| Romance Fiction posted October 22, 2025 | Chapters: |
Prologue -1- 2... 
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Marla Returns To Her Childhood Home
A chapter in the book After The Storm
Mending The Heart Chap 1
by Begin Again
Marla eased off the highway when the Hawthorne Ridge sign came into view. Her stomach tightened as it had before report cards or hard talks with her father. Then she saw the yard-sale notice, taped beneath the name and written in Mrs. Cooley's careful print, and the tension eased. A slight, unexpected warmth took hold--the kind that comes from knowing not everything has changed.
Main Street felt like a familiar friend with a new haircut. A variety of rakes leaned outside the hardware store like old men swapping gossip. The diner had a chalkboard menu, but the same dented mailbox. As she drove past the familiar spot, a bell chimed a note she could feel in her ribs — Saturdays with Papa—two pancakes, extra butter, and laughs.
A quarter mile past the last stop sign, the Bennett Orchards board swung from one good chain and one ready to give. From the road, the rows were still there--just rough. The grass had grown too high. Branches crossed where they shouldn't. The barn's red had weathered to a tired pink, the color of an old shirt she'd used to polish apples before the fall festival.
She turned into the lane. Potholes jolted the boxes in the back seat; something slid and thumped. The farmhouse sat low at the top of the rise, windows dull, paint peeling. The porch swing was still there, one chain tangled. In her head, it clicked against the post — and she remembered — midnights, curfew fights, I hear you, kiddo, sit with me till we cool off.
She parked and kept both hands on the wheel — the stitching pressing half-moons into her palms. This was her father's place — childhood, chores, Saturday pancakes, and every argument about growing up — shrunk to a house that needed a coat of paint. She had come to clean up, sign papers, and list it. That was the plan.
She wasn't sure she liked that plan anymore. For some reason, it felt like turning her back on an old friend.
She got out and walked the path to the porch, gravel crunching under her shoes. The swing nudged the post in a tired rhythm. At the door, she tried the key. It stuck, then turned.
Inside, dust and the aroma of old apples greeted her. She heard the same soft groan where the boards always gave. She set the box on the kitchen table —trash bags, cleaner, the lawyer's folder — and crossed to the back door. Through the glass, the orchard ran unevenly. Some trees were gone. Some were leaning. Some were hoping for another day.
A hammer tapped, paused, then tapped again from the far fence — steady, measured, the sound of someone working.
She stepped back outside, followed the side yard past the lilac, and shaded her eyes.
Someone was down by the back line. Distance made him a shape at first: cap, canvas jacket, one knee in the grass. He was tightening the wire along a post. She stopped halfway and watched. He didn't look up. He finished one tie, checked it with a tug, moved three posts down, and did it again.
She hesitated. She wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone. Still, you can't just let a stranger fix your fence and say nothing. She walked the rest of the way. "You're on private property," she called when she was close enough not to have to shout.
He glanced over, not startled. "Morning." He snugged the wire, clipped the tail, and stood. "Saw the section down yesterday. Deer have been coming through. Figured I'd set it back up before they took the path for good."
Marla raised an eyebrow. "You always fix fences that aren't yours?"
"Sometimes. Depends what's on the other side." He nodded toward the trees. "Be a shame to let it get chewed up."
At a loss for words, Marla asked, "Do you know orchards?"
"Enough to see what's worth saving." He wiped his hand on his jeans and pushed his cap back a little. "I'm Jonah."
"Marla. It's my father's orchard. Well, it was until he passed. Now, I guess for a few days, it's mine."
He didn't step closer or talk faster. He just looked past her at the house and then back at the rows. "If you're getting it ready to sell, a little cleanup helps. If you're thinking about keeping it —" He let that trail off, like he knew better than to finish the sentence for her.
"I'm not hiring," she said.
"Understood." He hooked the fence tool to his belt. "I've got a couple of willow ties. There's a young tree leaning into its neighbor. I can brace it while I'm here. No charge." He shrugged. "It's bothering me."
She almost said no on principle, then glanced at the tree he meant — two trunks rubbing, bark worn. "Fine. If you want." She didn't know why she'd agreed, but the words had already shot out of her mouth.
He nodded, cut two thin lengths, and crossed them between the trunks, snug but not tight. It took him two minutes. He stepped back. The trees didn't look new; they just didn't seem as likely to give up.
"That's it," he said. "If you change your mind, I'll be around for a few days. I do pruning and light repair. You get more out of the place if the rows look tended."
She folded her arms. "I'm not sure what I'm doing yet."
"Fair enough." He pointed his chin toward the barn roof. "You've got tin loose on the north side. Might want to tack it before the next wind. I can do it, or you can call someone."
"I'll handle it," she said, though she didn't know who she'd call or where to begin.
He tipped the brim of his cap. "Okay." He started along the fence, then paused. "I'll finish this line since I started it. Keeps the dogs from chasing the deer through the gap." He waited a beat, giving her room to object.
She didn't. "Leave your number," she said finally. "If I want help, I'll call."
He tore off a corner of a folded receipt, wrote a cell number on it, and handed it to her. "Good luck, Marla."
He walked the fence, quiet again. She stood there a moment with the scrap of paper in her hand, then looked back at the orchard. From here, she could see the worst row — dead gray limbs mixed with shoots reaching sideways for light. Her father would have already had a saw in his hand.
She went back to the kitchen and set the number by the sink without looking at it again. The plan was the plan. Clean, list, move on.
Still, when the wind kicked up and rattled the barn tin, she found herself checking the back field through the window. The fence line held straight where he'd tightened it. The two young trunks he'd braced had stopped rubbing.
She turned the gold ring on her finger once and stopped herself. "Think about it," she said under her breath, not sure whether she meant the tin, the trees, or the man with the cap.
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