She’d known before she even finished her stuttered explanation that there’d be no easy discovery of JP’s identity in that moment. Maggie’s gaze had clouded.

“I understand what you’re asking. What you’re wondering. Diana’s teenage years were so difficult. There was so much distance between us. I knew CarleeAnn, of course. They were attached at the hip from the time they were kids. But the name JP . . .” She shook her head. “Perhaps if I see the photo.”

“That’s the problem. I couldn’t find it before I left. I looked everywhere I could think of. So the father of Diana’s baby . . . you don’t know . . . ?”

For the first time since Sydney had met the woman, Maggie had seemed to close up, an invisible barrier every bit as effective as the windbreak of trees out back. Sydney had let her questions go, and when they’d finally come down from the attic, Maggie had lain down for a nap.

She’d thought maybe after the nap they’d look through the box of scrapbooks together. Instead, they’d spent the rest of the afternoon baking cookies and sharing them over tea in the sunroom. She’d helped Maggie sweep both the front porch and back, then fold a load of towels. At some point Indi had come home, and eventually Lilian. Neil had straggled in just before dinner.

And that’s when she’d realized that eating dinner together as a family was a regular thing in this house, last night apparently no oddity. They’d even prayed before the meal, then passed the food around the table and talked about their days. It was like something out of an old episode of Leave It to Beaver

And if she wasn’t mistaken, each sibling had made a concentrated effort to include her. Indi had asked if Sydney had met her goats. Lilian had asked her about her employment back in Chicago. Neil had wanted to know if she’d recovered from her fall.

He’d asked the question quietly while the others were distracted by Indi’s story of how she’d met her fiancé, leaning over in his chair—close enough she’d been able to see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. In another instance, they might’ve hinted at laughter, added a certain charm to his already handsome face.

But this evening those thin lines had told of stress. Fatigue. And probably a fair bit of frustration considering she’d overheard him telling Lilian that generator he’d been concerned about was shot. That was about all he’d said through dinner—one comment to Lilian, one question to Sydney.

Sydney toed on a pair of fuzzy white slippers now—also a closet find—and moved to the bed. But before she got as far as pulling the lid off the tub of scrapbooks, her phone blared.

One look at the screen sent shoots of relief beaming through her. Micah. She plucked it from the bedside table and lifted it to her ear. “Forty-eight hours, Micah Terrence Porter. That’s the longest you’ve ever given me the cold shoulder.”