He didn’t deny it.

She ran her hand over the walls. “A lot of this has been stenciled, but there’s some handwork. It’s a good job.”

He began poking around, opening the cupboard, pulling out the built-in drawers, and investigated a wrought-iron wall sconce shaped like a seahorse. “These are wired for electricity, so I’ll need to get some power out here. I’d better talk to the electrician.”

Blue wasn’t ready to leave, but he held the door open for her, so she followed him out into the yard. The electrician squatted in front of a junction box, the radio at his side playing an old Five for Fighting song. April stood a few feet away, holding a notebook and studying the concrete slab jutting from the rear of the house. Dean still hadn’t mentioned anything today about her leaving. The Five for Fighting song came to an end and segued into the opening chords of “Farewell, So Long,” one of Jack Patriot’s ballads. Dean’s gait faltered, the change of rhythm so slight Blue doubted she would have noticed if April’s head hadn’t come up at the same time. She snapped the notebook closed. “Turn it down, Pete.”

The electrician glanced over at her but didn’t immediately move.

“Never mind.” April tucked her notebook under her arm and headed inside. At the same time, Dean set off for the front yard, his mission to talk to the electrician abandoned.

Blue poked around the overgrown garden. Instead of figuring out how she’d get into town so she could look for a job, she thought over what she’d just witnessed. “Farewell, So Long” came to an end, and the Moffatt Sisters’ “Gilded Lives” began to play. Even some of the adult contemporary stations had been playing a few of the Moffatts’ country hits since Marli’s death, generally pairing the songs with Jack Patriot’s “Farewell, So Long,” which Blue found a little crass, since they’d been divorced for years. She turned it all over in her mind as she headed inside.

Three men speaking a language she didn’t understand were in the kitchen installing charcoal soapstone countertops. April sat in the dining nook, frowning at a notebook page. “You’re an artist,” she said as Blue came in. “Help me with this. I’m great with clothes, but not as good drawing architectural details, especially when I’m not sure what I want.”

Blue had been hoping to snag another doughnut, but the box held only a dusting of confectioners’ sugar and a couple of jelly stains.

“It’s the screen porch,” April said.