As he gave Jenna the grand tour of all eighteen rooms, Brad pointed out portraits of his ancestors, the saints and sinners and those who fell some- where in between. “We even have a pirate somewhere in the bunch. But my grandfather Benjamin—he’s the one who built the house—he refused to dis- play the rascal’s portrait. He said Kincaid Pierce was hanged once and that should be enough for any man.”

Jenna laughed. “I love this place,” she said. “It has a lot of character. Like you.”

“I’m flattered. Is that a personal judgment—or a professional one?” “Both.” It was true. If she had ever been certain about anything, it was that Brad was one of those very rare individuals: a truly good person. Which made her feel miserable about deceiving him.

Though the house’s refrigerator and freezer had been fully stocked by the caretaker, Brad insisted they should have lobsters—“not in a restaurant, but cooked with our own two hands over a driftwood fire, the way God intended.”

Everyone in the quaint seaside town seemed to know and like Brad—the policeman who patrolled the streets on foot, the greengrocer who sold them freshly picked corn, the owner of the lobster pound who deliberated at length before selecting two prime specimens. “The best of the lot,” he assured Brad, as if nothing less than the best would do for Mr. Pierce.

This is what living with him would be like, she thought. Relaxed and easy and familiar. Stop it, she chided herself. You have no right to that dream.

“You seem very much at home here,” she observed. “Even more than in Boston.”

“When I was growing up, we spent every summer here, lots of weekends, too. I always felt that only good things happen here.” He paused and squeezed her hand. “I thought you might feel that way, too.”

I wish, she thought, I wish it were that simple.

“Why did you wait so long?” she asked, as they cooked the lobsters and corn over a wind-fanned fire on a hidden cove of the rocky shore. “To ask me out, I mean.”

For a moment, he seemed to go away a little. “I guess I’m a traditionalist,” he said. “A mourning period for someone you love is a tradition, and it seemed right to me.”

She liked his answer. “Where I was born, we didn’t mourn the dead, at least not formally. It’s considered irreligious. But, knowing you, I think it’s a beautiful custom.” She hesitated a moment. ‘‘But why me? Why not one of those suitable women Boston seems to be full of ?”

The blue eyes twinkled. “Because you’re a good listener. Because you’re beautiful through and through. Because you seemed to care about me when we were just strangers. Because,” he paused, smiling mischievously, “Pat would have liked you.”

They made love that night in a big feather bed, a candle burning on the bedside table, casting flickering shadows on the walls. As Brad caressed her, murmuring endearments and promising to love her forever, she gave herself without fear or hesitation. Perhaps for the first time. It was like coming home.