He found Maggie sitting up in her bed, little stray light from the two windows in her room filtering in—to be expected, what with heavy clouds veiling the sky today. Still, there was a brightness to the room—her yellow walls, the white posts of her canopy bed, and the sheer fabric draping overhead. And, of course, the pile of fluffy throw pillows currently on the floor.

Had any woman in the history of humankind ever required more decorative pillows than Maggie? Wasn’t only here in her bedroom, but out in the living room, the sunroom. Only two weeks ago, he’d finally stored away the cushioned porch furniture with its overabundance of pillows.

“Let me guess,” Maggie said as he crossed to her bed. “You’re frustrated that Sydney didn’t call you the second I hit the ground. You’re convinced she should’ve dialed 9-1-1 and had me carted off in an ambulance, and even now, you’re fighting the urge to contact Dr. Nadir and bribe him to make a house call.”

He set her tea on the bedside stand and pulled her rocking chair from the corner, scooting it closer to the bed before sitting down. “Hadn’t thought of a bribe. Good idea.”

“I’m fine, Neil.”

“You’ve never fainted before.”

“Well, at sixty-five, it’s kind of nice to know there’s still new experiences to be had.”

Was he supposed to laugh at that? “Maggie—”

“Nope. I can appreciate that you’ve got concerns, but I’ve got a few of my own. Namely, just how long were you planning to keep Muir Farm’s financial problems from me?”

All his caged worry faded to the background as he took in the set to her jaw, tried to make sense of her words. “What are you . . . I’m not sure I know—”

“You know exactly what I mean, Neil.” She hadn’t even touched her tea. “Now start talking.”

Lemon bars—Maggie had said something on the way home about lemon bars.

And about how long it’d been since she made them and how good they sounded, and, well, Sydney needed to do something. So she’d make lemon bars.

Neil had been in Maggie’s room for almost forty minutes now, and Lilian, now that she was sufficiently convinced Maggie was okay, had needed to run back to the office and finish out her workday.

Leaving Sydney to pace through the house, chewing on her worry. About whether Maggie was really all right. About whether she’d done the right thing—bringing her home instead of to the hospital.

About that shuttered look in Neil’s eyes when he’d walked past her into Maggie’s room.

Lemon bars.

Right. Not that she’d ever made them before, but she’d found Maggie’s recipe, written in the woman’s now-familiar cursive, the lined card yellowed and faded with age, its edges frayed.