Whitney Foster was stuck in a traffic jam.

On a Thursday afternoon.

In the middle of nowhere.

She thought she'd left this particular problem in Chicago. But here she was, moving at a snail's pace on a two-lane country road. She sat fourth in line behind a monstrous green farm machine. The road was twisty, so attempting to pass risked a fate far worse than slowing down for a few miles.

At least the view was nice. Seneca Lake stretched out below her, narrow and brilliantly blue. Farmland and vineyards sloped down to the water, and on the other side, rose gently to the horizon. A glance at the GPS told Whitney she was only a few miles away from one of the happiest places she'd ever known as a child. A little traffic backup wouldn't spoil her anticipation.

The three-day drive from Chicago to upstate New York was the longest road trip her hybrid SUV had ever seen. It usually just took her to work and back on those rare days she didn't take the train. The fun-yet-practical bright red vehicle had been a rare impulse purchase last year after she'd received her bonus. It was great on gas. And she'd managed to pack a surprising amount of her life into the small cargo area. Her former life, that is.

No more bonuses now. No more job. And all because slow dancing at sunrise she'd trusted the wrong man. Wrong men. Silly her for assuming the senior partners would do the right thing when she found discrepancies in an audit done by the CEO's nephew. Instead, they'd patted her on the head and told her not to worry, then made her the scapegoat when it all blew up in their faces. They took her job and her reputation. Good times.

Brake lights flashed red in front of her as the agricultural machine slowed to a near stop, then mercifully pulled into a farm on the right, raising a cloud of dust as it rumbled up the driveway and past the blue, green and yellow farmhouse. As frustrated as she was by the delay, the scene made her smile. She'd been around too much pavement and cement the past few years. The increasing number of Victorian houses she passed, painted in bright rainbow colors, were a mainstay of Rendezvous Falls.

Aunt Helen had told her the story often. Some famous architect — Whitney drummed her fingers on the steering wheel trying to remember his name — came home to the town after the Civil War. Looking to forget the terrible things he'd seen, the architect started building houses decked out with fanciful gingerbread trim, painted in wild color combinations. People laughed at first. But it wasn't long before everyone wanted the most intricate, most incredible, most colorful house in town. These days, people traveled from all over to see the Crazy Victorian "Painted Ladies" of Rendezvous Falls. Naturally, an influx of visitors led to the meeting of many different worlds. And, as Aunt Helen used to say, the meeting of hearts. "People don't realize what they're missing until they find it," she would say with a wink.

Maybe that was why Whitney couldn't think of anywhere else to run to but the Finger Lakes. Just like when she came here as a little girl, she knew she was missing ... something. Whitney's mom had been trying to "make it" in Las Vegas back then, and rarely had time for actual parenting. Visiting her aunt and uncle here almost every summer gave Whitney the sense of home she'd needed. It was an escape to a magical place, as far removed from Vegas in atmosphere as it was in miles.

Route 14 grazed the edge of Rendezvous Falls. Whitney didn't take time to detour through the neighborhoods that led down to the water, but the town hadn't changed much. The houses stood out from the bucolic scenery as boldly as ever. American flags waved from old-fashioned lampposts lining the streets. It was still postcard pretty, and indeed, there was a sign proudly proclaiming Voted One of America's Prettiest Towns.

A large home sat on one corner with a for sale sign in front of it. It sported two round turrets, and was painted black, with bright orange-and-yellow trim. Whitney shook her head. It looked like an homage to candy corn. As a little girl, the eclectic paint schemes made her feel like she'd stepped into a fairy tale where anything was possible. As an adult, they seemed ... silly. Indulgent. Impractical. They were just houses now, not portals to a storybook wonderland. Because fairy tales weren't real.

Uncomfortable confronting her own cynicism, Whitney pulled her shoulders back and tried to loosen her death grip on the steering wheel. She wasn't here to believe in magic. She was here to regroup and figure out what to do next. She chewed on her lip, trying to ignore the roiling of her stomach. Everything would be fine. She just needed a plan.

Mind back on the matter at hand, she turned onto Falls Road and headed up the hill away from town, toward Falls Legend Winery. A smile played at her lips. Okay, there was one fairy tale she believed in. Uncle Tony had passed away almost two years ago, but until then, he and Aunt Helen had lived a charmed life together.

Whitney had heard that story many times, too, and she'd never tired of it. The scrappy son of an immigrant who fell for the most beautiful girl in town. Despite the odds, he won her heart. They bought a rundown farm with one of the earliest Victorian houses on it, and eventually turned it into a successful winery and party venue. Uncle Tony made the wine and built whatever was needed, and Aunt Helen was a Martha Stewart–level hostess — without that pesky trip to prison, of course. Tony and Helen's marriage had been a statistically rare perfect partnership.

She turned onto Lakeview Road, which hugged the hillside instead of climbing it, giving the car a welcome break. Whitney hadn't seen the house in almost four years. Her smile disappeared. She hadn't come to Tony's funeral. Her boss had made it clear at the time that leaving in the middle of the London audit for someone who "wasn't immediate family" would slow her progress to becoming partner. She didn't know how to explain that Uncle Tony was the only stable male role model in her life. That she loved him like a father, since she'd never known her own. Her boss wasn't interested in any of that.

Guilt poked at her before she pushed it away. Guilt was unproductive. Becoming the youngest female partner at one of the world's fastest-growing accounting firms required a pricey personal toll, and one of the first things she'd had to sacrifice was vacation time. Aunt Helen and Uncle Tony always assured her they understood when she couldn't visit, and they'd all stayed in touch with phone calls and video chats. But it wasn't the same, and she knew it.

Whitney recognized the rise in the road ahead, and her heart jumped a little. Right around that curve was the reason this was called Lakeview Road. She didn't bother stopping at the scenic overlook that jutted out alongside the road, knowing she was less than a mile from Aunt Helen's. Uncle Tony used to walk down here with her from the house, her soft little hand held in his huge, rough one. He'd tell her of the moonlit night he brought Aunt Helen to that very overlook to propose to her.

At the time, Whitney had hung on every word, staring into her uncle's warm, dark eyes and wishing she would grow up to live in a place just like this, with a love just like theirs. But she was an adult now, and she knew the odds of that happening were approximately a million to one. No, wait. Her...