“So maybe it wasn’t him. But he’s not the only Carter who’s been on this land.” Tatum Carter had been by twice in as many days—and Neil had discovered the broken generator in between. “If your father thinks he can bully us into selling just because all you Carters have some grand scheme to own every berry farm from here to Rhode Island . . .”

He needed to stop. His argument wasn’t with Tate. The man had seemed sincere when he’d apologized for his son’s actions a minute ago.

Unless it was an act. Another excuse for another Carter to come calling.

“If you’ve got something to say, MacKean, come right out and say it.”

“I’m saying no means no. And if you’d pass that message on to your father, I’d appreciate it.” He turned away, started toward the barn.

“They have history, you know.”

He slowed. History? They . . . who?

“Maggie, my dad. Did you know that?”

He didn’t want to look back. Didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of his confusion. Or his curiosity. But what in the world was he talking about? He gave in and veered to face Tate once more. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Probably because it was forever ago. Before your time and mine. But they were sort of . . . together, for a short while. I found out when I was a teenager. Walked in on my mom yelling something about how my dad had never gotten over Margaret Muir.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Tate pulled his sunglasses free and slid them over his face. “So that you’ll consider, even if for no longer than a speck of a second, that maybe my father isn’t out to cheat Maggie out of her land so much as help her.”

It might be him. Could be. The hair was the right color, the eyes.

Sydney stared at the man they’d found behind a grouping of log cabins, wielding a leaf blower, wearing a puffy cobalt vest and fingerless gloves, his cheeks ruddy from the morning’s cold.

It could be him. John Pettinger. JP. Her father.

If this man was an older version of the one in the photo and if the one in the photo really was her father . . .

“Oh, I definitely remember those two. That was my first summer as a counselor. A good experience, obviously. I’m still here.” He stared at the Polaroid Maggie had handed him once they’d explained why they were here, a picture Sydney had retrieved from one of the scrapbooks she’d gone through last week. It showed Diana and CarleeAnn near to the same age as they were in the missing photo she’d taken from CarleeAnn’s hospital room. In this one, the two teenage girls were sitting on Maggie’s front porch, skinny arms draped over each other’s shoulders.