She recalled Jack’s excitement on the night they learned she was finally pregnant. They’d been trying for more than a year and had begun to wonder if something was wrong when along came Jill, followed just over a year later by Kate. She had been pregnant with Jill when they moved to Newport, but Clare had never forgotten those early years in Boston when it had been just her and Jack.

With a wistful last look at the Beacon Street house, she walked back to her car. Energized by her walk, she drove through the city to pick up Interstate 93 north. Oddly enough, though, she felt energized rather than saddened by the visit to their old neighborhood.

Progress.

Clare arrived in Stowe, Vermont, just after three that afternoon. Mount Mansfield loomed in the distance as she drove into the picturesque town. The sidewalks were filled with early season skiers wearing snow pants, parkas, hats, and boots. Following her brother Tony’s directions, Clare drove to the far end of town, past town hall, the general store, a bookstore, several antique dealers, a coffee shop, a church with a white steeple, and a grocery store.

A minute later, she pulled up to a two-story shingled colonial with a wide front porch and bright red shutters. Clare was pleased that the house was within walking distance of town.

She got out of the car to air that was significantly colder than it had been at home and in Boston. On the front porch, she tipped a clay pot to find the key right where Tony had said it would be. The inside was cozy, if somewhat dilapidated. She could see right away that while the place was warm and inviting, it needed work. The paint looked like it had seen better days, and the hardwood floors were in bad need of refinishing. The kitchen and downstairs bathroom were outdated. The second floor had four bedrooms and two bathrooms and was in slightly better shape but still in need of work.

Shelves around the television in the living room were filled with movies and books left by the former owners who had used the house as a ski rental. The rooms were furnished in what Tony had called “ski house chic,” which Clare now realized meant a hodgepodge of furniture, none of which went with anything else. Tony and his wife Miranda had bought the house as an investment with hopes of using it as a weekend getaway. But Tony hadn’t counted on getting mired in one of Connecticut’s messiest murder trials in decades. As the district attorney in Hartford, he wouldn’t be getting away much in the next year, and they were grateful for Clare’s willingness to oversee the renovations.