The kitchen was where she’d learned to cook. By age twelve, she was wearing an apron, standing on a step stool, and cutting, chopping, and sautéing meals for the guests. Never mind that her grandmother might have been breaking all the child labor laws. God only knew what OSHA would have said. But in truth, Ivy liked the work as much as Ruth did. She liked cooking, creating, and hearing feedback from the guests. By age sixteen, she was in the kitchen before and after school and seven days a week during the summer.

And now it was all gone. Ivy and her grandmother were out of tomorrows.

Regrouping, Ivy pulled out onto the road and then took a quick right onto the concrete driveway bounded by tall shrubs, bent and twisted by the constant ocean winds. She parked and stared up at the dark house perched on eight-foot posts. The staggered cedar shakes were grayer than she remembered, and the battered blue hurricane shutters were closed. The stairs appeared to be in good shape and the wraparound porch intact. How fickle weather could be.

Her headlights swept the underside of the house toward the small utility shed. The breakers would need to be flipped and the water turned on. An hour before the heater warmed the cottage and the old water tank made hot water.

She dug into her bag of french fries, ate several more, and savored each bite of the salty, fatty potatoes. She could have calculated the calories but decided in times like these, they didn’t count.

How many times had Ruth talked about the magic of food? It lifted moods, healed broken souls, and made any task less daunting. She polished off the fries and slurped diet soda before she crumpled up the wrapper and shoved it in the bag next to the uneaten burger. “Ready or not.”

After fishing a flashlight from the glove compartment, she clicked it on, got out of the van, and dashed to the utility room. The cold wind cut through her thick down coat, a veteran of twelve New York winters. She fumbled with the keys, her fingers awkward in the cold. The lock, rusted by the salt air, finally gave way, and she stepped into the small room and swiped her light across the walls and fuse box. Praying the salt air had not corroded the box and that the water pipes hadn’t frozen, she opened the door and searched for the master switch, which to her surprise had been turned on.

She wasn’t sure who’d turned on the juice, but she was grateful there was hot water waiting in the tank, intact pipes, and maybe a warm house. Closing the box, she turned her attention to the master water valve and realized someone had also turned on the water. “Whoever you are, bless you.”

She closed up the shed and grabbed her one overnight bag, burger, and soda. Tucking her head against the wind, she climbed the steps to the front porch spanning the house’s entire exterior. The rusty front door lock had been freshly oiled and gave way easily. After opening the door, she stepped into the warm, dark house and switched on a light.