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"Maybe," Joe replied, his voice a low, unyielding rumble. "Maybe she is too proud. Maybe that man poisoned her against me, or maybe she is just too wrapped up in that corporate world of hers to remember the summers she spent in this kitchen."

He shoved the freshly sealed envelope into the deep pocket of his wax jacket hanging by the door. He pulled his flat cap low over his forehead.

"But as long as I breathe, Emma, she will know there is a light left on in this house. Even if she never looks at it." He paused, his hand resting on the brass doorknob. "The day I stop writing is the day I let Harrison win. And I will not bury my own blood."

Then, he turned and shuffled out into the mudroom, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind him.

Emma stood paralyzed in the center of the kitchen. Through the warped glass of the window, she watched his frail silhouette. He was walking directly into the driving English storm to send a piece of his heart across an ocean, only for a spoiled, arrogant heiress to throw it back in his face.

Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Let Victoria Sterling stay in America. Let her rot in her wealth and her ignorance. Emma was going to stay right here, and she was going to make sure this old man never sat in a dark room for the rest of his life.

Chapter One

Emma

Seventy-two scones. Four dozen lemon tartlets. Six Victoria sponges, heavy with buttercream and raspberry preserve. Three trays of shortbread, the butter content high enough to leave a permanent sheen on the parchment paper.

Emma stared at the spread covering the counter at Nate’s Café, her fingers digging into the chipped laminate until the rim bit into her skin.

She hadn’t slept in three days. Not since Tuesday morning, when she had walked into the inn’s living room and found Joe sitting in his wingback chair, the fire burned down to ash, his chest permanently still.

The moment the paramedics zipped the black bag, Emma had walked straight into the kitchen, tied her apron around her waist, and started measuring sugar. The demanding rules of baking kept her moving. If she focused on the exact temperature of the oven, she didn't have to think about the heavy silence in the house. If she kept her hands covered in dough, she couldn't feel the absence of Joe’s shuffling footsteps on the floorboards above her.

"Em. Breathe."

Nate’s voice was a steady rumble near her ear. He stepped into her line of sight, sliding a steaming mug of black coffee onto the counter. He stood by the espresso machine, an immovable barrier between her and the crowded room.

"I'm breathing," Emma lied, her voice rasping. She reached for the mug. Her fingers trembled. "I need to bring out the rest of the shortbread. Mrs. Higgins is looking for it."

Nate reached out. His large hand wrapped around her wrist, gently stopping her. "Mrs. Higgins has already eaten three tarts. If she eats any more, I’ll have to roll her out the door. You’re done, Emma. You’ve fed the entire village twice over."

The café was packed. Outside, a relentless rain washed out the colors of Rosebrook, turning the sky the color of slate. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of roasted coffee beans, damp wool, and the sugary scent of Emma’s grief.

"Drink the coffee," Nate ordered softly. He pushed the mug a little closer.

"Add this to it," a voice chirped from her left.

Lucy materialized out of the throng, smelling of rolled tobacco and petrichor. Wearing a scuffed leather jacket over a graphic tee, she bumped her hip against Emma’s. She slipped a silver flask out of her jeans, unscrewing the cap with one hand.

Before Nate could protest, Lucy tipped a splash of amber liquid into the mug.

"Medicinal," Lucy declared, winking at him. She wrapped an arm around Emma’s waist, squeezing tight. "Drink it before I force-feed it to you, babe."

Emma managed a fractured smile. The whiskey hit the back of her throat with a welcome bite, cutting through the fog of exhaustion in her brain. She leaned into Lucy’s warmth, letting her friend's vibrant energy anchor her.

"Oh I have one! He was sixty-seven years old," old Mr. Abernathy’s voice boomed over the clatter of ceramic mugs. He stood by the corner booth, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten scone. "Middle of a gale in ‘99, and there’s Joe, clambering up my roof in the pitch black to nail down a loose slate."

A wave of laughter rippled through the room.

Emma’s chest tightened. An ache bloomed behind her ribs. He was ours, she thought fiercely, looking at the worn faces of the villagers. Joe hadn’t just lived in Rosebrook; he was the foundation it was built on. He had known everyone’s names, their debts, their triumphs. He had given Emma a home when her own mother chose a new husband in London over her teenage daughter.

"Emma, dear."

The tentative voice broke her focus. Emma turned, her spine stiffening on instinct.

Arthur Finch, the local solicitor, stood a few feet away. He clutched a leather briefcase to his chest like a shield, looking at Emma with an expression of apologetic pity. Nate shifted his weight, crossing his arms. Lucy narrowed her eyes, her hand resting protectively on Emma’s back.

"Arthur," Emma said, keeping her voice even. "Did you not get a tart? There are plenty left."