“Drop the cabinets and then bump out the island a few feet, and you’ve got more room to move around the stove.”

“Galley styles are efficient for one person.”

“And if this place is going to be a summer rental, it’ll need a kitchen that accommodates more.”

She glanced around the space, imagining strangers in her house. Renters for the most part took care of properties like this, but they were rarely as careful as owners. “It used to be a rental when Ruth was younger. Took the overflow from the bungalows. Then Ruth and her mother sold the family cottage to raise money for resort repairs, and they moved in here with my mother, who wasn’t more than one.”

“How did Ruth meet your grandfather?”

“The story never filtered to me. I asked Mom a few times, but by the time I was really curious, she was gone. And Ruth never gave me a straight answer. All I know is that he died when my mother was an infant. Maybe he was vacationing here. Wouldn’t be the first summer-romance baby.”

“I don’t think so,” Dalton said. “I was quizzing Dad about Ruth the other night and asked about her husband. Seems she met him in the years she didn’t live on the Outer Banks.”

Ivy reached for a dish towel and opened the oven. Rich, full aromas rushed on a wave of heat. She shut the oven door with a kick of her foot. “Wait. Ruth moved away from the Outer Banks?”

“She did. When she was in her late teens. I’m not sure how long she was gone.”

“She never told me.” She touched the chicken skin, testing it for crispiness. Perfect. She positioned a leg and thigh on a white stoneware plate, dolloped a scoop of coleslaw, and then wiped the edges of the plate with her dish towel until it was pristine. She set a paper napkin and fork beside it.

“Mind if I wash my hands?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the sink.

He moved behind her, coming within inches of her as he flipped on the water faucet and reached for the soap dispenser. As he scrubbed, she was aware of his body and the heat and energy radiating from him. She drew in a breath, trying to remember the last time she’d been with a man. So very long.

He dried his hands with a paper towel as he came around and pulled the two stools to the end of the bar.

She sat, and they both ate in silence for several minutes. Pleasure gave way to critiques as she considered the blend of spices. Not bad. But could be better.