Excerpt of Home to River's Edge by Nan Reinhardt

He swiped at the tear that had escaped and was running down his cheek. “Okay, I waited until the last possible day to keep this promise, but now I don’t know if I can do it.” He pressed his lips together. “I need your help, Angel. Show me how. Give me a sign that going back up there is the right thing to—”

A thump and a jolt shook him, and when he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw a cream and blue ragtop sports car out his back window. Holy hell. Somebody had rear-ended him? Seriously? On this deserted lane that led up to maybe six houses? He turned off the car, jerked on his knit cap, and got out.

The woman in the little vintage Mustang was shaking her head as she pounded her gloved fists on the steering wheel. Her words weren’t totally clear through the closed window, but he caught enough of it to know that she was turning the air inside the car the same shade of blue as the exterior. The car looked familiar, and when he peered closer, so did the woman. Surely this couldn’t be . . .

She scowled over her shoulder at him, blinked, then her brow furrowed, and as she came closer, her tone softened. “Eli? Eli Walker? Is that you?”

Cripes! It is Jasmine Weaver!

Even after being away from River’s Edge for nearly fifteen years, Jasmine Weaver still took his breath away. Petite, in dark denim jeans and a toast-colored wool blazer over a creamy ivory sweater, and sporting a pair of tan suede, fuzz-lined boots, she was the picture of a successful career woman in spite of the fact that she was ranting and waving her arms at what he thought was a pretty minor accident. Her shiny dark hair was styled in a cut that curved just below her chin and bounced when she shook her head. He remembered it had been long, almost to her waist, when she’d been a cheerleader at River’s Edge High.

She was thin. Too thin. The Weaver triplets were all south of average height, coming to just below his shoulder, and all three of them had always been tiny, but delectably curvy—Jo and Jenny still were. He’d just seen them the other day when he stopped by the Tea Leaf Café for a to-go cup of Holly Flaherty’s Paris tea that fueled his days. This afternoon, Jazz’s jeans were a bit baggy in the behind, the knobs of her wrists stuck out below the cuffs of her sweater, and her watch slid around on her too-skinny arm.

She stood still for a few seconds, not speaking, allowing him a chance to also notice that although she was still gorgeous, she appeared . . . tired. Purple shadows smudged the delicate skin below her golden-brown eyes, and despite her red cheeks, she was pale.

He should speak. Say something intelligent, but his brain was still processing the fact that Jasmine Weaver was standing in the snow in front of him, so he simply smiled. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Jazz.”

With a moan, she leaned against the front fender of the Mustang and dropped her head. “Of course it’s you. Sure. Absolutely. What would cap this year off any better than landing in my hometown and slamming into the guy who dumped me three days before the senior prom—a guy I haven’t spoken to or even thought of in ages? But as fate would have it, here we are. Because my life has become a surreal nightmare that I can’t seem to wake up from.”

Suddenly, she spun around and jerked the car door open, nearly trouncing on his hiking boots in the process. After shoving the driver’s seat forward, she grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from a cloth wine carrier on the floor and unscrewed the cap. Throwing him a look that dared him to stop her, she tossed back a slug of whiskey in one quick gulp. Eyes watering, she coughed and swiped the back of her hand over her lips and then wordlessly held up the bottle in invitation.

Jack Daniels—Amy’s drink of choice, over ice and mixed with ginger ale. Jack and ginger. He only debated for a second before he accepted the bottle and took a swig, feeling the whiskey warm him from the inside out. Then it hit him with the force of the Ohio River at high-flood stage. “Oh my God! It’s you! You’re the sign!”