After five years as a flight attendant, Shelly returns to her childhood home and is flooded with memories of Jonathan, her first and only love. She finally sees how much she gave up when she decided to chase her dreams. A trip to Europe unexpectedly reunites her with Jonathan but it's clear that he's moved on. Find out what happens when lost love is allowed to be rekindled in gentle and unspoken ways. Come to Glenbrooke - a quiet place where souls are refreshed. "Robin's tender heart and wisdom make every one of her books poignant and unforgettable. Her storytelling is a breath of fresh air." -- Karen Kingsbury , New York Times bestselling author "Gunn is adept at denuding light fiction of its usual tics - mediocre prose, clichéd characters and predictable plots - and imbuing it with the hallmarks of literary fiction. The characters are multidimensional and ring true at nearly every turn. " -- Publishers Weekly Pure Romance elevates every one of the 8 unforgettable love stories in the Glenbrooke series by best-selling and award-winning author Robin Jones Gunn . ROBIN JONES GUNN  is the best-selling author of 100 books, including the widely popular Christy Miller series, Sierra Jensen series and Christy award-winning Christian fiction in the Glenbrooke and Sisterchicks series. Her non-fiction titles include "Praying for Your Future Husband" co-authored with Tricia Goyer and "Spoken For" co-authored with Alyssa Bethke.Robin's Father Christmas novels have been made into 3 Hallmark movies. Her books have sold over 5.5 million copies worldwide. She and her husband have two children and live in Hawaii. Chapter One Shelly Graham placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. A creak echoed from the hinges, and she smiled. Everything about this room felt familiar, friendly, welcoming. She stood in the doorway and surveyed her childhood bedroom. Two twin beds with white wrought-iron frames stood their ground as they had for more than twenty years, like faithful soldiers guarding the window between them. Shelly noticed the new blue-and-white bedspreads Mom had bought after Shelly and her sister Meredith had both moved out. The painted pine desk in the corner was the same as it had always been. The white wicker chair hadn’t been moved from beside the closet. Even the color of the room was the same: sky blue. On the ceiling, the white clouds Meredith had painted there eight years ago hadn’t moved an inch in their journey across the solid, latex-covered heavens. Shelly gave these familiar images only a sweeping glance. It was the window that beckoned to her. Sheer, ivory curtains billowed in the afternoon breeze. The cobalt blue glass vase that held a giant snatch of color from Mom’s garden rested on one of Grandma Rudi’s lace doilies. The vase was placed in the center of the old pine bed stand that stood under the inviting window. Shelly drew closer. The daisies, snapdragons, and carnations shivered their greetings as the breeze came through the open window, brushed past the bouquet, and, with invisible, feathery fingers, touched Shelly’s long hair. She stood before the window, eyes closed, face tilted toward the breeze. The sun slipped over the neighbor’s rooftop and spilled its hot gold all over Shelly without the slightest apology. She didn’t mind a bit the way it instantly stained her white shirt a glorious, pale yellow. She remembered this feeling. She remembered these fragrances. From down the street came the ripple of children’s laughter. The squeals escalated when the faint melody of the ice cream truck came the children’s way. Shelly couldn’t see it, but she knew the white ice cream truck had just rounded Sycamore Drive and was headed up the hill to Duchess Place. 437 Duchess Place. This was home. Just as it had been from the day Shelly was born until five years ago, when she moved from Seattle to Pasadena, California, and began her career as a flight attendant. And now, due to a transfer, Shelly was home again. She opened her eyes and gazed out the window at the Renfields’ house next door. Nothing had changed there either. It was still gray with white shutters and that wonderful oval attic window that faced her bedroom. For years a rope had run between her bedroom window and the oval attic window. For years a green plastic bucket had hung from that line. The bucket carried messages, candy, and secret treasures from one best friend to the other. “Jonathan,” she whispered. Shelly could almost see his face there in the attic window, his light, sand-flecked brown hair, about the same color as hers; his gray, stormy eyes; and the mouth that never stopped smiling. Shelly tried to remember the codes to their secret whistles. She puckered up and blew. Two short, one long whistle, with the long one a note lower. That meant “Come to the window.” She tried again, this time blowing one long, one short, and one long, with the short one a note higher. Her whistle echoed off the side of his house,