"That's where I've been the past few days," Connie explains. "They invited me to stay with them at the farm. After they found out I didn't do it, I mean. Rayna wasn't too happy to see me at first."

"Sergeant Overby called us right away," Madeline says. "And you can imagine how upset I was that I had no way of reaching you to tell you the news." She ushers them into the dining room. "We are going to get you a cellphone, Connie Colls. I never thought much of all this technology until I realized I couldn't find you. We'll include it as part of your salary."

"That's not necessary," Connie protests, but Madeline shakes her head firmly and Connie knows better than to argue with her.

"I'm going to make us some tea. In the meantime, sit down and tell me everything. Whatever possessed you to go to the Dohertys'?"

Connie drops into a chair, happy to be back in the kitchen with all its familiar sights and smells. "I kinda ended up there. I wasn't planning on it, but I wanted to see Serena one last time. I met Mr. Doherty, and then we heard that some boys had come forward and admitted to taking Serena."

Hannah sighs. "Jamie's youngest brother Peter was part of that group of boys," she says, the disappointment clear in her voice. "They planned to unleash her in the football coach's office. She escaped before they could do anything and of course they didn't say anything because they were scared they'd get into trouble."

Madeline shakes her head. "This reminds me of what Ben, my stepson, was like when he was growing up. Steven was always quick to bail him out whenever he got into trouble, which was a lot. But in the end I don't think Ben was better for it. In fact, I know he wasn't."

"Sandra Linde and her husband feel the same way," Hannah says. "As does the school. The boys got kicked off the football team, which is huge because it's a championship year. Some of the other parents are complaining about it but the Lindes aren't going to let Peter go back on the team even if the school changes its position. They're adamant about Peter taking responsibility for this. It's not just about Serena, but about not having come forward sooner."

"To think they might have let the blame rest with Connie," Madeline sighs. "Thank goodness they had enough sense to admit the truth."

"Well, Peter, at least," Hannah says wryly.

Connie nods. "He and another boy came to the Dohertys' farm this morning," she says. "Right before I left. They volunteered to spend their weekends up at the farm until the end of the school year, helping with odd jobs around the property."

"I heard about that," Hannah says, nodding. "Peter's mom is still pretty upset, but I think she's quietly proud that Peter has stepped up, though I doubt she'll say anything for a long time. Apparently some of the other kids, like the instigator, are fighting to get back on the football team. Seeing the way Spit and his family are conducting themselves has been a real eye-opener for Peter. I think that friendship may be over, which quite honestly isn't a bad thing."

"It would have been easy to let everyone keep blaming me and go on as if nothing had happened," Connie says. "But I'm glad they came forward."

"I couldn't agree more," Madeline says with a smile.

"And I am selfishly glad you're home," Hannah tells Connie.

"I don't know how you and Madeline do it, but I'm p.o.o.ped. I think I'll stick to teaching music and joining you in the kitchen every now and then, but there's no way I could do this full-time. Oh, and one of the ladies from the sc.r.a.pbooking society called and wants your recipe for . . ." Hannah frowns as she tries to remember. ". . . Mountain Dew Apple Dumplings. Is that right?"

Connie grins. "Yep."

"Are they easy to make?"

"Very."

Hannah nods. "Well, I want the recipe, too. On top of spending every weekend at the farm, Peter's grounded on weekdays, too. This recipe might be just the thing."

"I can help you make them for him," Connie offers.

"Oh, I'm not going to make them for him," Hannah snorts. "I'm going to have Peter make them for his family. It's going to take a lot for him to get back in their good graces. If he learns how to cook, he might be a little more helpful around the house and Sandra might be inclined to forgive him a little sooner."

The women laugh. Connie looks at the thick manila file next to her. "If it's all right, Madeline, I'd like a couple more days off. I know I've been gone, but there are still a few things I'd like to get done if I could."

"I've been thinking the same thing," Madeline says. "I've checked the calendar and we don't have any big meetings or gatherings so I say we close for the week. We both need a break."

Madeline sounds so determined and Connie wants to laugh-it's as if they've made some big decision instead of merely giving themselves some much-deserved time off.

"I want you to relax and unpack," Madeline continues. "For good. I want you to make the room yours, Connie, for as long as you want to be here. Find furniture that you like, paint the walls, it doesn't matter to me. The only thing that matters to me is that you're happy and you feel at home."

Home. There it is, that word again. Connie runs her hand along the grain of the table, a small smile on her lips. "Thank you, Madeline," she says. "Maybe I'll do something different in the future, but for now I'm happy with how everything is. Instead I want to do something I've been putting off for way too long."

Both Hannah and Madeline look at her, curious. "What?" Hannah asks.

No more hiding her suitcase under the bed, for starters. Connie is going to unpack everything this time, including the pictures she's carried with her all this time. "My sc.r.a.pbook."

It's early Monday morning and Isabel is walking the perimeter of her house, a notebook in hand, when she hears a honk from the street.

"Hey, Isabel!" Ian Braemer pulls up to the curb, then leans over and rolls down the pa.s.senger-side window. "I guess congratulations are in order."

Isabel gives him a puzzled look. She walks over to his truck.

Oh, he looks good. Nice smile, rugged features, laughing eyes. He's wearing a barn jacket, flannel work shirt, and jeans. She shivers in her coat even though she's comfortably warm. "Hi, Ian. Congratulations for what?"

"You sold your house! Sign's gone." He nods to the empty s.p.a.ce on her lawn. It's only been a few days but so much has happened that Isabel almost forgot the sign used to be there.

"I didn't sell the house," she tells him. "I called the buyers and told them it was off. They weren't the right people to be living here after all."

There's an expression on Ian's face that she can't quite read. "Oh," he says. "Are you going to put it back on the market?"

She shakes her head. "I've decided to keep it. I'm going to stay in Avalon."

Ian's face breaks into a grin and Isabel finds herself smiling even though she doesn't know why.

"What's so funny?" she asks.

"What? Nothing." He quickly composes himself and Isabel laughs as he dons a serious expression. "Nothing whatsoever. It's a good day, that's all."

Isabel laughs again. "So what are you doing here? Are you checking up on me?" She's kidding, of course, but Ian suddenly looks embarra.s.sed.

"No, no," he says hastily. "I have a job down the street getting Josie McGowan's exterior ready for winter."

"Josie McGowan?" This catches her off guard.

"Yeah, I met her when we were sifting through all the ash last week. Met a lot of nice folks-you have a great neighborhood here." Ian nods down the street.

Isabel's nose wrinkles as she follows his gaze down the street. Josie McGowan? Josie with her pouffy hair and short skirts, her dominatrix black leather stiletto boots? Josie McGowan is the other single woman on the street, not widowed like Isabel but divorced. Twice. And she's a smoker, too. She doesn't seem like Ian's type at all.

Ian frowns. "Did I say something wrong?"

Isabel turns her attention back to him. "What? No, why?"

"Because you have this look on your face like you smelled something bad." He pretends to sniff his underarms. "Nope, not me. Fresh as a daisy."

Isabel laughs. "Sorry. Just . . . so, um, what kind of work will you be doing for Josie?"

"Just your basic winterizing of the house," he says. He starts ticking items off on his fingers. "Put garden hoses away, clean the gutters, blow out the sprinkler system, and so on. But Josie wants to make sure her driveway and walkways are cleaned and sealed. Most concrete and masonry surfaces have a hard time with the freeze and thaw cycles so her driveway is cracked in places. Throwing on salt and other ice-melting chemicals can make it worse."

"I never knew that," Isabel says. Then she adds quickly, "I should probably have you look over here, too."

Ian glances at her driveway. "Actually, you're in pretty good shape," he says. He leans on the steering wheel. "I noticed that before when I was working on the porch."

Isabel clears her throat. "Well, better safe than sorry," she says. "I haven't given the house much attention until now, and it's probably suffered as a result. Now that I'm staying, I should make sure everything's okay."

Ian shrugs. "Sure, but I don't think you have anything to worry about." He points to her roof. "Though you might need to get those gutters cleaned sometime soon."

Isabel had noticed that, too. "I've been meaning to get someone to work on them," she says. "Is that something you could you do, too? How much would it cost for everything?"

Ian's cellphone starts to ring. He checks the number. "Oops, looks like I'm a few minutes late to Josie's house." He presses a b.u.t.ton and lifts the phone to his ear. "Hi, Josie. Yes, I'm heading over right now. Just giving Isabel a couple of tips about her house . . . yes, of course I'll do the same for you. Okay. See you in five." He hangs up with an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry. Duty calls. Tell you what. I'm committed to Josie's during the week, but I'll swing by on Sat.u.r.day and start in on those gutters. We'll play the rest by ear. Eight a.m. sound good?"

"Yes." Isabel feels giddy at the thought of seeing him again, wonders what other projects she can throw his way. "Oh, and I promise not to greet you in my pajamas."

Ian feigns disappointment. "Maybe I'll knock on your door an hour earlier then."

"Don't you dare!" she says, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. She already knows what she'll wear: jeans and a tangerine V-neck sweater that's been calling her name this past week. She'd pulled it out of her closet, her white clothes stark and bland against this unexpected burst of color. It was then that she started thinking that maybe Yvonne was right, that it was time to put away her all-white wardrobe, but not because it's way past Labor Day, but because Isabel is ready for a little more color in her life.

He grins. "Okay, okay. Eight it is. Oh, and you never did tell me how you like your coffee." His phone starts buzzing again but he presses a b.u.t.ton to turn it off, his eyes still on Isabel.

"Black," she says. "With two sugars."

He taps the side of his head. "Black, two sugars. Got it." He gives her a wave as he heads back to his truck, his phone buzzing once again. He ignores it. "See you on Sat.u.r.day, Isabel. And if you decide to open the door in your pajamas, I won't complain."

Forever Family, Frances types into her keyboard. She looks at the computer display and, satisfied, hits ENTER.

It takes a second, and then suddenly there it is: the family photo taken last Christmas, her and Reed on the couch, the boys scrunched up around them, looking goofy for the camera. Mei Ling's picture appears in the corner with FOREVER FAMILY scrolling across the frame. Frances grins, proud.

Frances had been following the adoption blogs of other families, admiring the level of detail and information, grateful that people were so forthcoming about their adoption experiences. At first she didn't understand how people had time to write or blog about their life, much less post pictures and provide links to other resources and like-minded websites, until she realized that keeping a family blog was what kept them sane. Chronicling daily life before, during, and after the adoption seemed to help to make the hard days bearable and the good days a celebration. Frances also figures it's a great way for grandparents and friends to check in and see pictures of the kids whenever they want. Her secret hope is that over time Nick, Noah, Brady, and Mei Ling will write their own posts and journal entries, too. Maybe even Reed.

The best part is that at the end of the year she's going to figure out a way to print everything into a book and bind it. She'll do it annually, create a Latham family yearbook of sorts, and she'll make enough copies for everyone. Frances enjoys making special sc.r.a.pbooking alb.u.ms but she wants to find a way to chronicle everyday life in a way that's easy to manage without stacks of photos everywhere. She especially loves the idea that the kids will have these growing up and can take them with them when they start their own families. After all, isn't that what memory keeping is all about?

In the sidebar, Frances types in the addresses to the adoption blogs that have given her the most support, especially the other families who have children with congenital disorders like Mei Ling. Right now Reed and Frances have no choice but to go by the medical report, which is insufficient in so many ways, but they won't know the full extent of Mei Ling's condition until she's here with them. Frances already has spoken with pediatric cardiologists at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago and at the University of Illinois. She even found a pediatric cardiology practice in Rockford that has worked with many adopted children with heart issues. Cincinnati's Children's Hospital also has extensive pediatric services, and it's a comfort to know these resources are so close and available to them.

The biggest challenge, Frances knows, is that both diagnosis and treatment have been delayed for so long that issues that might have been addressed or resolved earlier are now intensified and more severe. Emboldened by their decision to go through with the adoption, they pushed for more information, for every sc.r.a.p of detail. They got reports of how Mei Ling would sweat whenever she was being fed and was more tired than other children. Like many other adopted children, Mei Ling is smaller than other children her age and has that awful "failure to thrive" label. Frances tries not to get upset at the thought of Mei Ling's heart working so hard just to keep her alive.

But one look at her picture, at Mei Ling's smiling face, and Frances knows this child has a spirit that matches her own. She plans to do anything and everything in her power to give Mei Ling a shot at living a full and happy life, just as she would any of her children.

This next year will be filled with doctor's appointments as they try to a.s.sess the true nature of Mei Ling's health and medical needs. What they know (or think they know) is that Mei Ling has ventricular septal defect, or VSD. Simply put, there's a hole in the wall of her heart and she'll need open-heart surgery shortly after her arrival. Frances also knows that there may be other medical problems that weren't disclosed in the report or that may crop up later. But how is that different from anything else in life? There is no crystal ball, no money-back guarantee.

Frances decides to keep her growing to-do list on the blog as well. She's done her best to research what to bring and not to bring on their trip, and their adoption agency has been immeasurably helpful in getting them prepared. Still, Frances likes hearing from other families who've been on the ground and especially those traveling with children because she and Reed have decided that they're all going to get Mei Ling, even three-year-old Brady. As expensive as it is, it's precious and important for so many reasons. As much as they want Mei Ling to become a part of their life here in Avalon, they want to become a part of her life and heritage in China, too.

Frances plugs in her camera and uploads the pictures from the other day. She and the boys made fried rice and broccoli with oyster sauce, both of which were easier than she expected. Reed was able to join them and found a simple recipe for a cold sesame cuc.u.mber salad, which he made by himself. They ate everything in less than ten minutes. Frances knows it's a far cry from authentic Chinese cuisine, but it's a start. She decides to include the recipes alongside the photos.

Her oven timer dings, telling her that the thirty minutes she set aside for the blog is now up. Time to move on to other ch.o.r.es, like packing. Because as soon as they get the green light, the Lathams are going to China.

"No, no, no!"

It's a steady cry, a wail even. Ava clutches her purse and debates ringing the bell, but then Isabel's front door opens and Bettie stumbles out, still dressed in her nightgown even though it's mid-morning.

"No no no no no no no no no no," she's saying. A second later Isabel and a woman Ava doesn't recognize appear behind her. "I said no!"

"Is everything all right?" Ava asks.

"Does everything look all right?" Isabel looks exasperated. She turns to the other woman. "Imogene, I told you to let me tell her!"

Isabel tries to corral Bettie back into the house. Bettie breaks free and starts pacing the porch, distraught.

"Bettie, dear, think of the fun we'll have!" Imogene coos, her voice forced gaiety. "Abe has set up your room with a view of the backyard and we can plant flowers come spring. We'll watch all our favorite shows in the afternoon, play a little bunco with the ladies, host a few sc.r.a.pbooking crops at the house. Whatever you want."

"No," Bettie moans.

Ava can tell that Isabel is agitated, but Isabel seems to rein it in as she puts a gentle arm around Bettie's shoulder. "You'll have such a good time," she a.s.sures Bettie. "And I'll come visit whenever you want."

"But I want to stay here," Bettie pouts. "In my house."

Isabel leads Bettie to the porch railing and points to Bettie's lot. "Your house burned down, remember? We're trying to figure out what to do, but Imogene and Abe want you to live with them until then. She's got your room all ready. And she has lots of sc.r.a.pbooking supplies, I hear."

"Oh, yes," Imogene is nodding. "Society members were quite generous, Bettie, and Abe let me convert our den into a crafting room. It's a sc.r.a.pbooker's dream, you'll love it, I promise." She gives her friend's hand a pat, and it seems to calm her down.

"Well," Bettie sniffs. "All right." She turns to Ava, noticing her for the first time. She brightens, no longer distraught, and Ava wonders if Bettie even remembers the past few minutes. "Ava! Where's Matt?"

"Max is in preschool," Ava says gently. At the mention of her son's name, Ava notices that Isabel frowns. "Though I'm sure he'd love to be here."

"He is such a cutie pie," Bettie says. "And those gla.s.ses!" She guffaws. The Bettie of thirty seconds ago is no longer, and in its place is the Bettie Ava first met in Margot's shop two months ago.

"Come on, in you go," Isabel says, ushering Bettie back inside.

Ava has the funny feeling that she's imposing, and quickly digs into her purse and brings out a small pouch.

"I wanted to drop this off," Ava says, handing it to Isabel. "I found it in one of the boxes you gave me, but I don't know what it's for. I figured it fell in there by accident. I didn't want you to worry in case you couldn't find it."

Isabel stops to open the pouch, and a small key falls into her hand. She doesn't seem to recognize it.

"I've never seen this before," Isabel says, turning it over in her palm. She frowns, thinking.

Bettie peers around Isabel, nodding. "Hey, I have one of those," she says. "For my safe-deposit box at the bank."

"You have a safe-deposit box?" Isabel turns to look at her. "You never told me that!"

Bettie shrugs. "I forgot. Not that any of us should be surprised by that."

Isabel turns and heads to the kitchen, the other women in tow. "That's right," she says, remembering. "Yvonne and I found a key under that stone angel on your porch when we were trying to get in your house. I can call Charlotte Snyder at Avalon State Bank and see if she has any record of your box. If she does, I'm sure we'll be able to get them to open it." Isabel's suddenly excited.

"And yours, too," Ava adds. "I mean, maybe they can open your box, too, now that you have the key."

Isabel unfurls her palm and stares at the key again.

"But it's not mine," she says. "Bill and I never had a safe-deposit box. Are you sure it was in one of the boxes I gave you?"