“Consider it a welcome-home gift. When it’s full, I’ll have it hauled away.”

“I think I can tackle this on my own.”

“Ruth could be independent like that. Stubborn at times. But even she realized she had to give a little.”

“It took a hurricane,” Ivy said, coming to Ruth’s defense.

A slight grin tugged his lips. “It took four hurricanes in total. Her independence was what I admired about her the most. She was one of my favorite people.”

“Mine too.” Ruth and Ivy had spoken on the phone several times a week during her dozen years in New York. Oddly, they’d seemed to find more in common with nearly five hundred miles separating them.

“The dumpster is the only way you’re going to get the job done, Ivy.”

Ivy suddenly imagined Ruth standing beside her as she had when she’d been cooking in the Seaside Resort kitchen. Right tool for the right job. Wasted time is wasted money. “Okay, thanks.”

The tension bracing his shoulders eased. “What’re you doing with her house?”

“Selling it,” she said. “I need the money.”

“Do you have a buyer?”

“Not yet. Been in town less than twenty-four hours.”

“I want to bid on it,” he said. “It’s a great property.”

“I’m not selling it so it can be razed,” she said.

“The real value is the land.” Even in high school, he could be brutally practical and seemed to store little value in sentimentality. Dani had said their mother’s death had changed him, driven him more inward.

“I know. But I’d like to see the house saved. It’s been in the family since 1920. Besides, vintage is very fashionable, isn’t it?”

“You’ll get more money if you let the house go.”

“No can do.”

“And if no one will agree to those terms?”

It would not be an easy house to renovate. Plumbing, electrical, and HVAC dated back to the seventies. But the sanctified beams, the handlaid stone fireplace, and the deck that rimmed the entire house carried too many memories. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Don’t accept any offer until you talk to me,” he said.

“All house-saving bids welcome.”

“Good to know. See you around?”

“I’ll be right next door.”

Nodding, he grabbed his order and left the restaurant, making his way to a black pickup truck.

Ivy sat at her table, sipped her coffee, and stared out the store’s front window, watching Dalton slide behind his steering wheel as he unwrapped tinfoil while a white Lab in the front seat barked and wagged its tail. Dalton removed a strip of bacon from the foil, gave half to the dog, and ate the other half.

Footsteps approached, and a waitress set down her order. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, this should do it.”

She refilled Ivy’s coffee cup. “Holler if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

When Ivy looked out the window, Dalton was backing out of his spot. Head turned, arm resting casually over the passenger seat. Angled jawline sharp. Ivy’s thoughts turned slightly lurid. “Been too long, Ivy Neale.”