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“But how do you change in a city where you can barely afford the rent, or cereal, and no one wants to give you a job?” I ask as the unknown seems to be eating me alive.
“You move to Kentbury where your brother and sister can give you a hand,” he offers. “We’ll be here while you land on your feet.”
He makes it sound so simple. “How about my kids? I can’t just leave them.”
“Didn’t you say you can’t see them until next March?” he inquires.
“Well, yes. But what if my lawyer can get me an early date?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how visitations work,” he says sympathetically. “But in the unlikely event that she does, I’ll have you in the city within hours. Once you have fifty-fifty custody, we’ll figure out how to manage that piece. Give yourself a chance to do something different. Just say the word, and we’ll plan your move to Kentbury together.”
This could be the fresh start I’ve needed, a chance to rebuild from the ground up. But can I really do it?
“I don’t know. McKay doesn’t like me—wouldn’t that be a little uncomfortable for her? The last thing I want is to upset her,” I close my eyes wondering what I’ll have to do to get her to forgive me.
“Our little sister is amazing,” Paul says fondly. “She’ll probably make you grovel but will be happy to have you here.”
I take a deep breath, hands shaking. “If you really think so . . .”
“One hundred percent, Lou,” he confirms without hesitation. “This is your opportunity for a fresh start. A chance to become the person you were meant to be. But before you decide, take some time to think it all through, okay? Call me back tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I say.
After the call ends, I’m left alone in my apartment with my anxious thoughts—too dangerous of a neighborhood to wander by myself.
I sit on the edge of my bed, the photos of my kids staring back at me. This isn’t just about me. It’s about being the mother they deserve. Can I do that while living in this cramped apartment, surviving on memories and caffeine?
No. I need to do this. For them. For me. Kentbury might not be the Big Apple, but maybe it’s the orchard I need right now. Paul suggested taking a day to think it over, but what is there to really think about?
I pick up my phone, hands still trembling slightly. I open up my messages and text Paul:
“I’m in. Let’s do this.”
As I hit send, exhilaration and terror shoot through me in equal measure. I’m really doing this. Time for a new start.
ChapterThree
Henrik
During this timeof the year, the lake in Kentbury is perfect, an icy stretch under the winter sky. I skate across it with an ease born from years of experience. This is one of the things I did with my father since I can remember—skate at the ice rink. He’s the reason I wanted to become a hockey player. So he could spend some time with me, be proud of my achievements.
Of course, as I practiced, I found the love for the game. Being on the ice is one of my favorite things and why I came willingly to Kentbury. Teaching people how to skate and coaching hockey keeps me close to it.
Though, honestly, having to deal with tourists who have never seen a pair of ice skates in their life isn’t my idea of a good time. Today I’m with a family from Arizona. They’re a mix of jittery nerves and excitement. Cameron, the youngest boy, wants to be a hockey player or an astronaut.
Someone should sit him down and tell him that the chances of him becoming an NHL player or traveling to space are just as likely as winning the lottery. I, of course, tell him that he should work hard for his dreams.
“Alright, everyone, let’s start with the basics,” I call out, skating over to the group. “Keep your feet a shoulder-width apart and bend your knees slightly.”
I demonstrate, showing them the stance. Their first few steps are tentative, some slipping and catching themselves, laughter echoing across the lake. I skate from one to the other, offering tips and encouragement. The parents are doing a better job, I’m guessing because they’re used to roller skating.
“Good job, Sarah, just relax your shoulders,” I say to the oldest daughter, who’s trying so hard she’s practically stiff as a board.
Cameron, who’s no more than seven, wobbles on his skates, his face a mix of determination and fear. I glide over to him. “Hey, there, champ. Let’s try this together, okay?” I offer my hand, and he grabs it, his grip tight. We skate slowly, and I watch as his fear turns to delight, his wobbly steps becoming more confident.
“I’m skating. Just like a hockey player,” he cries and I’m pretty sure the entire state of Vermont can hear him.
I smile back. “You sure are. Pretty soon, you’ll be ready for the big leagues,” I lie.
