NATIONAL BESTSELLER • “[Kristin] Hannah is superb at delving into her main characters’ psyches and delineating nuances of feeling.” —The Washington Post Book World From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Women comes a poignant, evocative story that celebrates the magic of motherhood, the joys of coming home, and the price we so willingly pay for love. Years of trying unsuccessfully to conceive a child have broken more than Angie DeSaria’s heart. Following a painful divorce, she moves back to her small Pacific Northwest hometown and takes over management of her family’s restaurant. In West End, where life rises and falls like the tides, Angie’s fortunes will drastically change yet again when she meets and befriends a troubled young woman. Angie hires Lauren Ribido because she sees something special in the seventeen-year-old. They quickly form a deep bond, and when Lauren is abandoned by her mother, Angie offers the girl a place to stay. But nothing could have prepared Angie for the far-reaching repercussions of this act of kindness. Together, these two women—one who longs for a child and the other who longs for a mother’s love—will be tested in ways that neither could have imagined. “Enormously entertaining . . . Hannah has a nice ear for dialogue and a knack for getting the reader inside the characters’ heads.”— The Seattle Times “[Kristin] Hannah is superb at delving into her main characters’ psyches and delineating nuances of feeling.”  —The Washington Post Book World “Wonderful . . . enormously touching . . . The warmth and complexities of these characters grab hold of the heartstrings.” —RT Book Reviews “Wrenching, convincing . . . bittersweet.” —Publishers Weekly  Kristin Hannah is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many acclaimed novels, including The Women, The Four Winds, The Nightingale , and Magic Hour . She and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest. One The streets of West End were crowded on this unex- pectedly sunny day. All across town mothers stood in open doorways, with hands tented across their eyes, watching their children play. Everyone knew that soon—probably tomorrow—a soapy haze would creep across the sky, covering the blue, obliterating the delicate sun, and once more the rain would fall. It was May, after all, in the Pacific Northwest. Rain came to this month as surely as ghosts took to the streets on the thirty-first of October and salmon came home from the sea. “It sure is hot,” Conlan said from the driver’s seat of the sleek black BMW convertible. It was the first thing he’d said in almost an hour. He was trying to make conversation; that was all. Angie should return the volley, perhaps mention the beautiful haw- thorn trees that were in bloom. But even as she had the thought, she was exhausted by it. In a few short months, those tiny green leaves would curl and blacken; the color would be drawn out of them by cold nights, and they would fall to the ground, unno- ticed. When you looked at it that way, what was the point in noticing so fleeting a moment? She stared out the window at her hometown. It was the first time she’d been back in months. Although West End was only one hundred twenty miles from Seattle, that distance had seemed to swell lately in her mind. As much as she loved her family, she’d found it difficult to leave her own house. Out in the world, there were babies everywhere. They drove into the old part of town, where Victorian houses had been built one after another on tiny patches of lawn. Huge, leafy maple trees shaded the street, cast an intricate lacework pattern of light on the asphalt. In the seventies, this neighborhood had been the town’s heart. Kids had been everywhere back then, riding their Big Wheels and Schwinn bicycles from one house to the next. There had been block parties every Sunday after church, and games of Red Rover played in every back-yard. In the years between then and now, this part of the state had changed, and the old neighborhoods had fallen into silence and disrepair. Salmon runs had diminished and the timber industry had been hit hard. People who had once made their living from the land and the sea had been pushed aside, forgotten; new residents built their houses in clusters, in subdivisions named after the very trees they cut down. But here, on this small patch of Maple Drive, time had stood still. The last house on the block looked exactly as it had for forty years. The white paint was pure and perfect; the emerald green trim glistened. No weed had ever been allowed to flourish in the lawn. Angie’s father had tended to this house for four decades; it had been his pride and joy. Every Monday, after a weekend of hard work at the family’s restaurant, he’d devoted a full twelve-hour day to home and garden maintenance. Since his death, Angie’s mother had tried to follow that routine. It had become her solace, her way of connecting with the man she’d loved for almost fifty years, an