Indi gave a breezy laugh. “But the point is, we used to have all our meetings there until Annie and Dale from the café complained that it wasn’t fair. They said Trinna was receiving special favor—”

“—and extra profit—”

“Because of the meetings,” Indi finished. “So now Heritage Society meetings take place at a different business every month. The location is posted on the gazebo bulletin board an hour before the meeting.”

Sydney gaped at the two sisters. “So you never know until the last minute where the meeting will take place?”

Lilian shrugged again. “The downtown is all of four blocks long. Doesn’t take much travel time to get to the right place.”

“But why not have a schedule of locations? Why communicate via a bulletin board? Couldn’t you have, like, a text group or something? An email chain?”

Both sisters only stared at her.

“What an odd little town.”

Indi smirked. “And the meeting hasn’t even started yet.”

Forty-five minutes the committee had been arguing about where to host the Annual Muir Harbor Thanksgiving Dinner next month.

And Sydney was beginning to wonder why she’d thought joining Lilian and Indi at this meeting was a good idea.

Not that it hadn’t been without its entertaining moments. There’d been that second when Patti Brighton-Smythe, the head of the society, according to Lilian, had dipped her head too low, too quickly, and the pile of platinum blond curls on her head had leaned dangerously to the left. A wig, clear as day, and not a stable one.

There’d been Earl, interrupting every few minutes to alert the committee members of current sales. Two-for-one drill sets. Fifty cents off a container of one hundred nails. Rakes, only ten dollars.

And there was the man in glasses over by the front window, furiously scribbling away in a small notebook as if his life depended on capturing every word said. That is, in between peering at Sydney with the intensity of an artist studying a bowl of fruit.

Unnerving, really. And yet that man looked as harmless as a ladybug.

“One of these days, you’ll believe me when I say Melba is the most harmless creature you’ll ever meet.”

The memory of Neil’s voice rose above the chatter around her, along with the image of his almost-smile as he’d lingered on the porch this morning, jacket splotched with raindrops. He’d almost seemed . . . teasing wasn’t the right word. Playful, maybe.

As if underneath his reserve and diligence was a lively spirit not all that different from Indi’s. He just tucked it away a little deeper, the cares of the farm and his family taking top priority.

“What about Muir Farm?”

A voice near the front of the store plucked her attention once more—Patti Brighton-Smythe, adjusting her wig as she spoke.

“Yeah,” another woman chimed in. “I remember back when the Muirs hosted the dinner every year. When it was cold, even when it was snowing—they’d set up a huge tent and bring in space heaters.”