First published in the UK in 2022

  This electronic edition published in 2022 by Ink Road

  INK ROAD is an imprint and trademark of

  Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street, Edinburgh EH6 6NF

  A division of Bonnier Books UK

  4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA

  Owned by Bonnier Books

  Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden

  Copyright © Estelle Maskame 2022

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the

  prior written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Estelle Maskame to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design and illustration by whittakerbookdesign.com

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PBK): 978 1 78530 377 7

  ISBN (EBOOK): 978 1 78530 401 9

  eBook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  To my gorgeous nephews, Anders and Jaxson.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  1

  The constant purr of engines and the gentle nudge of turbulence every so often has always been so relaxing to me. Thousands of feet above the clouds, soaring over the mountains below, gliding over rolling fields. I like how peaceful it is up here. I have all the time in the world to just think, and these days that feels like a rarity.

  In my first-class suite, enclosed in my own little bubble by the private dividers, I am the textbook definition of relaxation – feet kicked up on the footrest, seat fully reclined into a flat bed, soft pillows plumped up behind my neck, AirPods on full volume as my Spotify shuffles its way through my country playlist. Current song: “Truth About You” by Mitchell Tenpenny. One I admit I have listened to an embarrassing number of times.

  I’m in that hazy slumber, not quite asleep but tuned out to everything around me, my eyes sealed shut and my heart swelling at the lyrics dancing in my ears. One hour down, three more to go until—

  Hands grab my shoulders and I choke on the gasp that involuntarily escapes my mouth. As I jolt upright, my AirPods fall from my ears and disappear somewhere under the airline-provided blanket I’ve been enveloped in.

  “Dad!” I moan, rubbing my eyes and turning to face him with a scathing look.

  Dad’s suite is behind mine, but he’s standing out in the aisle, leaning over my closed shutters. He props an arm up on the divider and tucks his fountain pen behind his ear. “You’re sleeping?”

  “Forgive me,” I say mockingly as I flip the blanket back and forth in search of my earphones. Mitchell Tenpenny is waiting to sing me back to sleep. “It’s not like I’m exhausted from finals and prom and graduation or anything. This was the first nap I’ve had in forever.”

  “If you think you’re exhausted now,” says Dad, “just you wait until you’re my age. There’s no rest for the wicked, Mila.” He opens up the overheard storage and retrieves a thick ream of paper from his backpack, its outer pages warning “CONFIDENTIAL” in capital letters. So confidential, in fact, that even I don’t know its contents.

  “I thought you were taking this time as a vacation,” I say with a nod to the papers in his hands. “Why are you still working?”

  Dad purses his lips and his dark eyes glimmer. Years ago, he would have hidden behind sunglasses for the entirety of a flight, but lately he has built up the courage to wean himself off this protective habit. He is still one of the biggest names in Hollywood, but it has been two years since his last movie release. He isn’t current. The press doesn’t focus on him so much these days – their focus is always on those in the limelight right here and now – so although Dad still gets stopped for photographs on a daily basis, the scale of the obsession has greatly reduced. He doesn’t feel as exposed as he used to when everyone had their eyes on him.

  “It’s a four-hour flight, Mila,” Dad says, clicking the storage compartment shut, “and I have some reading to catch up on. Oh, hey, excuse me, ma’am!” He catches the attention of the approaching flight attendant and flashes her a dazzling, pleasant smile. “May I have some wine, please? The Sauvignon Blanc.”

  The young woman whisks back down the aisle to the galley to fetch Dad his drink. I’m resigned to Sprite for the foreseeable; I can still taste the vodka from all the post-graduation parties last weekend. Mom wasn’t all that thrilled when I rocked up home long after midnight, but she understood that graduation weekend celebrations are a rite of passage. The hangover the next day was much less forgiving.

  “Your wine, sir,” the flight attendant says as she pivots carefully around Dad, setting the drink down perfectly on the table inside his open suite. She fixes him with an elegant smile.

  Dad takes his pen from behind his ear and settles back into his suite. I twist around in my seat and peer over the divider at him – his seat is bolt upright, his TV screen off. I bet he started working before we’d even left the LAX tarmac. He takes a sip of his wine and spreads the confidential paperwork out in front him, then lifts his head to look at me.

  “Are you snooping?”

  “No,” I lie, resting my crossed arms on the divider with an innocent smile.

  It’s a script, obviously. Dad has spent the past year and a half funneling money into projects he believes will be future hits at the box office. He has just wrapped up on set as one of the executive producers of a screen-adaption of an action novel that he saw potential in – scheduled for release next spring – but now he’s supposed to be on a well-earned vacation. No researching, no working his way through slush piles, no conference calls with fellow producer partners. Yet here he is with more paperwork, which means his next project is already underway and there’s no chance he’ll be able to shut out any work-related stress.

  “Go back to sleep,” Dad says with a teasing wiggle of his thick brows, stretching his hands wide to shield the script.

  I wonder what this movie will be about. I’ve watched Dad wave around so many gun props on screen that I’m so over the high stakes and fast pace of action movies. A rom-com would be my preferred choice of genre for Dad to tackle next, and I would totally vote Zac Efron to be on the shortlist for the main role. But I’ve learned one thing recently: it is much easier to justify being on set when you’re the daughter of the lead rather than the daughter of one of the producers. Those privileges are revoked, so damn – no on-set mingling with Zac Efron.

  “You promise you’ll take a break when we get there?” I ask, a small pleading lilt to my tone. Dad definitely isn’t as high-strung as he used to be, but this new role of his is still demanding. He is so much more fun when he decompresses. “Maybe you can come horseback riding with me. Think of all that fresh air, Dad. Sheri can teach you!”

  Dad eyes me over the rim of his glass. Maybe it’s the cabin lighting, but for the first time, I notice a tiny pepper of gray in his hair. “You will never see me on a horse, Mila, but you’re free to go ahead and have fun however you please. Make the most of your last summer before the hard work starts!”

  I roll my eyes and sink into my seat, fumbling for my earphones and placing them back in my ears, Mitchell Tenpenny gracing me at full volume. At the same time, my stomach knots and I fix my gaze out of the double windows, the dry prairies of Arizona stretching out below.

  Mila Harding, officially an incoming freshman at San Diego State University this fall, the first step of her journey toward her bachelor of science in nursing degree. For all the elation that comes with heading off to college, there’s an equal amount of nerves. Among a handful of rejections – my GPA was less than stellar – there were two acceptance letters. One from San Diego State and one from Belmont in Nashville, the college my parents both attended in their youth, and I waited until deadline day to make my decision. Belmont is the better school, but I can’t face it there. I can’t face him. I want my own school to call mine, so I made the decision to stay in California and accept my place at SDSU. That doesn’t mean I don’t have doubts that I’ve done the right thing, and it gnaws at me daily.

  I slide my window blinds shut and stare up at the tiny overhead AC fans. Maybe I’l
l join a sorority, but probably not. And who are my roommates going to be? Room assignments aren’t until August. I’ll miss the emerald-green school colors of the Thousand Oaks High varsity dance team, but there will be new dance teams to join at SDSU. It’ll be fine. It’ll be absolutely fine.

  I don’t need to worry about college for now, though. I’m on summer vacation, about to enjoy my final few months of freedom before the hard work begins. The next three weeks are going to be spent catching up with family and friends in Fairview before I fly back home for student orientation. The rest of my summer will be spent in Los Angeles getting ready for college – picking out new bedspreads, bundling the contents of my closet into suitcases, packing up my ficus tree for moving day – but I can’t help wishing I could stay in Fairview until August. It is way more peaceful and relaxing than LA, and I haven’t visited since Christmas break. There is so much to do but so little time. Mall trips with Savannah and Tori; galloping around the fields with Aunt Sheri and my favorite horse, Fredo; feeling the warmth of Popeye’s hugs. I think I miss my grandpa the most. He still hasn’t gotten any better at video calling and ninety-nine percent of the time the camera is facing the ceiling, so I can’t wait to see his silky white hair in real life. It’s been a long six months, and I wonder how I ever went years between visits when I was younger. These people mean too much to me now.

  With a tap on my left AirPod to pause my music, I frown. “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yes?” he calls over the divider between us.

  “Do you think things will be okay?”

  There is silence, except for a businessman across the aisle flagging down the flight attendant for a Scotch whisky. I wait with bated breath, staring at the flight map on the TV screen in front of me, and Dad reels in my attention when he pops up next to my suite again. He is so tall, his head nearly touches the cabin roof.

  “What things are you referring to, exactly?” he asks in a low voice, eyes locked on mine.

  There are a lot of things that aren’t okay right now.

  Like his forever strained relationship with Popeye and Sheri, for starters. Dad has joined me on a few of my visits back to the ranch over the past two years, but not as many times as I’d like. He has been so busy getting his new career off the ground that he simply hasn’t had the time, even though he reassured us all that quitting acting would be better for us as a family. He does call Popeye every month, though, and I do often catch him texting Sheri. Things are heading in the right direction, but the process is frustratingly slow. He did, however, raise a good point once when he asked Popeye why he never visits us. It was a stark reminder that effort works both ways.

  And then there’s Dad’s split from Mom. My parents’ separation was finalized this spring. It was ultimately a relief when they came to the decision, because the constant arguments were incredibly draining. I hated the way they looked at each other in contempt as they maneuvered around one another. I hated that they no longer went out for date nights, that they stopped holding hands in public, that they no longer laughed together.

  It has been a long, bumpy road of working through trust issues these past couple years, but there was no repairing the damage between them, no matter how desperately they tried or how badly they wanted to. There’s still love there, no doubt about it, but what is love without trust? It sucks, but it was unhealthy, and already both of my parents are much happier, like they have been unburdened from the pressure of trying to force their marriage to work. Mom has moved into one of our many guest bedrooms for now until she figures out a more permanent living situation, and I am so relieved to be moving into the freshmen dorms at SDSU simply for the fact that it saves me from having to decide which parent to live with. I’m an adult, eighteen, and I want no part in my parents’ dramas anymore. I have my own life to live.

  “Never mind,” I say, angling toward the window. There is no answer, because I don’t think you can ever guarantee that things will be okay. Another bump in the road will always come along.

  And as if on cue, the aircraft jolts with turbulence.

  I resume my music – “Right Where You Left It” by Eric Dodd now, ugh – and lean my forehead against the window, allowing my eyes to close once more.

  One hour down, three more to go until I am back where I belong.

  2

  The forty-minute drive in our rental car from Nashville International Airport to Fairview is so familiar to me now. The transformation from the chaotic traffic of Nashville to the twisting country road leading to the Harding Estate is like a direct highway between two completely different worlds – just thirty-five miles separate the two, yet it feels like a million.

  The towering walls of the family ranch come into view and my body tingles with joy. As the sun blazes overhead in the ocean-blue sky and we near the electric gates, I find myself automatically releasing my seatbelt and reaching for the car door, amped up and ready for the summer to really begin. The more time I spend here in my small hometown, the more comforting it feels whenever I return.

  “Go ahead, Mila. Buzz us in,” Dad says as he hits the brakes and the car rolls to a stop.

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. Throwing open the car door, I leap out into the fresh air and embrace the Tennessee humidity, inhaling the scent of sweet hay and freshly cut grass. Everything smells so natural out here, so homey, which is kind of wild considering I felt like a stranger when I stood at these gates two summers ago. Now I love pressing the crap out of the buzzer to let Aunt Sheri know I’m here. Seriously, I should have my own permanent remote for the gate at this point.

  I wave up into the lens of the security camera atop the gate, then move my hand to the buzzer. I pause – the system has changed in the six months since I was last here. A new control panel has been installed and each buzzer has an engraving next to it: The Harding Home and Stable Visitors & Inquiries.

  My eyes slide to the gold plaque bolted onto the stone walls and I realize that’s new too, updated and replaced to now read: THE HARDING ESTATE RIDING SCHOOL.

  A smile stretches across my face as I buzz for the Harding Home. Things are really progressing around here. The jarring shrill of the bell as the gate begins to open, however, is as piercing as always.

  “Weeeeelcome!” Aunt Sheri singsongs through the speaker.

  “Hi, Sheri! See you in a sec!” I chirp back, then turn to the idling car and wave Dad through the gate. The sizzle of the afternoon sun feels too good on my skin and the soft breeze in my hair is refreshing. I break into a half-hearted sprint up the dirt track while Dad drives carefully behind me.

  Things around the ranch may be a little different – why are there cement mixers over there? – but the house hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will. It is traditional and old-fashioned, but that’s what makes it so endearing. It’s home to a million memories of my late grandmother, of Dad and Sheri’s childhood, of my time spent here growing up. The fresh lick of paint I spent days applying around the windows two summers earlier is holding up well, but the deteriorating wooden railings around the porch are still in dire need of fixing.

  “Mila!” someone squeals, and a flash of strawberry-blond hair emerges through the front door. My childhood best friend, Savannah, races down the porch steps at the speed of a bullet and launches herself into my arms.

  I stumble back a few steps as I hug her tight. “Hey!”

  “You are not allowed to wait six months between visits ever again,” Savannah threatens with a mock glare as we pull apart. Her wide, beaming smile immediately returns and it feels so familiar and comforting, I instantly mirror it.

  “Hey! Save some of that loving for me!” I hear Tori remark as she descends the porch steps with the confident swing of her hips, oozing that attitude that I know and love her for.

  She skips over to Savannah and me, locking her arms around our shoulders and combining the three of us into a group hug. We all butt heads and break into laughter as though no time has passed at all since that cold, dark evening last year in the days between Christmas and January where we decided to take a festive stroll across town, drinking hot chocolate out of thermos mugs and fighting off frostbite when the temperature dropped below forty. Savannah’s foot slipped down a rabbit hole, and Tori’s and my rescue efforts were stalled by our uncontrollable giggling.