Ivy waited for the beep and then said, “Mrs. Newsome, my name is Ivy Neale. I’m Ruth Wheeler’s granddaughter. I’m reaching out to her friends listed in her address book. If you can, call me.” She left her number and ended the call.

Restless, she considered calling the other names, but beyond the Manchesters, she knew no one, and dialing random strangers didn’t interest her.

She moved into the kitchen toward the cast-iron skillet on the stove top. The fried chicken she’d made the other day had been good, but she wondered what it would taste like with slightly more modern flavors and lighter textures.

She removed the remaining pieces of chicken from the refrigerator and filled the pan with oil. As it heated, she collected the flour, salt, and spices from the cabinet and blended them in a shallow pan with panko bread crumbs. Her mouth watered at the thought of crispy, slightly sinful skin and tender meat. She preheated the oven and dredged her worries into the flour mixture. When the oil crackled and popped, she carefully lowered each piece into the hot liquid. The chicken skin sizzled.

Soon, she had cooked all six portions and placed them on a pan in the oven to finish cooking. She set the timer on her phone for ten minutes. Savory scents infused the house as she grabbed the coleslaw she’d made two days ago.

A knock at her front door had her turning to see Dalton standing there. Her thoughts jumped to Dani and promises made to keep her secret.

“Dalton?”

“I was at the jobsite next door and wanted to give you a heads-up. There’s a Molly Gardner with the historical society who’s going to be paying you a visit. Everyone on the beach knows about the wreck. We all know the ocean’s going to take it back soon.”

“Oh, right. Sure. She’s welcome to stop by. I’m here just about all the time.”

“I came by this morning, but you weren’t here.”

“I had errands to run. Paperwork. That kind of thing.” Lies never rested easy on her tongue, and now they tasted especially bitter. “Hey, I’m making a batch of fried chicken. Don’t suppose you’re hungry.”

“Is it Ruth’s?”

“With my own twist or two. I can’t eat it all, and it’s always best hot.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.”

He wiped his feet on the mat and then followed her into the house, and as she moved to the kitchen counter, he regarded the cabinets that hung above it.

“And what does your contractor’s eye tell you?” she asked.

“That these cabinets are solid and good, but they don’t work in this space. Take them out, and the entire room opens up.”

“I always hated peeking around them. Like a too-tall vase in the center of a dining table,” she said.