“A change,” Maggie agreed. Was she sensing undercurrents here, too, as she had with Louella’s dreaminess? “It was one I wanted.”

“Yes, well, you know I’m glad you bought the place, and so quickly. Stan was a little upset with my putting it on the market when he was out of town, but I couldn’t see it just sitting here. Who knows, if you hadn’t come along so fast, he might’ve talked me out of selling it.”

“Then we can both be grateful I saw the sign when I did.” Mentally, Maggie was trying to figure out the logistics of the situation. It seemed the house had belonged exclusively to Joyce, without her husband or her mother having any claim. Fleetingly, she wondered why Joyce hadn’t rented or sold the property before.

“The real reason I came by, Miss Fitzgerald, is my mother. She told me she was here a few days ago.”

“Yes, she’s a lovely woman.”

“Yes.” Joyce looked back toward the men working, then took a deep breath. Maggie no longer had to wonder if she was sensing undercurrents. She was sure of it. “It’s more than possible she’ll drop in on you again. I’d like to ask you a favor, that is, if she begins to bother you, if you’d tell me instead of her.”

“Why should she bother me?”

Joyce let out a sound that was somewhere between fatigue and frustration. “Mother often dwells on the past. She’s never completely gotten over my father’s death. She makes some people uncomfortable.”

Maggie remembered the discomfort she’d felt on and off during Louella’s brief visit. Still, she shook her head. “Your mother’s welcome to visit me from time to time, Mrs. Agee.”

“Thank you, but you will promise to tell me if—well, if you’d like her to stay away. You see, she’d often come here, even when the place was deserted. I don’t want her to get in your way. She doesn’t know who you are. That is—” Obviously embarrassed, Joyce broke off. “I mean, Mother doesn’t understand that someone like you would be busy.”

Maggie remembered the lost eyes, the unhappy mouth. Pity stirred again. “All right, if she bothers me, I’ll tell you.”

The relief in Joyce’s face was quick and very plain. “I appreciate it, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Maggie.”

“Yes, well …” As if only more uncertain of her ground, Joyce managed a smile. “I understand that someone like you wouldn’t want to have people dropping by and getting in the way.”

Maggie laughed, thinking how many times the phone calls from California had interrupted her that morning. “I’m not a recluse,” she told Joyce, though she was no longer completely sure. “And I’m not really very temperamental. Some people even consider me normal.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. Come back when I’ve done something with that floor, and we’ll have some coffee.”

“I’d like to, really. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached into the big canvas bag on her shoulder and pulled out a manila envelope. “Mother said you wanted to see these. Some pictures of the property.”