People said spring was a sign of rebirth and renewal. A time to clean up and clean out—rooms, closets, gutters, the past. Especially the past. But was that really true? Christine Desantro studied the sun-drenched roads as her husband navigated the SUV from one winding curve to the next. Soon, they would reach the cabin and the final reminder of her father’s secret past.

She’d believed in him, trusted in his honesty and ability to protect her from the harshness of the world. How could she have known he would be the one to deceive her, crush her heart, and leave her with a sadness she would carry deep in her soul for the rest of her life?

There would never be a good time to return to the cabin, not when memories of betrayal clung to the walls and deceit stretched over the chenille bedspread. For fourteen years, they’d all believed this was where Charles Blacksworth sought refuge each month from the demands of running a powerhouse investment firm. It had been nothing more than a grand lie, one that had threatened to destroy her, but ended in her redemption. If not for the lie, she’d never have ventured to the cabin and found her way to Magdalena and the Desantros. She would not have met Miriam, or Lily, or Nate, and she would not have opened her heart to them and found love and a sense of belonging.

The pain and anger of those days were hard to recall, as was the intense dislike for the man who would become her husband. Those emotions seemed almost implausible, as though they belonged to someone else’s life, certainly not hers. She and Nate shared a love and commitment built on a foundation of trust and respect. But there had been a time when life had been very different, and she feared visiting the cabin would dredge up the old feelings she’d had about the Desantro family, including Nate.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Nate’s voice broke through her thoughts, his tone soothing and serious. He’d once vowed he’d never let anyone or anything harm her, including her mother. But what about the memories living inside her head? What about the past life in Chicago he would never really understand? She’d had a mother who believed net worth had a direct correlation to self-worth, and a father who maintained a facade that bore no resemblance to what lay in his heart. How could they not have left scars?

She’d postponed this trip as long as she could, citing one excuse after another: pregnancy, a second child, the holidays, Uncle Harry’s birthday. Nate had been patient, but when the new year came, his resolution to sell the cabin came with it.

“Babe? Tell me what you’re thinking.” He reached for her hand, squeezed.

Christine wished she were back in Magdalena with the girls and the new color-coded recipe notebook Nate had given her last week. It was a compilation of Desantro recipes with easy-to-follow steps that he’d assured her could not be ruined. He dubbed them “Christine-proof” and while some wives might take issue with their husband’s insinuation that they were horrible cooks, she found his attempt to rectify her lack of culinary skills endearing. And that’s why at this very moment she wished she were home, attempting the “Christine-proof” version of aglio olio with angel hair so she could surprise him with dinner. Instead, they were winding along country roads toward the place that had been yet another piece to the mystery of her father. “I don’t want to be doing this—” she turned in her seat to face Nate “—but if I have to, I’m glad you’re with me.”

“I’m always here for you, no matter what.” His expression grew fierce, the grooves around his mouth deep. “I hate that you have to go through this. I’d have come here myself, but Harry gave me a bunch of crap about seeing the place one last time so you could have closure.”

“Uncle Harry said that?” She smiled at the thought of her uncle spouting off bits and pieces about living right and finding an authentic path. Who would have thought the man who lived for trips to his favorite restaurant and the perfection of his golf swing would change so much? “He’s becoming a real philosopher, isn’t he? And a mind reader, too.” He was definitely right about the closure part. Get rid of the baggage, Chrissy girl, he’d said. If you don’t, it will turn into regret and sink you.

Nate shrugged, his lips pulling into a grudging smile. “The man has almost as many sayings as Pop. I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t going to be the next Godfather of Magdalena.”

“Imagine that?” She laughed, but the idea wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. The town admired Uncle Harry, and not only that, they listened to him.

“Yeah, imagine Harry turning into Pop.” He slid her a glance, his dark eyes filled with humor. “Think we should add high-tops and jogging pants to your uncle’s wardrobe?”

“Now that would be a sight.”

They spent the next several minutes reworking Uncle Harry’s wardrobe to include T-shirts with sports team logos, baseball caps, and running jackets—using materials like cashmere, gabardine, and pinpoint cotton. Of course, he’d have to learn the art of making the perfect pizzelle, but Lily would help with that, and Pop could teach him how to read his “audience” when telling a story.

“You know what Harry’s biggest challenge would be, don’t you?”

She raised a brow. “Keeping the cuss words in his head?”

That made him laugh. “Nope. That’s second. The old boy’s biggest challenge would be swapping out those designer duds. Not sure he could do that, even if the fabric was high-end. T-shirts and sweats just aren’t his style.”

“Unless he’s exercising. Then he’s all about comfort and performance gear.” She clasped her husband’s hand, leaned back in the seat. “Thanks for trying to take my mind off of what we’re doing.”

“Who? Me?” He shrugged. “I’m just the driver.”

“You’re my center, Nathan Desantro.” She lifted his hand, kissed it. “You keep me focused and steady, and you give me strength to make the difficult choices.” Another kiss. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “We’re a good team. Some days I feel like we’ve been together forever. And then there are others, where it seems like just yesterday that you showed up at my mother’s door looking for Lily.”

“You’ve learned patience since then.”

The grin he gave her said he agreed. “Yeah, well, I was pretty rough around the edges back then. Uncivilized, I think you called me?” The grin spread. “But you didn’t seem to mind.”

“Because I saw the real man behind the gruff exterior, the gentle one who would do anything to protect his family.”

“You saw a lot more than I wanted you to see.” He sighed and shook his head. “And once you got inside my head, you camped out and wouldn’t leave.”

“I kind of like knowing what’s going on up there. Very entertaining.”

The scowl came next. “I’m sure it is.”

Christine laughed and squeezed his hand. “Probably almost as entertaining as knowing what’s rambling around in mine.”

His lips twitched. “No man will ever admit to knowing what’s going on in a woman’s head.”

The comfortable bantering continued and made Christine almost forget what lay ahead. No doubt, that was her husband’s plan, one she should have noticed if her words rang true and she always knew what was going on in his head. She liked to think she did, but with a man like Nate Desantro, a person never really knew. What she did know was that she had his love, his trust, and his commitment, and she didn’t need more than that.

Nate rounded another bend and the cabin came into view: a bit older, a bit shabbier, but pretty much as she remembered it. Her husband eased the SUV up the gravel drive, stopped several feet from the wide-slatted, wooden door, and let out a low whistle.

“So, this is the place. Pete’s going to have his work cut out for him.” He scanned the broken window, the sunken front steps, the birch tree. “Good thing he’s got nowhere to be.”

Nate was talking about Pete Finnegan, Jack Finnegan’s West Coast son, the one who’d returned to Magdalena a month ago under a cloud of questions and mystery. Some said his departure from California where he’d worked as some kind of real estate guru had more to do with a woman and less to do with the change of pace he’d said he needed, while others insisted family drove him home, maybe even the desire for a family, as in rekindling with an old girlfriend. Whatever the reason, Pete Finnegan didn’t comment one way or the other, his blue eyes intense, his tanned face serious. He was handsome in a rugged blue-jeans-flannel-shirt way; a man who spoke less than Nate, which made the town all the more curious to find out his story. Christine climbed out of the SUV and followed her husband to the front door. “You still have no idea why he’s back?”

“Nope.” He fit the key in the lock, jiggled it back and forth a few times before pushing open the door. “And don’t start asking around.” Nate glanced over his shoulder and raised a brow. “No inquiries to Bree Kinkaid either. All that woman needs is a whiff of something and she’s on the hunt.”

Christine stared at her husband’s back as he made his way into the cabin. “Doubtful. She’s too busy planning her wedding right now to care about a little bit of gossip.”

Nate laughed. “If you think that, then you don’t know Bree Kinkaid. That woman will be sniffing out stories when she’s walking down the aisle.” He reached for her hand, smiled. “Forget about Bree, okay? Let’s take a look around.”

She’d prefer to continue talking about Bree’s antics and the new man in town’s motives for being there—anything but dealing with the memories inside the cabin. The place reeked of desolation and emptiness. The blue-and-cream-plaid couch with the matching cushions was a bit more faded, the small coffee table and hurricane lamp covered in dust. Her gaze landed on the blue ceramic ashtray, an interesting choice for a man who did not smoke. Why was it here? What did it mean?

“Christine?” Nate squeezed her hand, said in a gentle voice, “Let’s just get through this place and then we’ll hit the road. If you see anything you want, let me know. We can box it up and take it with us now or set the stuff in a pile for Pete. He’s got a big truck, so that won’t be a problem.”

Her husband knew how to calm her, knew also how to burrow inside her heart and let her know he’d always be there for her. She nodded, touched his jaw. “Thank you.” She glanced at the blue ashtray again, pointed to it. “I know this sounds silly, but I think I want the ashtray. Dad never smoked but he bought my mother beautiful ones when they were first married.”

“Okay, an ashtray it is.” Nate snatched up the ashtray and tucked it under his arm. “Anything else from the living room? Books? The lamp?”

She shook her head. “It was probably a waste to come here. Pete could have boxed up the whole place and I wouldn’t have missed a thing. I don’t know why we didn’t just ask him to do that.”

“Because you need closure, and coming here one last time is important. It doesn’t matter that your father moved to Magdalena at some point and abandoned this place. What matters and what you should think about is that he did live here, and not only that, the reason he came here at all was to rest and rejuvenate. Think about that and not what happened after.”

“You almost sound like you’re championing his cause.”

He raised a brow, the brackets on either side of his mouth deep. “Hardly, but I can appreciate his intentions, even though he couldn’t carry them through. The guy had a helluva lot to deal with every month.”

“You mean my mother?”

Those dark eyes turned black. “Yeah. Your mother.”

Nate would never forgive or forget the pain she’d caused them, and he didn’t like talking about that time in their lives, but he never tried to stop Christine if she felt the need to bring it up, usually to work out an issue. “I wish my father had told me how unhappy he was.” She moved to the bathroom, flicked on the light and took in the old double-faucet sink, the rust around the chrome fixtures, the porcelain tub with claw feet. Her gaze narrowed on the cracked bar of soap sitting in a white plastic tray: the same soap she’d seen the first time she came.

Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.

“How was your father supposed to let you know he was unhappy? You were his daughter; you worshipped him. He couldn’t tell you he was living a lie and kept another family you didn’t know existed.” He sighed, dragged a hand along his jaw. “I get it. If Anna and Joy lost faith in me, I couldn’t stand to see the disappointment on their faces, and they haven’t been walking this earth very long. Your father had twenty-some years with you.”

“I don’t know whether to be annoyed or moved that you’re trying to justify his actions.”

He shrugged. “I’m trying to be logical about it.” He paused, added, “Speaking as a father. Of course, if he hadn’t put himself in that position, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“True.” She studied him, the dark eyes, the firm set of his lips, the furrowed brow. Nate Desantro was an unbending man who believed in honor and integrity, and she loved him for it, even when those values got in the way of things like forgiveness and second chances. “If he hadn’t done what he did, we wouldn’t be standing here now, would we?”

Nate stroked her cheek, his voice rough. “Nope.”

“Exactly.” She leaned on tiptoe, placed a soft kiss on his lips. “There’s nothing but dust and sadness in this place. I don’t know why I thought it might be different.”

“Now you know.” He took her hand, led her down the hall toward the bedroom. “Let’s check out the rest of the place and then we can get started on Pete’s list. Maybe we can find a little restaurant in the next town on our way home.” He slung an arm around her shoulders and smiled down at her. “Okay?”

She nodded, walked with him into the bedroom, her gaze settling on the chenille spread. It brought back too many reminders of the lies that had lived below the surface of her family’s existence, pretending normal, stretching into other areas, making them doubt and lose trust. Christine turned away, moved toward the chest of drawers, pulled one open. Nothing but a lint brush and a comb. The second drawer revealed two folded undershirts and a pair of white athletic socks. She picked up the socks, traced the ribbing, wondered if he’d started wearing these when he added flannel to his wardrobe.

“Christine?”

There was so much she’d never know about her father.

“Christine!”

She swung around, noticed the mattress against the wall, the chenille spread and cream sheets bunched on top of it, the pillows tossed on a chair in the corner. The bed had been stripped of everything but the box spring. “Nate? What are you doing?”

The dread in those dark eyes turned darker, his voice deeper. “I thought I’d make it easier for Pete to paint. It’s so damn small in here I was worried he wouldn’t have room for a stepstool, let alone a ladder. I figured I’d move the bed to the other side of the room and flip the mattress while I was at it. My mother was always big on mattress rotation.” He held out a hand, tossed several white envelopes onto the box spring. “But I’ll bet she never found anything like these.”