A tall man stepped into the fluorescent light of the basement, his gray hair brushed back neat and his dark wool coat looking too thick for the damp April morning.
He stopped by the stack of folding chairs, a crooked smile forming on his face as he looked across the room.
“Eleanor,” he said.
My hand froze over the cake stand, a lemon bar still balanced between my fingers.
It was Garrett.
Fifty-three years had softened his jawline and put silver at his temples, but the slight tilt of his shoulders was exactly the same as the day he left Oakhaven.
Clara let her glasses drop to her chest, her eyes darting from him to me and back again.
“Garrett?” I whispered.
He took three slow steps forward, his leather shoes making no sound at all on the linoleum, unlike the squeaky sneakers of the church volunteers.
“I heard you still helped with the Saturday bake sales,” he said, his voice carrying that same smooth, nostalgic cadence that used to fill the back row of our English class.
