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.”

Now the man in the glasses with the notebook was staring at Lilian and Indi instead of Sydney. As was pretty much every face in the room.

Indi turned to her sister, a sort of panic in her eyes.

But Lilian was pure calm. “I’m afraid most of those dinners were before my time. It’s not really feasible to expect Maggie to single-handedly host such a large event.”

“Wouldn’t be single-handed,” Patti Brighton-Smythe cut in. “The committee would help. The whole community would. Used to be the Muirs loved taking the helm of this kind of thing. Why, I remember when—”

“Thanksgiving is less than a month away,” Lilian interrupted. “It’s simply not doable. I’m sorry.”

A look passed between the two sisters, one Sydney couldn’t hope to decipher. But there was a weight to it. As if Lilian’s excuses to the committee were just that—mere excuses meant to cover a deeper trepidation.