Three Wishes

Praise for
BARBARA DELINSKY
and her page-turning bestsellers

THREE WISHES

“[A] heartwarming, tear-jerking small-town romance.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“A touching and delightful new novel. . . . A story of genuine love, sacrifice, and redemption, and the cohesiveness of life in a small town.”

—Chattanooga Times
(TN)

“[A] heartwarming novel... Delinsky's prose is spare, controlled, and poignant as she evokes the simplicity and joys of small-town life.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“I wish you'd read THREE WISHES. . . . This charming novel has a fantastical premise, [but] its themes of redemption and love are powerfully earthbound.”

—
Woman's Own

COAST ROAD

“A winner. . . . Delinsky delivers an emotion-packed journey .. . firmly cementing her status as a bestselling writer of top-notch books.”

—
Booklist

“The road to recovery for both Jack and Rachel makes for a heartwarming story”.

—
Star Tribune
(Minneapolis)

“Delinsky steers clear of treacle . . . with simple prose and a deliberate avoidance of happily-ever-after clichés.”

—
People

“A remarkable journey. . . . Delinsky delves deeper into the human heart and spirit with each new novel.”

—
The Cincinnati Enquirer

“A beautiful love story. . . . Delinsky is one of the twentieth century's best writers.”

—Amazon.com

LAKE NEWS

“[An] engaging tale.”

—
People

“Delinsky spins another engrossing story of strength in the face of cataclysmic life changes.”

—
Library Journal

“Delightful. . . . Readers will be sorry to reach the end of
Lake News
and yearn for more about its cast and characters.”

—
The Pilot
(Southern Pines, NC)

“Delinsky plots this satisfying, gentle romance with the sure hand of an expert, scattering shady pasts and dark secrets among some of her characters while giving others destructive family patterns and difficult family dynamics to contend with.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“An enjoyable novel. . . . Delinsky is one of those writers who knows how to introduce characters to her readers in such a way that they become more like old friends than works of fiction.”

—
Flint Journal
(MI)

“Filled with romance, intrigue, revenge, and salvation, Lake News is a gripping tale sure to please [Delinsky's] legions of loyal fans and earn her quite a few new ones.”

—BookPage

“Recommended. . . . Lily Blake [is] a remarkable heroine.”

—
Abilene Reporter-News
(TX)

“A beautiful love story. . . . Delinsky scores big-time . . . her best novel to date. Considering her resume, this is one hell of a tale.”

—
The Midwest Book Review

“A razor-sharp look at the power of the media and how easily it can breach a person's privacy.”

—
The West Orange Times

A Personal Note from the Author

I
've always been a wish maker. I wish at the sight of evening's first star, on pulling the long end of the turkey wishbone, in secret notes written on birch bark and tossed onto a campfire, and, of course, over birthday candles. Some of my wishes are general and constant, most notably for good health and happiness. Others are more specific.

On the occasion of the publication of this book, I offer three of the latter. First, anniversary wishes to Steve; I vote for another thirty years. Second, graduation wishes to Andrew and Jeremy; may you each find deep satisfaction in whatever field you choose to enter. Third, wedding wishes to Jodi and Eric, with the sweetest dreams of good health, happiness, and—I can't resist—true love always.

I've made other wishes this year. Thanks to my agent, Amy Berkower, and my editor, Laurie Bernstein, many have already come true. You both know what's left. We'll wish together.

1

I
t wasn't the first snow of the season. Panama, Vermont, lay far enough north to have already seen several snow-dusted dawns. But this wasn't dawn, and these flakes didn't dust. From early afternoon right on into evening, they fell heavy and fat and wet.

Truckers stopping at the diner complained of the roads growing slick, but the warning carried little weight with locals. They knew that the sun would be back, even an Indian summer before winter set in. Snowfall now was simply frosting on the cake of another wildfire fall, thick flakes silencing the riot of colorful leaves, draping a plump white shawl on the town green's oak benches, on marigolds that lingeringly lined front walks, on a bicycle propped against an open front gate.

The scene was so peaceful that no one imagined the accident to come, least of all Bree Miller. Winter was her favorite season. There was something about snow that softened the world, made it make-believe for the briefest time, and while she wasn't a woman prone to fancy—would have immediately denied it if accused—she had her private moments.

She didn't bother with a jacket. The memory of summer's heat was all too fresh. Besides, with locals wanting to eat before the weather worsened and with truckers bulking up, the diner had been hopping, so she was plenty warm without.

She slipped out the door, closing it tight on the hum of conversation, the hiss and sizzle of the grill, the sultry twang of Shania Twain. In the sudden hush, she ran lightly down the steps, across the parking lot, then the street. On the far side, she flattened her spine to the crusty trunk of a large maple whose amber leaves hung heavy with snow, and looked back.

The diner was a vision of stainless steel and neon, rich purples and greens bouncing off silver, new and more gallant through a steady fall of snow. Gone were little items on her fix-it list—the scrape Morgan Willis's truck had put on a corner panel, a dent in the front railing, bird droppings off the edge of the roof. What remained was sparkling clean, warm, and inviting, starting with the diner's roadside logo, concentric rings of neon forming a large frying pan with the elegant eruption of
FLASH AN' THE PAN
from its core. Behind that were golden lamps at each of ten broad windows running the diner's length and, in booths behind those lamps, looking snug and content, the customers.

The diner wasn't Bree's. She just worked there. But she liked looking at it.

Same with Panama. Up the hill, at the spot where East Main leveled into an oval around the town green, snow capped the steel roofs of the row of tall Federals and beyond, white on white, the church steeple. Down the hill, at the spot where the road dipped past the old train depot, snow hid the stains that years of diesel abuse had left and put a hearty head on the large wood beer stein that marked the Sleepy Creek Brewery.

Panama was ten minutes off the highway on the truck route running from Concord to Montreal. Being neither here nor there was one of its greatest strengths. There were no cookie-cutter subdivisions, no planned developments with architect-designed wraparound porches. Porches had been wrapping around houses in Panama since the days of the Revolution, not for the sake of style but for community. Those porches were as genuine as the people who used them. Add the lack of crime and the low cost of land, and the town's survival was ensured. Bright minds sought haven here and found inspiration. The brewery was but one example. There was also a bread company, workshops producing hand-carved furniture and wooden toys, and a gourmet ice cream factory. Native Panamanians lent stability. Newcomers brought cash.

Bree drew in a snow-chilled breath, held it deep in her lungs, let it slowly out. The occasional snowflake breached the leaves overhead to land in an airy puff on her arm, looking soft, feeling rich, in those few seconds before melting away. On impulse, she slid around the tree trunk to face the woods. Here, the snow picked up the diner's lights in a mystical way. Drifting leaves whirled about, forest fairies at play, Bree fancied. From nowhere came childhood images of carousels, clowns, and Christmas, all more dream than memory. She listened hard, half expecting to hear elf sounds mixed in with those of nocturnal creatures. But, of course, there were none.

Foolish Bree. High on snow. Time to go inside.

Still she stood there, riveted by something that made her eyes mist and her throat ache. If it was wanting, she didn't know what for. She had a good life. She was content.

Still she stood there.

Behind her came a fragment of conversation when the diner door opened, and the subsequent growls, muted by billowing flakes, of one big rig, then a second. By the time the semis had rumbled out of the parking lot, cruised down the hill, and turned toward the highway, the only sound left was the cat's-paw whisper of snow upon snow.

The diner door opened again, this time to a louder “Bree! I need you!”

Brushing tears from her eyes, she pushed off from the bark. Seconds later, she was running back across the road, turning her head against the densest of the flakes, suddenly so desperate to be back inside, where everything made sense, that she grew careless. She slipped, fought for balance with a flailing of arms, landed in the snow all the same. Scrambling up, she brushed at the seat of her black jeans and, with barely a pause to shake her hands free of snow, rushed inside, to be met by applause, several wolf whistles, and a “Way to go, Bree!”