Excerpt of Once Upon A Valentine by Stephanie Bond, Leslie Kelly, Michelle Rowen

The sign read Welcome to Tiny, Tennessee, Population 1345.

Andrew MacMillan sighed and pulled his hand over his
mouth—make that 1344. His father, retired veterinarian
and widower, Barber MacMillan, had passed away sitting in a
rocker on his front porch with a smile on his face. That was
according to Red Tucker, his father's neighbor, accountant
and best friend of seventy years who had found him the day
before yesterday. Leave it to his father, Andrew thought
wryly, to die as he'd lived—on his own terms.

Since Andrew's trip would be openended, to arrange the
funeral and settle his father's affairs, he'd decided to
drive from Manhattan to Tiny to have use of his car.. and to
think. He and his father hadn't been estranged, exactly,
just cut from a different cloth. The fact that Andrew's
mother had died when he was a teenager hadn't helped
matters. She'd had a knack for mediating father-son
squabbles with sugary words and buttered biscuits. Without
her loving lubrication, the men had clashed.

But when Andrew had decided to attend college in Ohio, his
father hadn't held him back. Then again, he hadn't made the
trip to attend graduation. And although he'd congratulated
Andrew on landing a plum job with a big advertising firm in
Manhattan, he'd never once visited in thirteen years.

On the other hand, Andrew hadn't been the best at visiting,
either. He'd tried to make it back to the MacMillan farm for
a few days every year around the holidays, but last year
things had been too busy at the firm and he simply couldn't
get away.

Regret ballooned in his chest, but he couldn't pretend a
trip home over Christmas would've made a difference in their
relationship. In fact, it might've made things worse, since
Andrew's suggestions that his father sell the fifty-acre
farm and move to a place he could better maintain were
always met with cross remarks. By the end of a stay, their
tolerance for each other seemed to wear thin.

"Visitors are like fish," his father had been fond of
saying. "After a couple of days, things start to smell."

Andrew tried not to take offense at the fact that his father
considered him a "visitor" in the house he'd grown up in. It
was just his father's way.

He slowed as he drove into the downtown area of Tiny, which
consisted of three entire blocks of the most diverse and
unusual shops one could imagine: Bitty's Bakery, Tiny
Hardware, Har-lowe's Musical Instruments, Tiny Town Grocery,
West Drug Dispensary, City Hall, Dr. Berg, M.D., Flood
Dentistry, Dolls & More, Shoes & More, Flowers &
More, Watches & More, Biscuits & More, Books &
More and…more. As customary, the shops' marquees
featured personal messages to members of the community:
"Congratulations, Wendy!"

"Happy Anniversary, Maggie and John!"

"Welcome, Baby Jenkins!" The windows touted Valentine's Day
Sales.

Hadley's Funeral Parlor sat slightly off the beaten retail
path, located in a freestanding former fast food building.
No one seemed to notice or mind the drive-through window.
Their marquee offered condolences to the Barber MacMillan
family and the Sadie Case family.

Sadness tugged at him. Sweet-voiced Mrs. Case had been his
third-grade teacher and had been around his father's age, he
recalled. A generation of Tiny-ites was fading away as fast
as the younger generation was moving away.

He wondered vaguely how long it would take to sell his
father's farm, jokingly dubbed the Mane Squeeze Ranch by his
dear mother, and preserved by his father for her sake. Years
before, the adjacent state park had expressed interest in
the MacMillan land because of the limestone cave spring on
the property, but things changed.

Andrew pulled his black BMW into the nearly vacant parking
lot, his stomach tied in knots. He couldn't imagine anything
more painful than for a child to arrange a parent's funeral,
but conceded it was the circle of life, the last thing he
could do for his father to perhaps make up for all the
little things he hadn't known to do when Barber was alive.

He climbed out of the car and squinted into the warm winter
sun. The weather in Southern Tennessee was always
unpredictable, so it wasn't altogether surprising to find
temperatures in the high seventies in February. He would
enjoy it today. Tomorrow it could be snowing.

In the short walk to the double doors of the funeral home,
he listened to the call of songbirds lulled out by the
warmth. Hardwood trees were still bare, but the cedar,
hemlock and white-pine trees offered plenty of
cover—and color—in the otherwise gray landscape.

When he opened the door, a chime sounded somewhere in the distance to announce his arrival. The decor hadn't changed in the decade or so since he'd last been there—tributes to the local high-school sports teams and Tennessee trophy trout mounted on wood plaques. Hadley's Funeral Home was a social hotspot. This afternoon it was, um, dead, but if a viewing was scheduled this evening, it would be hopping with regulars who would sign the guest register, ooh and aah over the casket, and peek at the cards on the flowers to see who had sent roses and who had sent carnations.

Geary Hadley appeared, tall and gaunt in his black suit, but
his droopy features lifted in recognition. "Andrew, how nice
to see you. Well, not under these circumstances, of course,
but you know what I mean. Your father was a good man."

Andrew shook the veined hand the man extended to him,
wondering how many hands the man had shaken in his lifetime.
"Thank you, Mr. Hadley. It's nice to see you, too."

"Let's go to my office," the man offered in a low,
comforting voice.

Andrew's stomach churned as they wove past various rooms in
the hushed building. By the time they reached the small,
cramped office, he was ready to get the meeting over with.
"Regarding my father's wishes—"

"Here you go," Mr. Hadley said, handing him a metal urn.

Andrew stared down at the urn, confused. "What's this?"

"Your father's ashes," Mr. Hadley said. "Those were his
wishes—to be cremated."

Andrew almost dropped the urn, but juggled and caught it.
"Since when?"

"Since always. Every time Barber set foot in this place, he
apologized to me in advance for denying me a big crowd here
at the funeral home." Hadley smiled. "That was his way." He
opened a file drawer and rummaged through it, then removed a
yellowed sheet of stationery. "Here you go. He made me keep
a copy of it on file."

Andrew shifted the urn to the crook of his elbow and took
the sheet of paper to scan.

I, Barber MacMillan, being sane and all of that, upon my
death, wish to have my body cremated and my ashes scattered
over the Mane Squeeze Ranch. No muss, no fuss, no funeral
and no headstone.

Andrew blinked in surprise. "I didn't know."

"I'm not surprised," Mr. Hadley said. "Barber was an odd
bird…but then, you probably know that better than anyone."

Andrew nodded. "Yes." He folded the paper and stared down at
the urn. "So, how am I supposed to do this?"

Mr. Hadley shrugged. "Just unscrew the lid and start
scattering. Make sure you're upwind."

Andrew pursed his mouth. "Aren't there laws against
scattering remains?"

Mr. Hadley gave a dismissive wave. "If you don't tell
anyone, neither will I."

Andrew nodded, remembering that in Tiny, Tennessee, laws
were elastic. "What do I owe you for the, um, services?"

"Already taken care of," Mr. Hadley said. "Barber saw to
that ages ago." He handed Andrew another piece of paper.
"Here's an obituary for the paper. I think your dad would be
okay with that, at least."

Andrew read the write-up about the man who had been a pillar
of the community, a source of comfort and know-how for the
farmers in the area who had depended on him to vaccinate
their cattle against pink eye, treat swine pneumonia or
birth stubborn foals. Barber MacMillan treated any animal
that needed his help, but he was especially gifted with
horses, a trait not passed on to Andrew, who had always
worked in the stables, but didn't bond with the animals the
way his father had.

Barber MacMillan is survived by his son, Andrew Barber
MacMillan of New York City, and a host of grateful friends
and neighbors, human and otherwise.

"It's a fine obituary," Andrew said. "Summer wrote it."

Andrew frowned. "Summer…Tomlinson?"

"One and the same."

The image of the coltish, towheaded teenager who lived next
door came to mind. Summer was five—no, six—years
younger than Andrew. He had a vague memory of her giving him
a Valentine's Day card when she was a shy preteen. He hadn't
seen her since he'd moved to Manhattan after college. Even
though his dad spoke of her often, because she'd assisted
him in the stables on occasion, she hadn't been around
during his holiday visits. But apparently, Summer had been
close to his father. He felt a rush of gratitude toward the
young woman.

"Oh, and my daughter Tessa asked me to give you this." Geary
handed Andrew a business card.

Andrew glanced at the real-estate logo and the picture of
his former classmate—still pretty…and probably
still as vapid. "How is Tessa?"

"She's done real well for herself," Mr. Hadley said, pride
in his voice. "She thought you might be interested in
selling your dad's place."

Andrew nodded. He'd seen his dad's will and knew he was the
sole beneficiary. "That's the plan."

The man's eyes twinkled. "Tessa's still single, too."

Andrew coughed, then tucked the card in his pocket. "Thanks,
Mr. Hadley. I'll give Tessa a call…about the property."

He shook the man's gnarled hand again and left, carrying the
dubious burden of his father's ashes in his hands. Andrew
settled the urn in the passenger seat of his car and shook
his head. "You managed to throw me one last curveball, old
man."

How could he in good conscience scatter his father's ashes
over the farm and then sell it?

Andrew's mind clicked as he drove over familiar roads, past
recognizable landmarks, and allowed nostalgia to flow over
him. The high-school campus and the city pool looked
incredibly small. He shook his head, thinking about how big
and important they had seemed when he was young. Ditto for
the movie theater and bowling alley, around which his social
life had revolved.

The road leading to the Mane Squeeze Ranch was hemmed by
overgrown foliage on either side of the paved road barely
wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The closer he got to
home, the more memories assailed him. The gigantic
weeping-willow tree at the fork in the road where he used to
ride his bike, tap the trunk then ride back, the wide spot
in the road where he'd waited for the bus, now tangled with
dormant blackberry bushes, the grouping of community
mailboxes, all shapes and colors, lined up in a row.

As he drove by the Tomlinsons' house, he was distracted by
the sight of a slender woman sitting on an upstairs balcony,
combing her waist-length golden-blond hair.

Summer Tomlinson, he realized with a start. No longer in
cutoffs and sporting a boyish pixie cut. She looked up and
saw his car, then jumped to her feet, shouting and pointing.

Andrew looked back to the road and his heart leaped to his
throat. Standing in the path of his car was a swaybacked
gray horse that looked too old to move…and too big to miss.