The large pot on the stove stood waiting for the mussels, and a smaller pot and saucepan occupied two of the remaining three gas burners. A simple dish. Pasta with mussels in a white wine sauce. She could manage that even with her head full of ghosts.

Morgan’s knock broke into her reverie. She wiped her palms on her shorts and was surprised to find them sweating. This wasn’t a big deal. She’d eaten with Morgan numerous times at the farmhouse. All that had changed was the location.

Her thoughts flew to the urn on her dresser. Was he watching? What would he think about the dream she’d been keeping close to her chest since she’d met with the real estate agent?

“Come in,” she said. Nell sniffed the paper bag in Morgan’s hands enthusiastically. Morgan, Emilia saw, hadn’t gone home to change. She still wore her work Carhartts, but she’d swapped her clinic polo for a soft blue T-shirt. Part of Emilia wished Morgan would wear less blue; it made her eyes impossible to ignore.

“Not for you,” Morgan told Nell as she stepped into the house and shut the door.

Nell’s continued attempts to investigate the bag of mussels helped muffle the impact of the door clicking shut.

“Wow. This is Ray’s place?”

“Give or take a coat of paint and a few dozen animal heads.”

“That makes more sense. You painted all this?”

Emilia followed Morgan’s gaze. The front door opened into the living room, with only a small foyer area for boots and coats and dog toys. They could see into the kitchen from here, and the only other room on the first floor, besides the bathroom, was a small, multipurpose room that had served as an office, toolshed, and storage room when her father was alive. The house looked so different now, and yet most of the furniture was the same. It still amazed her what paint and a few light fixtures could do to a room.

“I did,” she said in answer to Morgan’s question. “I think I like it.”

“You think?”

“The walls were so dark, before, and my dad’s tobacco stained them pretty badly.” She didn’t say the rest of her thoughts out loud, but Morgan seemed to understand.

“Change is hard.”

“Yeah.”

“Where should I put these?”

Grateful for the shift in conversation, Emilia led Morgan into the kitchen. “I hope you like pasta,” she said as she put the mussels in the sink.

“How very Italian of you.”

“I will throw a potato at you,” she warned Morgan.

“Luck of the Irish is on my side. You’d miss.”

“Try me.”