He’d spent almost the entire rest of his Sunday, save an hour in church and hasty minutes completing chores, with the women. They’d dug through boxes in the attic, looking for Diana’s old yearbooks in hopes of finding a classmate of hers who might fit the bill. But there’d been no JP and only one student with those initials—a female.

Lilian had pulled up town and county records online and spent hours culling through them. Indi had made phone calls—so many of them and he didn’t even know who to. He’d been too busy helping Sydney parse through old phone books they’d found in a messy desk drawer. They’d found exactly one JP, and plenty of folks with the right initials. But a quick Google search, a glance at a social media profile, or as a last result, a phone call, nixed each one of them.

It was two days later now and they’d made little to no progress.

If only they could figure out where to go from here. It’s why they’d all tromped out to the barn together this morning—a second planning session before Lilian needed to head to the office and Indi hit the road for Augusta. She was going earlier than usual this week, something about floor replacements and dinner with Bennington.

Because despite last week, apparently that was still a thing. Maybe one of these days the guy would actually deign to show his face in Muir Harbor so his future family could meet him.

Neil rubbed his hands together, eager for what little warmth he could get. After unseasonably warm temps last week, the second-to-last day in October had blustered in with force this morning. “You’re going to have to come a little closer if you have any hope of going through with this, Syd.”

She was wearing his coat again, her red hair knotted in an unruly bun. Looked like someone had found her some work boots that actually fit. They’d gone and made a farm girl of her.

Of course, if she wanted a true taste of life on a blueberry farm, she’d need to experience harvest. Raking the fields under a September sun. The noise of the air blower and the metal hum of the conveyor belt. Cars rumbling down the lane, carrying customers ready to pick up berries by the crateful. Maybe more customers than ever, thanks to that website she’d built.

But no, she’d be long gone by next year.

Or would she? If she found out she truly was Maggie’s granddaughter, would she decide to stay? But she has a life back in Illinois. Jobs. She’d mentioned a foster brother and a friend who owned a bakery.

Hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend.

Sydney approached Melba’s stall now, a nervous tilt to her lips. “What kind of name is Melba, anyway?”