When it rained—inevitable, Clare had said—Flora made a pirate camp in the living room for Molly, draping sheets over the sofas and constructing a “ship” complete with mast. She soaked paper in cold tea and made a treasure map, even going so far as to burn the edges to add authenticity. Clare joined in and they played hide-and-seek, making full use of secret doors and cupboards in the lodge and hidden corners of the tangled, overgrown garden. Flora remembered doing the same thing with her mother, hiding under a bed, holding her breath, waiting in a state of delighted terror to be discovered. She told Molly about it and answered a dozen more questions about the things she’d enjoyed doing with her mother.

Aiden and Izzy were often absent, sometimes kayaking together on the lake, more often walking along the lake trail, heads close together as they talked.

Izzy seemed happier than she’d been in a while and the sensitive topic of college hadn’t been mentioned again. Jack had confided in Flora that he thought it was best left for now, and she’d agreed with him. Time could soften things, she knew that. And time could provide clarity. She had a feeling Izzy needed both.

Although Flora had fallen in love with the mountains, she was equally happy spending time in the gardens of Lake Lodge. She spent hours deadheading, trimming, tending. Clare often joined her and they stood together, planning the garden together.

“Is it too late to prune the lupins?” Clare asked her one morning as she nursed a brimming mug of tea.

“Lupins? Oh, you mean lupines. It’s fascinating how many differences there are between British English and American English. The answer is, definitely not too late. It will encourage new growth. Let’s do it now.” Flora put her mug down and was stuck into the gardening even as Clare protested that she was a guest and shouldn’t be cutting back plants.

But Flora no longer felt like a guest. At some point she’d stopped feeling like an outsider and started feeling like part of the group. Welcomed. Accepted.

When she finished with the lupines, she removed side shoots from the wisteria and divided the clumps of bearded iris so that they’d form roots and buds the following year.

Occasionally Clare would mention Becca, and gradually Flora formed a better picture of the woman who had been Clare’s lifelong friend. Yes, she’d had ferocious ambition and talent, but she seemed to have been driven by deep-seated insecurities that she’d never been able to shift.

The realization that even the perfect Becca had her imperfections gave another boost to Flora’s determination to be herself. Imperfections were part of being human. Trying to please her aunt had been her way of surviving a terrible time in her life and yes, it had escalated to ridiculous proportions, but she was more aware of herself now.