“You just admitted to sounding like a stalker. You gawked at me for an hour while I was working. You chased me six blocks. So forgive me if I’m not totally up to playing hostess at the moment.”

Another chuckle. “Fair enough. I can talk fine from here. I’ll try to sum this up as succinctly as I can. I work for a woman named Margaret Muir.” He took a breath, one lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. “And I think you might be her granddaughter.”

Neil knew before Mr. Barrett even opened his mouth that all the wishing in the world couldn’t turn bad news into good.

Golden late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the barn’s double-wide door, a contrast to the biting cold that coiled around him as he awaited the mechanic’s diagnosis of his aged equipment. Even this far inland and sharp with an October chill, a tinge of sea salt moisture clung to the air. Neil stuffed his hands in the pockets of his fleece-lined corduroy coat and wondered for the thousandth time why nothing could ever come easy at Muir Farm.

Mr. Barrett gave the old mechanical harvester a pat, its rattling metal an ominous echo, and angled to face Neil. “Sorry to tell you, but you’re looking at more than a faulty belt this time, son.”

Neil trapped his groan between pressed lips, enough frustration climbing up his throat that he was better off keeping quiet. Wasn’t Mr. Barrett’s fault Neil couldn’t manage to keep Maggie’s farm from the brink of bankruptcy for more than a month or two at a time.

Oh, harvest had gone just fine this year—acre upon acre of lowbush wild blueberries picked and winnowed, cleaned and packed, and sold directly to loyal customers in only five weeks’ time. But that was more than a month ago. Yesterday, when he’d finally had time to do some annual maintenance on the machinery, the harvester had barely grumbled to life before giving way to an ominous silence.

Thus the call to Mr. Barrett, Muir Farm’s closest neighbor and an expert in all things motorized.

Neil finally found his voice. “So my hopes of an easy, inexpensive fix . . .” At Mr. Barrett’s shaking head, his words trailed.

The maze of creases in the older man’s face spelled his regret as he stepped up to Neil, tapped his arm the same way he’d patted the harvester. Almost like a goodbye. Which it might very well be. Because without working equipment, this wouldn’t be a working farm.

And if it wasn’t a working farm, there’d be no holding on to the stretch of land that had been in the Muir family for actual centuries, nor the big yellow house by the sea.

Maggie’s home. His home for twenty years now. Since the day his aunt towed him across the Atlantic and left him on Maggie’s doorstep.

“We can look around for some used parts. I can help with the repairs. That’ll save you some.” Mr. Barrett cocked his head toward the barn door and started walking.