Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.

      —Psalms 127:1

      To everyone who knows the true power that

       growing up in a small town can have no matter

       how large the place you end up calling home.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      Chapter One

      “It’s snowing!” Isabella crowed as the flight from Phoenix landed in Denver. “Look at the roof of the terminal. It’s like snow-capped mountains. How totally cool!”

      Norah Wallace could not help smiling. Was it just a mere forty-eight hours earlier that her thirteen-year-old daughter was fighting the very idea of a trip to Wisconsin to visit her grandparents for Thanksgiving? Obviously she’d changed her mind, but Norah was quickly learning not to spend too much time questioning the logic of teenagers.

      While Isabella reveled in the sight of the unique fabric tension roof of the terminal, Norah noticed snow falling in huge flakes that covered everything—including the runway—in a duvet of white. “Hopefully it won’t delay our connection to Chicago,” Norah said.

      “Oh, Mom, you worry about the weirdest things. What could be so bad about getting stuck in Colorado? We could go skiing.”

      “No one is going skiing—at least not in Colorado,” Norah said. “And I don’t worry about everything. I just want things to go smoothly.” She felt the familiar twinge of guilt that came with her impatience and covered it by rummaging through her carry-on. Did her daughter think she wanted to be the one always throwing cold water on Izzy’s flights of fancy? No. But she was raising Izzy on her own—well, not on her own. Her father—Norah’s ex—was still very involved. But Izzy lived with her in Arizona, not with Tom in California.

      She checked their schedule. “We have an hour lay-over here and it looks like our connecting flight is in the same concourse, so we should have time for something to eat.” It was an attempt at conciliation, but Izzy was slumped down in the seat, staring out the window.

      “Whatever,” she muttered.

      The minute the flight attendant announced permission to use cell phones, Isabella went to work. Norah marveled at the way her daughter’s thumbs danced on the keypad as the plane taxied to a gate. Everyone scrambled to gather belongings as if life itself depended on their quick exit from the plane. She stood in the aisle and watched Izzy transcribe messages to all her friends. Norah could barely manage e-mail. How did these kids learn these technically complicated things so quickly?

      When their turn came to exit, Izzy dropped her phone in her pocket and hefted her backpack over one shoulder as they entered the concourse and joined throngs of other travelers making their way to and from restrooms, shops and gates. Norah couldn’t help noticing that Izzy seemed to be looking for something and took some comfort in the fact that her daughter’s annoyance was short-lived. But then as usual Izzy threw her a curve-ball she wasn’t prepared for.

      “Are you ever sorry you divorced Dad?” Isabella asked as they wove their way through crowds of passengers and dodged electric carts.

      “First of all, the decision was mutual,” Norah replied, fighting her natural instinct to remind Izzy an airport was neither the time nor place for this discussion.

      “And second of all?” Isabella asked.

      “Oh honey, you know the story. We each wanted different things.” Quell the impatience, she reminded herself. She draped her free arm over Izzy’s bony shoulders. “Well, actually we wanted the same thing—to make sure you had the best possible life.”

      “So how come the two of you couldn’t figure it out together?”

      “Timing—meant to be.” Norah tossed off clichés as she searched for an answer that would end the conversation. The older Isabella got, the harder that challenge became.

      “Yeah, so Dad took off for San Francisco like opening a branch law office there was a good idea or something,” Isabella said wearily, “and you stayed in the desert because working on the reservation was somehow so important.” She frowned. “So will one of you please explain how doing what you wanted was best for me?”

      “Trust me. It was. We’ve remained friends—your father and I—not like some couples.”

      “Friends see each other now and then. When’s the last time you