P.S. It’s never occurred to me until now that Diana asked me to tell her that story again the weekend she came home with little Cynthia in tow. Of all the things to talk about after a two-year absence!

Chapter 12

A man could only handle so much in one week.

Neil stopped outside the back door of the house, the wind scraping over his cheeks, knowing the moment he stepped over the threshold, the day’s last semblance of peace and quiet would end. Tonight was the Muir Harbor Autumn Market, which meant his usual weekend night rest would have to wait.

He rubbed his palms over both bristled cheeks. He’d finally shaved earlier in the week, but he likely would’ve sent at least one of the women in this household into shock if he’d come downstairs entirely clean-shaven, so he’d kept his five-o’clock shadow. He wiped the dust from his jeans and dragged his work boots over the rug outside the door.

On a normal Saturday, he’d give himself the gift of an early end to his workday. Especially after a week like this—long days, short nights. He’d spent the past three nights working on the treehouse until after midnight. Usually he liked the alone time, but there was simply too much to worriedly mull this week. Indi, for one thing. They’d never had the chance to talk after shooing all the farm animals back to the barn. She’d headed up to Augusta first thing Wednesday morning.

And while Ansel Barrett might’ve located a cheap used generator for him to look at next week, he was nowhere closer to figuring out what to do about the harvester. Then Tatum Carter had called yesterday, though he’d purposely refused to answer and . . .

And then there was their houseguest. Other than evening meals, he’d barely seen Sydney in the past few days. She’d been spending all her time with Maggie and he was clueless as to what to feel about it. He’d accepted that Sydney didn’t have any ill intentions in coming to Maine. But that didn’t mean there still wasn’t a bucketload of potential hurt waiting for Maggie at the end of all of this.

And maybe not only Maggie. More than once, he’d found himself thinking about the look he’d seen in Sydney’s eyes out by the shore. Or her soft words later. “I just want to know who I am.”

He shook his head as he opened the back door. At least there hadn’t been any more unknown vehicles idling in the driveway or strange prints in the yard or animals running loose.

“Neil. Those crates of jam. Trunk.”