Sneak Peek!

We’re delighted to share the first chapter of Audrey Lancho’s The Silver Lining! You can pre-order the ebook now. All formats—paperback, audiobook, and ebook—will be available May 6, 2025!

Chapter One

Present Day

In no time at all, Farrah Macon had gone from curating fine art to curing pickles.

And not just cucumbers preserved bread-and-butter style. Farrah had also helped her mom can an array of other pickled vegetables, such as radishes and beets, after she settled in her old bedroom over the weekend. She now arranged the selection on a red gingham tablecloth at the Tuesday farmers market. Though it wasn’t quite open yet, it was sure to be a busy day: vendors prepped, birds chirped, and a few early shoppers ambled along the walkway.

It was hard to believe she was back.

If someone had told her two years ago—before the unraveling of life as she’d known it—that she’d be single again, living with her parents in Whitetail Ridge at nearly thirty years old, and working two jobs that had nothing to do with art, she would have scoffed at the impossibility.

She’d been so happy as a high-end gallery manager, living with her husband an hour and a half to the south in North Carolina’s biggest city: beautiful, bustling Charlotte. Her beloved career of ten years had disappeared in a flash. She humphed while straightening rows of canning jars, remembering. She’d always seen life as a series of steps forward, and she’d never imagined she’d have to start over from scratch.

Then again, this was the kind of thing that happened when others decided things for you.

After brushing off her existential crisis and seeing that the pickled veggies were well-organized, she focused on the next task: stocking the tables with the rest of the fresh goods from Macon Farms. She grabbed a few baskets of garden-ripe radishes and leeks, then set them on the table for display before dolloping jelly samples into little ramekins and arranging crackers and cheeses like she had so many times before. This was her first time back at Daddy’s stand in years, but the body remembered.

The vinyl canopy overhead rattled in the midmorning breeze. Farrah glanced up at the sky dotted with clouds, some of them gray.

“A good rain in June sets all in tune,” her sister, Macy Gatewood, said from behind her, startling Farrah.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were working.” When Farrah texted her sister earlier, Macy said she wasn’t sure she could escape her home office for the morning, but that was Macy. She was spontaneous and loved pulling off surprises.

Macy enveloped Farrah in a hug. At first a bit rigid, Farrah melted into the prolonged contact. The truth was, she needed it.

“Like I would miss hanging out with you on your first day back at the market booth. Pssh! Please!” Macy released her. “Besides, Mom said she could keep the boys for me while Elijah manages the business.”

A husband-and-wife team, Elijah and Macy ran Gatewood Vacation Rentals, a collection of picturesque cabins dotted throughout Whitetail Ridge and the surrounding countryside, including two luxury cabins in the farther away mountain town of Boone. The business could be managed mostly from a distance. Both sisters had inherited their father’s mathematical and business-oriented mind. Farrah had used these skills to manage the gallery for several years. More than manage—it had been her life’s work. Her pride and joy.

“You know, I did wonder why Mom backed out on coming to the stand with me this morning. It takes a few people to run it, and I was a little perplexed when she said I’d be fine on my own.”

“Sorry if that made you panic, but sometimes a little white lie is necessary to pull off a surprise. Even if she’s terrible at lying.” Macy snickered, and Farrah cracked a smile.

“Well, thanks. I’m glad you’re here,” Farrah said, relieved. “For more reasons than one. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been dreading facing everyone and their questions.”

“I know.” Macy rubbed Farrah’s upper back. Her older sister’s empathy was one of her most dependable traits. “I’ll try to help you by fielding questions. But to some degree, curiosity is inevitable. Just remember you don’t owe anyone here an explanation. It’s your business, no one else’s.”

“I know. Thanks, Mace.” Farrah glanced at her watch. “Woah, we’ve wasted enough time chatting.”

Macy scoffed. “You can leave behind those big-city perfectionist rules, sis. This is a laid-back kind of place.”

“I know, but you know I love punctuality.”

Farrah set a price placard in front of each item after splitting the stack with Macy. She glanced at her watch when they were done. 9:59 a.m.—one minute early. Even if she wasn’t in uptown Charlotte, she could still pursue excellence in the little things.

“Made it!” Farrah smiled at her sister and showed her the time. Macy shook her head and rolled her eyes playfully.

As her sister greeted their first customer, a woman Farrah remembered as a little girl but who was now herself a young mother pushing feisty twins in a stroller, Farrah surveyed the other market booths.

All around them, vendors had set up their canopies and tables, each with their own goods from their farms or small businesses. The beekeepers sold their honey, and the alpaca farm their yarn and crocheted goods. There were handmade gifts, woodwork crafts, beef and pork vendors, and overwhelmingly, farm-fresh early summer veggies and fruits. Farrah recognized many of the vendors from a decade or more ago, despite their aging.

Would they recognize her from a distance? Her ponytail and ball cap had given way to stylish, dark brown beach waves and bangs, and she wore a little makeup, something her sixteen- to nineteen-year-old self would have scoffed at. She didn’t even look like the same person.

Yes, city life had certainly transformed her, in more ways than one.

The market’s busyness grew with the warmth of the day, and it wasn’t long before Farrah had to leave the partial protection and anonymity of restocking and interact with customers. Several townspeople and fellow vendors did indeed recognize her and approached her happily for a quick hug and how-have-you-been.

For the most part, she was able to politely redirect conversations that flirted with uncovering things she wanted to remain hidden. A sweet old lady she remembered from her childhood church bought some pickled beets, and a while later, a few college-aged students came by wanting to try the free samples of goat cheese with pepper jelly, but they ended up not buying anything. The area had grown, and Farrah didn’t recognize some of the people shopping. This surprised her for a place as small as Whitetail Ridge.

One face, however, was more than familiar: Amy Bell. She and her husband were Farrah’s neighbors at her parents’ home. Although, describing them as neighbors was a bit of a stretch since they lived a mile down the road, even if they were the next house down. Not to mention they were more like family than neighbors.

Amy approached with a wide smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes in a way Farrah didn’t recall from before. What had formerly been a mousy brown bob with a few sparse strands of gray was now adorned at the temples with two white locks. Farrah thought silver or white streaks were graceful on an aging woman. She hoped to get herself a couple when the time came.

“There’s my girl!” Amy squealed, taking Farrah’s hands in hers. “It’s so good to see you. What’s it been, three years at least?” Farrah looked at Macy, who was three clients deep. It wouldn’t be fair to push off a conversation with Amy and ask Macy to handle their neighbor’s shopping needs. Besides, Amy had never been one to pry, despite working behind a salon chair as a hairdresser, making her privy to the whole town’s secrets.

“Three, if not four,” Farrah admitted. “Things got so busy I hardly made it back home for a while.”

“Your mother told me you were moving back this summer. I was surprised. I thought city life suited you.”

One of Mom’s gifts: discretion. She must not have given Amy any details. She was the world’s best confidante, a wonderful trait for a somewhat private person’s mother to have.

“It did suit me,” Farrah admitted, pain restricting her voice. “It’s okay, though. This is for the best.” Amy’s face showed only motherly affection and concern. Farrah needed to change the subject if she wanted to escape this conversation and keep her business private. “What about y’all? Still going strong with the mechanic shop?”

No more than ten days would go by each summer while she was growing up when Farrah and Macy didn’t run a mile down to Amy’s husband’s “tractor-fixing store,” as they’d called it. There, Bobby Bell gave the girls whatever ice cream he had bought on sale at Food Lion and stashed in his buzzing garage freezer. The fudgesicles were their favorite. Farrah and Macy had spent hours watching him tinker with tractors, mowers, and other small engines, and listening to his stories and corny jokes. With no kids of his own, Bobby always seemed to see them as daughters, or at least nieces.

Amy’s eyes shot downward, and Farrah feared the worst. Bobby had fought cancer for years, and her stomach lurched.

“Has something happened?” The woman was so downtrodden that Farrah jumped straight to the worst-case scenario. “Did… Bobby…”

Amy lifted her face in confusion, then laughed her signature raspy laugh. “Oh, no, honey. Bobby’s fine. The man’s like a cat. Nine lives and all that.”

Farrah laughed out her relief. “I’m sorry, you just looked so sad.”

“Well, I am,” Amy said, her face settling into a serious expression. “He had that skin cancer all over. Did the treatment. They say he’s in remission. He likes to say he’s remiss.”

Farrah snorted at the pun. “I’m glad he overcame it.”

“I am too. But we’ve been left with mountains of medical debt. We might have to sell the house and rent an apartment in town. It’s the only way we could get close to breaking even. You know Bobby doesn’t like owing nobody.”

Farrah ran some quick numbers in her head. The Bells had to be very deep in debt if they felt they needed to sell their house and land. Medical treatments were so expensive; she remembered a small surgery she’d had and the thousands of dollars she owed afterward. Of course, it hadn’t even put a dent in her bank account, with her lucrative career and her husband’s impressive wealth combined. She wished she still had access to that money so she could secretly pay off whatever amount Amy and Bobby owed. They were at an age when they shouldn’t have to worry about sudden, unsought debt.

“I’m so sorry,” Farrah managed. “I’ll pray you can figure out how to keep it.”

“Thank you, darlin’.” Amy paid for her carrots and leeks by tapping her card on their card reader. Much had changed since Farrah ran this stand in her teen years. Technology made it easier and more streamlined than before. “Stop by and see him. Bobby thinks the world of you and Macy. Always has.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Farrah said, smiling at her mother’s friend as she went on her way.

“That wasn’t too terrible, was it?” Macy asked, pulling Farrah into a side hug.

“I feel so bad for not keeping in touch more with these people. The Bells love us. I sent a card when Bobby was diagnosed, but I could’ve emailed them, or called, or—”

“No, don’t go down that road,” Macy said in her no-nonsense tone. It was the same tone she’d used when Farrah started on a guilt-trip for not being in her nephews’ lives. Farrah was ashamed to admit that she hadn’t spent much time at all with Cash and Colton, and they were growing up so fast, now nine and almost four. Farrah hadn’t even realized she was being selfish or absent at the time, but looking back with new wisdom and maturity, she cringed at her misplaced priorities.

Macy went on. “I’ve told people about your life and career and everything you were doing. No need to harp yourself about it. Not to mention the fact that when you did visit, nobody expected you to make time to see everyone in town. I mean…” Macy huffed as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone here was happy for you. You had a great life going for you.”

“Yeah,” Farrah said, her voice strained. “Had.” Her eyes prickled with the threat of tears, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat.

“Hey. It’s all gonna work out.” Macy grabbed Farrah’s shoulders, rubbing them up and down, a look of concern in her big brown eyes. Farrah wanted to say so much. Beyond the basic facts of what had happened, they hadn’t really talked about what had landed her back here. It was a shadow constantly looming over her shoulder, but her sister no doubt wanted to respect Farrah’s need for privacy.

Farrah thanked her sister, who went to the front table and restocked items that had been sold. Just as Macy pushed a few heavy jars of pickles to the far right of the plastic table, it buckled.

“Macy—grab it!” Farrah called from the opposite end of the market stand, well out of reach. A few pickle jars slid off the table and busted on the ground, releasing their vinegary aroma and splaying their hard-won contents across the dirt. Macy sprang forward to grab the table but wouldn’t have made it.

Instead, a tall, well-built man who happened to be passing by grabbed the table, saving dozens of canning jars in the process. Macy quickly got on her hands and knees and slid the lock over the table’s brace—the lock that must not have been fully in place the first time.

The man knelt to help her sister clean, but she insisted she’d handle it, though it took some convincing. Macy proceeded to thank him profusely and offered him his choice of pickle jars for free before launching into a conversation about how his father was doing.

Farrah took a few steps closer as they chatted and scrutinized the man’s face, doing a very poor job at hiding her surprise.

His expression probably mirrored her own as he turned from Macy and focused on Farrah, addressing her directly with a one-word question.

“Bacon?”

It couldn’t be.

Heat rushed to Farrah’s cheeks. Standing before her was six feet of teenage regret. She shot a look at Macy, whose sky-high eyebrows betrayed everything she was thinking. She quickly went back to cleaning up the busted jars, leaving Farrah and James Abbott alone in conversation.

Quick, Farrah. Find your words before things get awkward.

“I-I don’t like it when people call me Bacon.”

Abbott’s bright smile slid slowly across his face, revealing two dimples beneath his dark stubble.

“You mean other people have tried to call you Bacon besides me?”

Well, no. At least not since the sixth grade, when she got that horrible cold that left her unable to pronounce Macon correctly for over a month. Abbott had never left the nickname behind.

“What are you doing here?” Farrah asked, squaring her shoulders instead of answering him.

“I could ask you the very same thing.” Abbott slid his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. His smile was kind. Genuine. Different. The snark and cockiness he used to wear constantly had disappeared at some point in the past decade. His eyes, an unremarkable brown, sparkled beneath the shade of his bill. His dark curls peeked out from the back of the cap. “I heard you married some—”

“I did,” Farrah spat out. She was almost always sociable and friendly, but the inner workings of her life were things that only a few people knew. She couldn’t go into detail with him of all people, and certainly not today. Not with how things had turned out. How things were turning out.

“Well, where is he?” Abbott looked around innocently. “I’d like to meet the guy.”

Farrah’s heart raced. So much for things not getting weird. 

Macy tossed the remaining soiled pickles in the trash and came to Farrah’s side.

“Abbott…” Macy started, but Farrah wasn’t going to let her fight this battle for her. At some point the truth would have to come out, uncomfortable or not. She stopped Macy by placing a hand on her forearm and addressing Abbott herself.

“We got divorced. I’ll be back home for the foreseeable future.” Farrah held her head high and looked Abbott square in the face, despite the pain and shame of the statement.

If only that was all there was to it; a simple divorce—a parting of ways—but that was merely the tip of the iceberg. The real problem was far from over.

“Dang, I’m sorry.” His eyebrows scrunched together as he studied Farrah. She thought she saw either compassion or pity in his eyes. Maybe both. Macy patted Farrah’s arm, excusing herself to tend to some customers approaching the booth. Farrah and Abbott walked over to the side of the canopy and stood a bit closer.

“It is what it is,” Farrah said. “What about you? Did you ever marry, or…”

“Nah.” Abbott cleared his throat, then pursed his lips.

Farrah waited, but it was obvious that Abbott didn’t want to elaborate. He also wasn’t going anywhere. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, studying her tenderly. Perhaps remembering what she was trying to forget.

“Well, what do you do for work?” Farrah asked, hoping to break the silence, and pushing through the wariness she felt at seeing him. He had gone to school in Knoxville, and last she’d heard, he’d gotten a job there. But that would’ve been six or seven years ago.

“Dad’s ranch. Cattle and corn, same as always.”

Farrah wondered how he’d ended up back in their small town after college, considering his plans to go into logistics, but she wasn’t about to give him the pleasure of taking interest in where he had been for the past ten years. He certainly hadn’t been calling her.

“Y’all still growing that genetically altered stuff?” Farrah asked, wincing.

“Yep. All your vegetables still organic?” He asked this with a slight head bobble, turning the question into a criticism.

For a second, she thought she saw his old snark and cockiness return, and her distrust piqued. Maybe she had felt unsure about seeing him for a reason. It wouldn’t be the first time her subconscious had picked up on a nuance to protect her. Then again, there had been a few times when her gut feelings were just plain wrong.

“I’m just pickin’,” Abbott said, a lopsided smile easing its way up his cheek, that stubbly jaw bringing back all kinds of memories. Her wariness melted. If she were honest, talking to him at near thirty was a lot like it had been when they were eighteen. He was handsome in his late twenties, just as Farrah had imagined he would be. “I do some of that type of farming now too. Just for fun,” he added, a glint in his eyes.

Farrah realized she hadn’t responded. Instead, she had been looking him over. Abbott’s face was tan but flushed at the cheeks. Could he tell she was distracted by her thoughts of him?

“You’re not still mad at me, right?” Abbott asked, a bit lower in tone. “I mean, we were kids. I know I acted immaturely. What teenager doesn’t? Hopefully we’re past all that.”

Once again Farrah was reminded that their breakup had been just a bump in the road, but to her, it had completely altered the course of her life. Without her relationship with Abbott to worry about, she’d been free to study far away from him in Charlotte.

There, she’d met Connor. And the rest was history. She was glad she’d ended up with Connor. She’d loved him with everything she had. Maybe the real issue was that remembering Abbott’s teenage rejection felt a lot like the sting of being served divorce papers, which had happened only one short year ago.

“No, I’m not still mad,” Farrah admitted. How could she be? With everything happening now, it would have been silly to hold on to hurt from so long ago. But seeing him had old sentiments knocking at her heart’s door. Things she hadn’t visited for years. “I have bigger things to worry about.” Farrah laughed to make this comment lighter, but Abbott’s brow knitted in worry. Yet again, he seemed compassionate. Kind. 

“Well, be sure to let me know if I can help you in any way.”

He was being sweet, but her problems weren’t exactly something he could fix. 

“No, thanks. I’m good, Abbott,” Farrah said, maybe a bit too coolly.

“Good,” Abbott added, nodding curtly. “Glad to see you’re back in your old job and doing okay.” He briefly touched his ball cap’s bill and turned to leave.

Maybe she’d been a little too short with him, or seemed unappreciative. She exited the protective canopy and stepped out onto the pavement behind him.

“I’m just helping here today, and maybe the rest of the Tuesdays this summer. I actually found a local job.”

Abbott turned again to face her under the quickly graying sky. A fat raindrop splattered on Farrah’s arm.

“Where at?” he asked.

“At the nursing home.”

“You runnin’ it?” he asked, and Farrah thought maybe he was joking. But no. He was completely serious. She didn’t have the right degrees to run a healthcare facility. Still, she was flattered at the compliment.

“No… I…” How could she say this? He’d be surprised however it was worded. “I’m a Certified Nursing Assistant there. I started yesterday.”

His lips parted in confusion. “So a CNA,” he repeated. “That’s very selfless of you. I guess I just assumed… with your personality and leadership experience…”

“Yeah. Things change, I guess.” Farrah shrugged. Her sudden interest in the medical profession had been a surprise to many, and Abbott, apparently, was no different. She’d lost count of the times she’d had to explain to friends and family that she’d taken the twelve-week course route to get her licensure, and it had been a necessary job change, yada, yada, yada…

It seemed completely random, but she’d have to disclose too much to explain it to him or anybody else. She folded her arms over her chest and sighed.

The raindrops fell faster, splattering around them, foretelling a thunderstorm. The splashes were cool on Farrah’s bare arms. Vendors around them scrambled to cover their goods, and shoppers scurried to their cars as the pungent scent of summer showers rose from the wet earth.

“Good for you. Hey, looks like we’re about to get soaked. I’ll let you take shelter. I’ll see you around, Bacon,” Abbott said with a nod.

She managed a squeaky, “Yeah.” He turned and jogged off athletically into the humid day, and then hopped into a gray pickup truck at the other end of the parking lot.

Farrah hurried back under the canopy to help pack up their things, her dark waves clinging to her face and neck with the sudden moisture. The market was closing soon anyway, and they wouldn’t have any more customers in the downpour. Her hands a bit shaky, and her heart a bit fluttery, she marveled that one interaction with her high school flame had gotten her so worked up.

“I thought he lived in Tennessee. Why didn’t you tell me he was back in town?” Farrah asked her sister, raising her voice over the roar of the raindrops pelting the canopy.

Macy huffed, her face painted with confusion. “What do you mean, ‘back in town’? He came back not long after college.”

“How would I know that? We haven’t spoken since the summer after senior year, but apparently he has heard a few things about me.” Farrah rubbed her clammy face and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Seeing him had stirred up all kinds of emotions. Embarrassment. Fondness. Intrigue.

“He has asked me about you a few times through the years,” Macy admitted, filling another crate. “Casually. Maybe just being polite.”

If Farrah was honest, Abbott had crossed her mind at times too. She hadn’t expected to see him on her first day in public. She knew it was inevitable at some point down the road. She’d run through scenarios of how she would greet him, what she would say, safe topics to ask about, and—

“Wow.” Macy paused her frantic packing to look at Farrah, who realized she was chewing on her lip in that way she did when she was overthinking something. “You’re really affected by this. I’m so sorry! Did he say something about the divorce, or—”

“No,” Farrah said, cutting her off. It was true that she’d been nervous when she’d first seen him, but all in all, their interaction had gone remarkably well. What was troubling her were those old, forgotten feelings from so long ago. “There’s just lots of history there, is all.”

Macy clicked her tongue. “You know what I think? Your emotions are all over the place. Come to my house tonight. Hang out with the boys, and after they go to bed, we can have a girls’ night. PJs, popcorn. We can even have a drink in the hot tub—the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Oh, Mace. I wish I could. I’m on schedule at Glade Village tonight.”

Macy hummed and her eyes grew slightly sad. “Working with Mr. Mitchell?”

“No. I wish.” Farrah sighed. “I’m with Mrs. Janice. The one that likes soap operas and cats. I’m sure I’ll have some stories to tell you after.”

“Ha!” Macy laughed. “Here, help me load this.” She handed Farrah a cardboard tray filled with pint jars of last summer’s peach jam. In just a few weeks, it would be time to can fresh batches. They had just finished canning this season’s cherry jams and jellies. In their line of work, the year was measured by the peak yield of each crop instead of traditional month names.

After seeing that the weather showed no signs of clearing up, Farrah sighed and stepped out from the canopy to walk to the bed of the truck. There, she shifted crates, and the cool rain drenched her thoroughly in a matter of minutes. In the distance, the thunder rolled lazily, taking its time.

Peach jam. She couldn’t see that, or peach tea, without thinking of Abbott.

As she turned to head back to the canopy for a second armful of goods, she smiled as it occurred to her that for the first time in a long time, she was not dwelling on her husband and everything that had happened.

Instead, she was thinking back to that hot, humid summer when she and Abbott were eighteen.

Part of her cringed. They had been so childish. So immature. So prone to dramatic outbursts and miscommunication, as teenagers often are.

Yet she remembered with fondness that what they’d had was real.