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Before Margaret could answer, Alexander looked up from the cutting board. “What did she want?”

“I assumed she was a colleague,” she said. “She wanted to know whether you’d settled in.”

Alexander set the knife down. “Did she leave her name?”

Margaret shook her head. “No.”

“Can you describe her?” Alexander asked.

“Blonde. Probably in her forties. Tall, slender. Very polished.” Margaret thought for a moment. “Very well spoken. She asked thoughtful questions. More than most people do.”

Alexander nodded once. “Thank you.”

“It was probably one of my former colleagues,” I said.

Margaret looked at me. “That’s what I assumed.”

She reached beneath the counter and held out an apron. “Let’s make soup, Emilia.”

Margaret led me to the long preparation table beside the windows before placing a cutting board and a basket of onions in front of me.

“I promise we’ll start you with something that doesn’t require years of experience,” she said.

I laughed as I reached for the first onion. “I appreciate that.”

The next hour passed almost without my noticing. Volunteers moved easily around one another, conversations flowing naturally from recipes to grandchildren to the changing colors of the trees outside. Families wandered in and out of the kitchen with coffee cups in hand, stopping to chat before carrying lunch back toward the dining room. Winston appeared hopefully beside someone holding bread, earning another laugh before wandering off in search of his next admirer.

Alexander stayed close for most of the morning, but something in him had shifted after Margaret’s news. He was no less kind, no less present. Every so often, he surveyed the room before returning to the cutting board. When our eyes met, his smile came a half-second late.

As I carried a tray of freshly sliced vegetables toward the pantry, I caught sight of him through the kitchen windows. He stood alone on the stone terrace, his phone pressed to his ear. The easy line of his shoulders was gone. He paced the flagstones slowly, his head bent, one hand at the back of his neck.

The call lasted less than two minutes.

When he came back inside, whatever had been causing his unease was folded away, smoothed over, and replaced with the same calm he wore before everyone else. He reached for another tomato as though nothing had happened. But I’d seen it. And for the first time all morning, the warmth of the room felt degrees cooler.

Before long, lunch was ready. We carried steaming pots and baskets of fresh bread into the dining room while families gradually gathered around the long wooden tables. Alexander and I helped clear the last of the preparation counters before thanking everyone for welcoming me. Winston made one final circuit of the room, happily accepting a few last scratches behind the ears before reluctantly following us toward the front door.

As we stepped into the crisp autumn air, I glanced over my shoulder at Harbor House one more time. There was nothing extraordinary about what had happened here. People had simply shown up for one another. That felt extraordinary.

The drive back to Blackwood Hall passed comfortably. I considered asking about the phone call, but watched the landscape drift past the window instead.

I remembered something. “I think I may have met the woman Margaret described.”

Alexander glanced at me before returning his attention to the road. “When?”

“The evening we went to see Otello.”

“I was with you most of the evening. Was it when I stepped away to talk to Marcus?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much. She told me I seemed very happy at Blackwood. I told her I was. Then she said she was glad and disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But if it was the same woman, that’s strange, isn’t it? She spoke to me at the opera house and then went looking for someone who could tell her whether I’d settled in.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it was the same woman?”