Micah (two hours later): Any chance I can crash at the apartment while you’re gone?

Sydney: Of course. Actually, could you do me a favor while you’re there? Remember that old photo of my birth mom? I need to find it but I leave tomorrow morning. If you can think of any genius hiding places, mind looking?

Micah: Sure.

Sydney: Would still love to talk to you. I’ll be up for another hour or two if you wanna call . . .

“First time seeing the ocean?”

Wilder Monroe finally stopped his constant tapping on the steering wheel long enough to tip his sunglasses up and over his head. Sydney spared him only the briefest glance before returning her gaze to where the sea brawled with the wind outside her car window.

So much blue, as far as she could see, its waves tussling and wild. What little sunlight scooted through burly clouds overhead landed and bobbed at the water’s surface. And the shoreline—it was rugged and rocky and absolutely gorgeous.

So gorgeous she could almost forget yesterday she’d made the most impulsive decision of her life and today she was . . . here.

“Lake Michigan has nothing on this. I can’t believe some people live with this kind of view day in and day out.” Or that she would for the next two weeks. This is insane.

Or, according to Nikola, an adventure. Were adventures usually this emotionally confusing? She couldn’t decide whether to be excited or nervous or exhilarated or downright terrified. What if this whole thing was merely the chasing of a fairy tale?

On the other side of the road that traced the coast, tall, aged trees dotted the bristled fields that claimed the landscape. They’d passed a sign for Muir Harbor a mile or so back. Apparently their route from the airport in Augusta to the farm didn’t take them through town.

“I can tell you’ve got some nerves going on.” Wilder was back to drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “But trust me, Maggie’s the nicest person you’ll ever meet. A little caught up in the past, sure, but she’s gracious and caring and even pretty funny at times. The others are nice, too. Indi Muir’s a little spitfire, which is entertaining. Lilian’s never liked me all that much but that’s only because I gave her a bloody nose once in school. Dodgeball—and she’s never gotten over it.”

“So you go a long way back with the family?”

Wilder nodded. “It was just my dad and me at home growing up. I hung out at the farm quite a bit. Neil’s my best friend. Although, now . . .” His voice trailed as he steered onto a gravel lane.

“Now what?”

He nudged his sunglasses over his eyes once more. “Just don’t be offended if it takes him a little longer than the others to warm up to you.”

Well, that didn’t sound promising. But she didn’t have time to prod any further, not with the curve of the road and the view unfurling in front of her. Trees burning with color, fiery red and orange and gold, lined the lane on one side, and up ahead, she could just make out the shape of the house. Muir Farm. According to Wilder, the farm had been here prior to the nearby town that shared its name, Maggie’s Scottish ancestors having settled on the coast in the late 1700s, back before Maine became a state.