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Somewhere between rolling out pie dough for the apple and pumpkin desserts and smearing the twenty-pound turkey she had gotten from a local farm with a dry brine of kosher salt and herbs, Cam got good news, finally. Ian dropped off an estimate, and it was within budget—assuming there would be a second check for Izzy’s cookbook. He said he could start tomorrow if she and Birdie liked. Cam figured she would stay in Silver Cove long enough to get Ian launched on the renovations and then head back to her quiet home in Brooklyn and buckle down to work in her kitchen in the hopes of coming up with recipes that would please the fickle Izzy Jones—and pay for Ian’s work.

And as busy as she was, Cam tried to savor moments with Birdie. She had been keeping an eye out for any indications that her grandmother might be slipping, but so far, beyond a moment or two when she looked tired, she had seemed all right. She appeared her usual self, greeting the odd neighbor or friend who was always popping by for tea and zooming from one meeting to the next volunteer session with her usual energy.

As they peeled apples together for the pie, her grandmother perused the detailed lists Cam had posted around the kitchen. There was a master shopping list, a menu, a to-do list, and a precise timeline of the day. Cam had lined up the dishes, platters, and serving utensils, and she had labeled each with a sticky note designating what dish went where.

“So the bird comes out of the oven at precisely four thirty?” Birdie asked. “Have you informed him of this appointment?”

Cam laughed. “I’ll put it on his Outlook calendar along with mine.”

“You really are a wonder,” Birdie said, taking in Cam’s battle plans.

“I know, I know, you want me to be more spontaneous,” Cam said, feeling a flash of defensiveness. “To loosen up.”

Birdie put down the apple she was holding and looked at her granddaughter. “My darling Cam, I wouldn’t change anything about you for all the world.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Cam said.

“No buts!” Birdie protested. “You’re cut from a different cloth than I am, at least in this department. I’m not so organized, so orderly. And your mom was like me, never on time for anything in her life. I just wonder whether you’re trying so hard to not be like her.”

Cam studied the peeler in her hands. “Maybe,” she said. Of course, it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to see that she had tried to live differently than her mother had. She had once seen a Far Side cartoon that struck close to home: a kid escaping a circus tent with a hobo’s bag slung across his shoulder. Barnum and Bailey’s kid had run away from the circus to join corporate America, the caption said. Everyone rebelled against their parents, didn’t they? And if your mom was a free-spirited aspiring folk singer who moved from city to city the way some women changed shoes, who wouldn’t crave a little stability? What was wrong with that?

“I know that life with your mom could be unpredictable. Hurricane Flora, we always called her. She was so much fun to be around—so spontaneous. Do you remember the time she got us all to howl at the full moon over the harbor? And when we washed our hair in the rain of that big storm?” The lines around Birdie’s eyes deepened as she smiled at the memory. “Of course, I worried about the life she led and the nomadic upbringing she gave you. And of course I blamed myself for it, which is what mothers always do. That’s why I wanted you here in the summers. Your mother loved you and she did her best, but there was usually damage left in her wake.”

“Are you saying that I’m damaged?” Cam asked, feeling a flush in her cheeks. “Because you know what? I think I’m okay. I have a good career. I’m happy.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that there’s something wrong with you,” Birdie said. “You are a bright, kind, independent woman, and I’m so very proud of you. I just wonder if maybe you might be more open—to love, to life—if you weren’t, oh I don’t know, afraid of a little mess. Because sometimes, sweetie, the mess is the good part.”

“Is this the part where you tell me I need to date more? Because I get that enough from Avery, the queen of broken hearts.” Cam couldn’t imagine living like her cousin—or like Birdie, for that matter. She had found the love of her life, and what had it gotten her? Decades of heartache.

“Sometimes a broken heart is just a sign that you’re alive,” Birdie said. She picked up her apple again and attacked it with the peeler. “Okay, enough of Grandmom’s lecture. I like to think I’m pretty wise, and I do know when I’m about to overstep my boundaries. Shutting up now!”

Cam was glad that her grandmother hadn’t pressed any further. After all, she was the one who had come to Silver Cove to set things straight for her grandmother. She didn’t need Birdie trying to turn her into some sort of project, too. So what if she was more cautious than Avery or less spontaneous than Birdie? She was fine. Or at least she had been fine back in Brooklyn, back where she could focus on her work. Back where things seemed simpler.

Dinner went off without a hitch, thanks to Cam’s detailed lists—and Birdie’s welcoming hosting. Everyone ate chestnut stuffing and moist hunks of turkey doused in cognac-tinged gravy and heaps of mashed potatoes so rich they would make Jeff Bezos look like a charity case. That’s what everyone had said, and Cam took their compliments but reveled more in the warmth of the evening and the smile on Birdie’s face. Not the literal warmth—despite a roaring fire in the fireplace and the work of the space heater and the heat from the oven—the house was chillier than it should have been. It didn’t seem to bother any of their guests, but Cam still couldn’t wait to get the house taken care of. She would feel better about leaving Birdie once she knew she would be okay here.

After all her efforts to make the dinner perfect, Cam slept unusually late the next morning and was awoken by the sound of a loud knocking on the side door. Shit, she thought, as she threw on her grandfather’s old wool bathrobe that hung from the hook on the back of her bedroom door. Ian McCabe apparently didn’t sleep in, even after a holiday.

She realized as she got to the bottom of the stairs how crazy she looked. Her hair was sticking out in at least five different directions, and the robe’s red tartan clashed with the blue plaid of her pajamas. After the debacle with the squirrel and the sauce, she had hoped to make a better impression on Ian this time. Not that she cared what he thought, exactly. It’s just that this wasn’t like her. She was the kind of person who had things under control, and she wanted the man to whom she was handing over all her money in the world (and promising even more) to know it.

Birdie, already dressed in her uniform of jeans and a button-down flannel, had beat Cam to the door. She had already welcomed Ian in and was serving him a cup of coffee at the oak table by the time Cam reached the kitchen.

Ian was wearing Carhartt pants and the same heavy work jacket he had on when Cam had met him. He swiped the knit hat off his head in a gesture of respect—hats weren’t for indoors, no matter how chilly it was, as it seemed he recognized—and he gratefully took the steaming mug Birdie handed him. His hair tumbled out from the rough knit beanie, a tangle of sandy curls that ended at his collar. He was graying just the tiniest bit at the temples, and Cam figured he was maybe in his late thirties, a little older than she was. He had a tanned face, even in the cold, that told her he spent a lot of time outdoors. Cam pawed at her own hair, willing it into submission, and tightened the belt of Eddie’s robe as she poured herself a cup and added a splash of milk, trying to look as dignified as possible.

“So I understand you’re from North Carolina? Moved here recently?” Birdie asked, fixing him with a pleasant but direct gaze. “That’s all people around town seem to know about you. You’re a bit of a mystery, apparently.” Of course her grandmother would have already run the Silver Cove equivalent of an FBI background check on the poor guy. She might as well shine a bare bulb in his face and start asking questions. But Birdie had a far softer touch, and she leaned in and patted his jacket-clad arm. “Tell me all about yourself, young man.”

Ian met Birdie’s eyes thoughtfully. Interesting, Cam thought. Some men would be flattered by that kind of attention and would automatically shift into charming mode, reflexively looking for admiration or soliciting a laugh. They’d flirt. Others might be offended at the intrusiveness. Ian McCabe instead merely nodded slowly as if he was considering Birdie’s question.

“Not much to tell,” he said, bending over to give Parsley—who had appeared to check out the visitor—a scratch behind his ear. “I’m just a guy who loves old houses, and I can see why you love this place,” he said, skirting the invitation to bare all. “I think I can make it beautiful again. Let me show you the renderings I drew up.”

Cam admired his graceful dodging of Birdie’s gentle grilling. More than that, she admired his plans for the house. He had sketched out a design nearly identical to the original, but with a few thoughtful modifications. He had added a transom window above the door to let in more light and widened the porch, giving it a graceful look and making it deep enough to hold a swing that faced out onto the harbor instead of off to the side, the way it had been. He eliminated the gingerbread trim that had been added in the Victorian era, replacing it with simpler lines true to the home’s colonial style. He would shore up the foundation and replace the rot. The roof would be lined with modern insulation, making the house far more snug. During the renovations, he planned to temporarily close off the door that led from the living room to the kitchen, making it airtight and allowing Birdie to live there while he worked. She and her guests could use the back kitchen and dining room, which they could access through the rear door.

Cam made a note to ask Ian to help her move the living room furniture to the spare bedroom and relocate Birdie’s favorite worn-chintz armchair into the kitchen corner.

“As long as you don’t mind some noise and sawdust, you should be just fine,” Ian said. “Might have to shut off the water or electricity a few times, but I’ll give you plenty of notice.”

Cam laughed to herself. What was a little hammering compared to Birdie’s guests’ nonstop clatter?

“Cam tells me that all the contractors in town are busy,” Birdie said. “Why is it that you’re free?”