Morgan shoved a ten into the tip jar. Her face felt hot and her throat was dry despite the beer. She glared at Stormy before turning to Emilia. “Next one’s on me.”

“Sure.” Emilia patted her dog’s head. “Ready, Nell?”

Stormy raised her eyebrows as Morgan moved to follow Emilia to the door. Morgan shook her head at the question in her eyes.

Chapter Five

Of course Morgan was a vet. Emilia stared at the business card, her mouth full of the coppery taste of disappointment. Morgan Donovan, DVM. Why couldn’t she have befriended a lobsterwoman or an investment banker or an artist—or a person in any profession, really, besides veterinary medicine? She’d left Boston to get away from her old life. Enmeshing herself in that world again was a terrible idea. She wasn’t ready and, besides, eventually she’d have to tell Morgan she was also a vet, which would mean explaining her breakdown and her doubts. She had her hands full already. She didn’t need more complications.

She also couldn’t deny to herself any longer that she liked Morgan. Her hands curled around the smooth stainless-steel curve of her father’s urn. The dark bedroom surrounded her with the familiar sounds of the house. Tree branches on the roof. Joints and joists creaking. A few smaller scuttlings that could be mice. She smiled as she recalled Morgan’s confession. Morgan Donovan, thief of cheese at midnight. Morgan, whose easy smile made the ache of Emilia’s grief a little less sharp. Maybe her mother had a point. She did need a friend, and Morgan didn’t need to know everything about her recent past. It gave her a fresh start.

And she knew my dad. The urn’s smooth surface comforted her. “What do you think? Is she good people?” she asked his ashes.

Her father didn’t answer.

Restless and still a little buzzed from her evening, she pushed back the covers and got out of bed. Nell groaned in protest. Outside, moonlight illuminated the meadow. She wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders and padded out to the porch to curl up in her father’s Adirondack chair. Dew coated the grass. It was too early in the season for fireflies, but tree frogs peeped and the boldest spring insects chirped in chorus. Something that might have been a coyote yipped.

This was nothing like her Boston apartment. No car sounds. No sirens. No neighbor’s television blaring the Patriots game through an open window, and no wafting cigarette smoke. Just clean, cool air.

No wonder he’d loved it here.

One day at a time. It was good advice, but she’d have to make decisions about her future eventually. Summer was the best time to put a house on the market anywhere, and especially in Maine. If she waited too long, she’d have to deal with the house over the winter. Empty houses didn’t fare well. Pipes froze and burst. Renting would make sense, but as she’d nearly told Morgan, she couldn’t stand the thought of a stranger in her father’s house. Selling provided closure. A clean break.