door creaks open. A few minutes later, Theo comes around the corner. He’s about my height now, with a short brown beard and messy hair. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, old jeans, and work boots. He has Bianca’s intense brown eyes.

​

He does a doubletake when he sees us sitting at the table, and his eyes linger on my grandmother.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Bianca says, reaching for the wine bottle on the tabletop.

​

She gets up and retrieves an empty glass from the old-fashioned china cabinet, the same piece of furniture my little sister banged her head on one of our early visits to the farm. It’s wild how little this place has changed. The only evidence that time has been moving along at Evergreens & Apples farm is in the wear and tear and changes in the people who live here.

​

Bianca practically shoves a full glass of red wine into Theo’s hand, and he accepts it on reflex, then takes a sip.

​

“Do you remember the Cafieros?” Bianca asks.

​

“Of course.” He nods at my grandmother, then at me, his jaw clenching. “Giovanni, right?”

​

“Right.” I get to my feet and extend my hand to Theo. He gives it a shake, squeezing hard enough to communicate that the farm is his playground, and I’m standing on his sand.

​

“No, please don’t get up, Mrs. Cafiero,” he says, walking past me, his shoulder bumping into mine pretty purposefully as he makes his way to my grandmother.

​

“I’m not dead yet,” she says morosely. “I can still move. And you will call me Nonna Francesca.” It’s not a request, and I smile at the flustered look on Theo’s face as she stands and gives him a stiff hug.

 

“Right. Nonna Francesca. So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

​

“Wellll,” Bianca says, clearly enjoying herself more now that she has backup. “Sounds like Nonna Rose went to see your ex-girlfriend for psychic guidance. Then, on Theresa’s recommendation, she invited Nonna Francesca and Giovanni to stay with us. Giovanni’s going to take over our pumpkin patch, because the kids who worked there have been selling weeds, and Nonna Francesca’s going to help with all the fall baking.”

 

Theo takes another long sip of wine before setting the glass down on the table.

​

“You talked to Theresa?” he asks his grandmother.

​

She shrugs. “You told me I shouldn’t drive to Hendersonville or Asheville anymore. She’s the only psychic in town. She’s not so bad, though. She told me the Pink Lady Apples would be better this year.”

​

Theo studies her for a moment before turning back to me, his eyes searing me like coals. “You don’t fool me. I know why you’re really here.”

​

My pulse starts hammering, and a cold sweat forms at the back of my neck. “You do?”

​

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