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The porch sagged under the weight of neglect.

The house was a skeleton of its former self, curls of paint revealing the old wooden siding, the windows gazing out like eyes lidded with torn shades.

Flynn’s hand trembled a little as he turned a rusted key in the lock, the click echoing in the stillness of the summer afternoon.

The door creaked open, protesting as he pushed it aside. Mairin trailed

behind him, stepping cautiously on the old floorboards.

“This is it,” Flynn said. “It’s not much to look at now, but I’ve got big plans, Mairin.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the promise she heard in his voice. She herself had been making plans since the first day she’d

set foot on the farmland. They moved through the old house, dappled with shadows and dusty sunlight. “It’s like it’s been

frozen in time,” Mairin said. She walked closer to him as they exited through the back door. Her gaze scanned the horizon,

now streaked with the deepening colors of late afternoon. “You’re right, Flynn,” she said. “It’s a wreck.”

“Yes, but I—”

“A beautiful wreck,” she said. “We used to have bonfires right over there.” She pointed. “Everyone would gather around, singing

and sharing stories until the stars came out.” Then she turned to him. “It was a lonely time for me, Flynn. The land taught

me a lot, but I always knew there was something missing.”

He touched her cheek. “What was missing, Mairin?”

You, she thought. You . She felt as if she were balanced on a precipice, afraid to fall. She wanted to tell him. She was scared to tell him. Her

vision blurred with tears. Here she stood with the one person who unknowingly held the other half of her soul, but she felt

so uncertain, so damaged by the brutal year with the nuns that she couldn’t imagine showing her heart to him.

“Mairin?” he prompted.

She looked up at him, remembering all the times she’d looked up to Flynn Gallagher, the boy with the gleaming dark hair and

the quiet smile, the man who seemed to understand her without words.

“We can bring this place to life again,” she said. “Make things grow, bring people together.”

He smiled, his eyes softening with relief. “We can,” he agreed.

Her gaze swept the weedy garden around the house. “Dandelions don’t need any help,” she said. “My dad always told me to be

a dandelion, not an artichoke. They’re hard to grow.”

“We’ll grow artichokes,” Flynn said. “We’ll grow anything you want. You and me together. This is where it’s going to happen, Mairin. Everything we talked about. And probably things we never even dreamed about.”

She slipped her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his warm chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart and

inhaling his scent. This moment had been a long time coming. It was slow but steady, a gradual discovery that there really

was a kind of love that was as safe and warm as a blanket in winter. A kind of love that lasted as long as life. A kind of

love that could save her.

“I totally and completely love you,” she said in a small, shaking voice.

He leaned down and brushed his lips over her temple. Then he lifted her up off the ground and hugged her against him. “Did

you just whisper that? Say it again, Mairin. I want to hear you say it again.”

Mairin and Flynn were married at their farm in the summer of ’75. The orchard was their canopy, and their mothers and friends

prepared a banquet with produce grown on the property. Mairin’s own mother sang a traditional wedding song in Gaelic. The

honeymoon had to wait for winter, because in addition to being their shared passion, the farm was an uncompromising tyrant.

They brought the place back to life, refurbishing the farmhouse and reviving its patchwork of vibrant greens and lush reds

in the orchards and fields.

In the shadow of the trees, on the edge of the main orchard, nestled a row of weathered cottages that had once housed the

fruit pickers during harvest season.

Mairin made a special project of restoring the cottages, breathing new life into the worn walls and creaky floorboards, adding

fresh coats of paint in cheerful colors, new roofs, and simple furnishings. Flynn’s huge extended family, along with friends

and neighbors, pitched in as the once-abandoned buildings were transformed into cozy sanctuaries, and word spread that there

was a place for girls in need of shelter. Young women came and went, helping in the orchards and fields, manning the roadside

farm stand, filling crates for the delivery trucks, most of them grateful for the dignity of work and a safe haven.

She wrote a letter to Angela Denny in Geneseo, telling her about the project.

Since their meeting at the Falls, the elation of finding each other had mellowed.

That initial burst of camaraderie had been genuine, but fleeting.

They had exchanged phone numbers and addresses, but then the calls and letters gradually dwindled in frequency.

Though Angela had declined the wedding invitation, she’d sent a heartfelt card of congratulations and a set of Belleek porcelain bookends.

Angela explained that she wouldn’t know anyone at the wedding, and didn’t want to have to explain how she and Mairin had met.

Something about their shared trauma at the Good Shepherd made them cautious, perhaps.

They remained friends—from a distance. It was enough to know that they could find each other again if they needed to.

Flynn and Mairin worked themselves into exhaustion some days, but they were replete with satisfaction, because they were building

their dream, cultivating it with patience and love. Each sprout that broke through the soil, each flower that blossomed into

fruit, marked their progress. Each harvest was a celebration of their tenacity and dedication. In the winter, the land rested

beneath a blanket of snow, and they planned and struggled to manage the budget. They made love by the warmth of a wood stove,

and waited for spring to beckon.

One autumn evening near the end of the apple harvest, Flynn brought Mairin down to the orchard to watch the sun go down and

listen to the whispering trees. Lights were coming on in the workers’ cottages, turning the windows to gold.

“Look what we did,” Mairin said, leaning back against the broad wall of his chest. “What we’re doing.”

He brought his arms around her from behind. “We’re just getting started,” he said. Then he took her hand. “I made you something.

Come see.”

They walked over to the orchard gate, which used to have a shabby hand-lettered Heyday Farm plaque. “I replaced the old one,” he said.

Mairin stared at the new sign, her heart bursting with pride. The new sign read Wayward Farm .