“We’re not open yet,” the woman said, hands on her hips.

“I’m staying upstairs . . . I’m Celeste’s niece. Gemma.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Gemma, I’ve worked here for two years and never heard of a niece.” She crossed her arms and stared at Gemma in appraisal. “The only reason I’m not calling Celeste right now to report an intruder is . . . I have to know where you got that necklace.”

Gemma smiled. “I made it. Now, can you tell me the nearest place to get coffee?”

Commercial Street curved around and she followed the water on her left, visible between neat clapboard homes. To her right, more houses were hidden behind green hedges. Bikers whizzed past her, and a large dog-walking contingency streamed in the same direction. Lots of French bulldogs and pugs.

Celeste’s employee/watchdog Alvie told her to find a place called Relish—and to get her a latte while she was at it.

Coffee in hand, walking back to the store, she noticed a spectacular house across the street from Relish. It was white clapboard in an octagon shape, with a widow’s walk that had to offer a panoramic view of the town. It was lovely and dramatic. She had always appreciated grand homes and apartment buildings, wondering about the lives unfolding within the walls, always imagining that it was impossible to be truly sad in a place of great beauty. A man wearing a Harvard sweatshirt sat on the front porch looking at his phone. He looked up as if sensing her gaze and smiled when he saw her.

It was the guy from the art gallery. Lord, he was attractive.

She quickly looked away.

Elodie knew the expression “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” But staying at Jack’s relative’s house was simply too much, even for her. And so, first thing in the morning, she made a trip to a Realtor.

Clifford Henry & Associates was just two blocks up the street. The office was a storefront on the ground floor of a yellow house on Commercial. She walked in and was surprised to find a man sitting at a neatly ordered desk just a few feet from the door.

“Hello, welcome,” he said, looking up from the magazine he was leafing through. It appeared to be called ptownie. The man had bright blue eyes, a pleasant face, and brown hair with chunky highlights that he styled slicked back. He wore a pink button-down with a plaid bow tie. She guessed he was in his forties.

“Is there someone I can speak to about a house rental?” she said.

“You’re looking at him: Clifford Henry, at your service.”

“Wonderful. I just recently arrived in town and I’m looking for a waterfront house. I’m flexible on the number of beds and baths. Although yesterday I saw a home with the loveliest widow’s walk. That would be a plus.”