Molly was playing with Chase, their antics producing a symphony of barks and girlish giggles. Flora found herself smiling as she watched them. They were having so much fun.

It was such a contrast to the cold, sterile life she’d had with her aunt that for a moment Flora struggled to breathe. This was the type of home most people dreamed of having. It wasn’t about the surroundings, although the place was idyllic, it was the feeling of love. She watched as Clare wiped Molly’s hands before giving her an ice cream. She was an attentive, engaged mother and she reminded Flora of her own mother.

To distract herself, she glanced across the garden.

There was no sign of either Izzy or Aiden, but no one seemed concerned about that.

Flora was concerned. She was worried about Izzy and had tried raising it with Jack a couple of times, but he hadn’t seemed worried at all. Their relationship was going so well, she didn’t want to threaten it by overstepping. She wasn’t his wife. She wasn’t the girls’ mother. There was nothing formal about their relationship. She didn’t have a role, and yet she felt responsibility.

As she stood there, still wearing the robe Clare had thoughtfully left out for her, Jack saw her and smiled and raised a hand. Todd turned, glanced up at the window where Flora had thought she’d managed to hide, and waved, too. She had no choice but to wave back.

Great.

Now they all knew that she’d been skulking, watching them, too cowardly to go downstairs and join them.

What would Becca have worn for their first evening together in the garden? Probably something flowing and white, with casual loops of silver round her neck and in her ears, and her hair scooped up into a messy bun that would have looked effortlessly elegant. She would have sipped champagne from a tall flute, rather than grabbing a beer bottle. She would never, ever, have doubted her welcome.

Flora laid two dresses side by side on the bed. A blue sundress with thin straps that was her favorite, and a white one she’d bought on impulse from a boutique in Greenwich Village.

Which would make her feel most comfortable? Dressing like herself, or dressing like Becca? As an experiment she scooped her hair up and fastened it at the back of her head. It fought her attempts to contain it, twisting and curling around her face until she looked like a Jane Austen heroine after a mad dash on horseback.

On impulse she texted Julia.

Having clothing crisis. White or blue?

The reply came back moments later.

White? You? Are you kidding me? Unless you’re getting married, wear color! Be yourself!

Be herself.

She lifted her chin, trying to look confident and then she heard the thunder of feet on the stairs and Molly appeared in the doorway, breathless and pink cheeked.