Through a gap in the crowd, Annie spotted Pam’s ample cleavage at the pumps before she saw her face. One of the patrons moved his head, and Pam’s face came into view.

“Annie Roast Pork!” Pam called, meeting Annie’s eyes.

“Hi!” said Annie.

People were beginning to notice the stranger in their midst, and Pam, sensing her patrons’ curiosity, said loudly: “Everybody, this is Annie. She’s looking after Mari’s place for the winter.”

This announcement was met with lively greetings, glasses raised in her direction, and multiple offers of drinks. Annie smiled and said, “Thank you!,” took rain checks on drinks, and hoped that the population of Willow Bay didn’t think her surname was “Roast-Pork.”

“Emily, love! Do me a favor and take Annie round to the restaurant, would you?” Then she turned back to Annie. “Emily will take you round, and Bill will bring your dinner out in a minute. What can I get you to drink?”

Annie was parched from her walk up the hill.

“I’ll have a large glass of Zinfandel and a pint of iced tap water, please,” said Annie.

“Right you are,” said Pam. “I’ll bring it through.”

Annie followed Emily through the bar, down a couple of steps and into, judging by the lilt of the stone walls, what must have been the oldest part of the pub, which served as the restaurant. Families were finishing up their puddings and sipping coffees.

Emily stopped at a table situated in a nook by the window. Annie slid onto the bench, festooned with cushions with stag heads and embroidered thistles. To her surprise, Emily took the Windsor chair opposite her.

“Did you have a chance to read the pamphlet yet?” she asked.

Dammit! thought Annie. What with the move, she’d completely forgotten where she’d even put it. “Oh, dear. Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

Emily shuffled her chair so that her legs were fully under the table and folded her arms.

“There’s a lot of history in Saltwater Nook,” said Emily. “And the Bay.”

“So Mari said,” Annie replied. “She didn’t have time to tell me much. It was all a bit of a blur really: her moving out, me moving in.”

“You know he wants her to sell the place?” said Emily.

“Who?” asked Annie.

“John, her nephew,” said Emily.

“She mentioned it,” said Annie, noncommittally.

Emily leaned back in her chair.

“This is the first winter Mari has spent away from the Bay since she arrived here as a thirteen-year-old runaway,” said Emily.

“Goodness!” said Annie. She wasn’t entirely sure what response Emily was looking for.

“Whose idea do you think that was?” Emily surveyed Annie through her horn-rimmed spectacles, her fingers tented in front of her face.

“Hers,” said Annie. “She told me she couldn’t face another winter here.”

“That’s what she told you,” said Emily. “But how do we know he didn’t cajole her into leaving?”