“Right. Crazy times. But how’s your family? How are you?” Annie didn’t want to talk about the Inn: its rising problems and onrushing deadline made her stomach hurt. “Have you made lots of fabulous pottery?” Winnie was renowned for her exquisite bowls and mugs, and silver and wampum jewelry. She’d once told Annie that she made jewelry in summer when the natural sunlight helped her shape tiny details; she crafted pottery in winter when the thousand-degree kiln helped her stay warm. Winnie was as practical as she was loving to all people, all creatures, and the earth.

“The clan is well,” she replied. “Me included. And I have a healthy stash of wares ready to sell. How about you? Have you had time to cook up more soap?”

Annie sighed. “I started writing a new book, which is always a challenge. But I managed to make a few cases with the help of my assistant, who right now has disappeared.” She hoisted her bag back up on one shoulder, grateful it weighed less now that she had passed out samples of her latest soap. She reached in, dug out a bar, and handed it to Winnie.

Winnie held it to her nose, inhaling the fragrance. “Snowdrops. Light. Fresh. Nice work, Annie Sutton.”

“Thanks. It was a whim. Lucy was a big help.” Annie glanced around the hall again. “Right now, however, I suspect she’s looking for another job.”

Winnie laughed. “As I recall, her father was off in a million directions when he was a boy. Overall, he turned out okay.” Winnie’s deep brown eyes—the color of sassafras root, as John had once commented—sparkled with amusement and lit up her copper skin.

Annie smiled and hoped she wasn’t blushing. John was a native islander; his family and Winnie’s had been friends for generations. “Yes,” she said, averting her eyes from Winnie’s gaze, “you might say he’s okay.” She didn’t want to explain, even to Winnie, that though she and John had agreed they were “officially dating,” Annie wasn’t ready to get serious, and John was still reassembling his life after his divorce.

At that moment, Lucy came skittering around the corner, just in time to hear the last bit of their conversation.

“Who’s okay?” she asked as she stepped into the conversation.

“Your father,” Winnie said.

“Gross.” Lucy wrinkled her nose and dropped her iPad and a three-ring binder into Annie’s bag. “Can we go now?”

“Where are you off to?” Winnie asked.

“Christiantown,” Lucy said. “The burial ground. I’m trying to figure out if I have ancestors there.”

“Wampanoags? ”