Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) by Merry Farmer Page A

1950s. On the other side of the north wing, a flagstone patio looked off the other side of the hill onto miles and miles of rolling, untamed, pine-covered hills. It was the ideal place to take in a sunset in the summer. Right now it probably looked like a picture postcard or the January photo for a high-end calendar. In fact, it had once been the January photograph for a calendar that Nick had been involved in shooting.
    Speaking of Nick, it was a relief to see his SUV parked in front of the house. She pulled up beside it and cut her engine.
    “Home at last,” she sighed, grabbing her purse and pushing open the car door and meeting the blast of freezing Maine air. Everybody raved about how gorgeous and rugged and perfect Maine was in the summer—when the whale boats took vacation-goers out on the ocean, lobster was in abundance, and hikers went moose-hunting in the mountains. No one wanted to deal with the below freezing temperatures and biting winds of winter. But as far as Jo was concerned, that was when Maine was at its secret best.
    Her sneakers crunched along the snow-covered driveway as she walked swiftly around to the east wing of the house and to the kitchen door. No one used the front door unless it was a holiday or an emergency.
    The fragrant steam of soup bubbling on the gas stove met her as she stepped into the mud room.
    “Mmm, what a way to come home,” she sighed, knocking snow from her sneakers before crossing from the mud room to the kitchen itself.
    “I thought you were only going down to New York for the day,” Nick greeted her, all concern. “I expected you home hours ago.”
    “Thanks, Mom,” Jo laughed. She carried her purse through the long, open kitchen, through the corner of the dining room—which was big enough to host an epic feast—hanging it on the railing at the bottom of a massive, curving staircase. Great-Grandfather Burkhart had loved that staircase, as the dozens of antique photos taken of him and Great-Grandma Helen, their kids, their grandkids, and a few notable historical figures who had come to visit, attested.
    With her purse in the spot where she kept it so she wouldn’t lose it, she headed back to the kitchen.
    “I sent you a text when I stopped for gas in Connecticut,” Jo defended herself belatedly.
    “I got it,” Nick nodded. “I was concerned is all.”
    Jo grinned and crossed to hug him. Nick was her little brother, but he was six inches taller than her and built like an oak. His long hair was tied back, and his hipster beard and moustache made him look every bit like the adventurous photojournalist he’d been for the last eight years.
    “Can I have some of that?” she asked, nodding to the soup even as she crossed to get a bowl from the cupboard.
    “That’s what it’s here for,” Nick answered. He left the soup and opened the oven. Another drop-dead amazing scent filled the air—homemade bread. Nick was going to make some woman a brilliant husband one day. If he could stay in the same spot for more than a few weeks at a time.
    “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” Jo asked, helping herself to soup and a glass of water, then setting herself up at the kitchen table. It was the same kitchen table her family had eaten at when she was a kid, the same table her dad had eaten at when he was a kid, and the same probably went for her Grandpa Joe too.
    “It snowed,” Nick stated the obvious. “The bill for plowing is on the counter there.”
    Jo made a growling, choking sound, stirring her soup.
    As if sensing where her thoughts had gone, Nick glanced to her and asked, “How did your meeting with Diane go?”
    There was no sense keeping the worst from him. “Frost Square will only give me ten thousand as an advance for the optioned book.”
    Nick’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head as he took the bread from the oven. Coming from Nick, that was as good as throwing a fit.
    Jo sighed, resting her elbows on the table and rubbing her face.