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After Birdie had gone upstairs for an afternoon cat nap, Cam got to work identifying a list of contractors in the area. She had read online advice about hiring out for a job like this. Apparently, you were supposed to get three estimates, check the companies’ references, and look at examples of their previous projects. But after what Birdie had said, Cam figured they would be lucky to beg anyone to do it before the cold weather really set in. She started at the top of the list and began calling.

By dinnertime, Cam was starting to despair, although she wasn’t going to let on to Birdie. The big construction companies were—just as the neighbor had said—booked solid. Cam had tried everything: dropping Birdie’s name, telling them that her grandmother was a poor old woman who would probably freeze to death if they didn’t come right away, even suggesting that they might, in fact, be interested at a later date in installing a zillion-dollar pool house. It was to no avail. So far, she had gotten a handful of hard no’s, including one accompanied by an actual laugh by a receptionist when she suggested that she was looking for someone to start by the week’s end. There had been another that offered a sight-unseen, back-of-the-envelope estimate for three times what they could afford.

The next morning, Cam woke up feeling determined. She would find a contractor. She would get some recipes done for Izzy’s books. They were on her to-do list, after all. She threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater and made herself coffee in Birdie’s chilly kitchen. Birdie was nowhere to be found, and Cam assumed she was at the cafe, holding court and catching up on the latest town gossip.

After picking up some ingredients at the market, Cam unloaded her bags and cast her eyes around Birdie’s kitchen. It was nothing like her own orderly one, with a higgledy-piggledy mix of mismatched plates and glasses teetering on open shelves. Cam opened cabinets, searching for mixing bowls and ramekins in which to prep her ingredients, only to find chaos, with towers of Tupperware bottoms—their lids nowhere in sight—and vases thrown in with rusty muffin tins and sheet pans that looked like they had survived at least one war.

Cam sighed and set out to work on a recipe for Izzy. She was trying to puzzle her way through the recipes Izzy had initially suggested, testing each one to make sure the ingredient amounts were dead-on and the instructions were crystal clear. Cam felt like she was winging it because Izzy hadn’t responded to her emails or texts. But at least Cam was still in safe territory—after all, the spaghetti puttanesca she was testing today came straight from one of Izzy’s Instagram posts. “Such a whore for this pasta!” the caption had read. Izzy was riffing on the origins of the dish’s name, which translated to “lady of the night” in Italian and was said to have been named for the dish that such women consumed in between clients to keep up their energy. It was pure Izzy: a little edgy but totally approachable. And puttanesca—a tomato sauce made cravably salty with anchovies and briny capers and oily olives—was delicious to boot.

She had just begun crushing whole canned tomatoes by hand into one of Birdie’s battered mixing bowls when she heard her grandmother call out from the side door they were using as the main entrance since the real one had been so unceremoniously smashed.

“Yooo-hoo, Cammie!” Birdie called.

Cam squished another pulpy tomato in her fist and peered into the hallway. “Hi, Birdie,” she replied. “I’m just in the kitchen, getting work done.”

“She’s getting work done, do you hear that? So pipe down, ladies!” It sounded like Birdie was talking to someone behind her. And as the procession streamed into the kitchen, it became clear that her grandmother didn’t just have one guest, but three. And from the noise they made getting into the house, it didn’t seem that piping down was their specialty.

“Didn’t I tell you, my mah-jongg group meets here after breakfast on Tuesdays?” Birdie asked, planting a kiss on her granddaughter’s cheek.

Why no, Cam thought, gritting her teeth, you didn’t tell me.

“We’ll be as quiet as little church mice,” one of her friends promised. “As soon as I get a hug from you, sweet girl!” she said, enveloping Cam in a grip that would make a bear envious.

Cam tried to return the gesture, keeping her sticky hands clear. “Good to see you, Mrs. Anderson,” she said.

By the time she had greeted everyone and they had gotten settled around the kitchen’s ancient oak table, Cam had nearly forgotten where she was in the recipe. She closed her eyes for a moment, mentally blocking out the sound of mah-jonggers counting out tiles and giggling, and began chopping olives and garlic. As Cam diced and measured, the women didn’t entirely live up to the promise of being as quiet as church mice. Cam went to make a note in her Moleskine notebook—the parsley should be medium-coarse—but both the spiral-bound pad and her beloved Blackwing pencil, extra sharp, were gone. Cam sighed and looked over to the table where the women were. They were using it to keep score.

She couldn’t get any work done like this, she thought, putting away the ingredients she had prepped. Apparently, Birdie’s house was like Animal House for the retiree set. She needed fresh air.

“I’m going to the hardware store for measuring cups!” she shouted in the general direction of the heated game, grabbing Parsley’s leash from the hook by the door and sweeping up her coat. Parsley recognized the leash’s jingle and came running. Cam affixed the clasp to his collar and they were out the door, the sound of raucous laughter at their backs. She doubted her grandmother and her friends had even noticed she left.

Cam took the long way, taking pains to avoid crossing in front of Roxy’s boutique. The last thing she needed was another run-in with the bossy mayor who apparently couldn’t comprehend the word no. Cam tugged gently on Parsley’s lead. “C’mon, boy,” she said. From deep inside the pocket of her coat, Cam heard her phone buzz. She pulled it out, squinting in the harsh November sun. There were a couple of texts. The first was from a Silver Cove number.

Another contractor who couldn’t take the job. So sorry, please check with us in the spring, the message read.

Perfect, she thought. Birdie would be frozen to death by then, like a popsicle.

The other text was from Birdie. Her friend Martha’s nephew was a handyman. Call him! her grandmother wrote, and included the nephew’s number. PS, he’s single!

Cam shook her head and clicked the number. Maybe this would be the one, she thought. For the repairs, at least. After a few rings, a man answered.

“Hellllo?” came the bleary voice.

Cam wondered if she had woken him up. It was afternoon, so it hadn’t occurred to her that she would run the risk. Maybe he’d had a late-night carpentry emergency the day before. “Hi!” she said. “This is Cam Parker. My grandmother is friends with your aunt Martha, who suggested I call you.” She paused for acknowledgment of her greeting, but there was only silence. “So anyway, my grandmother needs someone to do repairs to her house.” Again Cam waited for the man to respond.

“Hello?” A bad connection, she guessed. Silver Cove cell reception was notoriously sucky.

“Mmmmphlesteturrr” came the answer. Or at least that’s what it sounded like.

“Excuse me, I didn’t catch that,” Cam said, pausing while Parsley found a particularly interesting spot to sniff. “Can you hear me?”

“Grmphlrrrestrrr,” the voice said.

And suddenly it became clear to Cam what was happening. “Are you drunk?” she asked. “It’s like two in the afternoon. Like, I don’t mean to judge, but really?”

There was another incomprehensible grunt.

“I’m telling your aunt Martha!” Cam practically shouted as the line went dead. Cam shoved the phone back in her pocket in frustration. She was beginning to think that even Julia Child herself couldn’t help her out of this particular pickle.