She hoped that wasn’t true. He looked like he wanted to linger for a chat, so she nodded toward the steps. “I have some things to do in the house. I’ll walk with you.”

He followed her, and when they reached the top, he pumped her hand again. “Anything you need, you let me know. Big Mike’s services don’t stop with the sale. Ask anybody on the island, and they’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll remember.”

He finally left. She began to walk toward the house only to stop as she heard a rustle in the trees that didn’t sound as though it came from a squirrel. A branch snapped, and she glimpsed a bright red T-shirt.

“I see you, Toby!” she called out. “Stop spying on me!”

She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t receive one.

She made a sandwich, but tossed it out after only a few bites. She sent Meg a text that revealed nothing important, then did the same with her parents. She wanted to send Ted a text but couldn’t imagine what she’d say. With hours still to kill, she wandered into the sunroom.

Three walls of dirty, square-paned windows extended in a large square bay from the wainscoting to the ceiling. Lumpy couches, wing chairs upholstered in fabrics popular in the early nineties, and scarred tables sat haphazardly around the big room. This must have been the family’s primary indoor gathering place. Built-in bookshelves displayed the detritus that ended up in summer homes: yellowed paperbacks, videotapes of old movies, board games in broken boxes held together by dehydrated rubber bands. There was something about this house she’d loved from the beginning, and her inner Martha Stewart wanted to toss out all the junk and clean those windows until they sparkled.

She picked up a ratty dish towel she’d used to wipe up a Coke spill and rubbed one corner of the glass. Most of the dirt was on the outside, but not nearly all of it. She blew on the pane and rubbed again. Better.

Cooking wasn’t the only homemaking task she’d observed during her White House years, and fifteen minutes later she was equipped with a squeegee she’d seen in the upstairs bathroom, a bucket of clean water with a few drops of dishwashing soap, and a stepladder from the pantry. Before long, she’d finished one section of the sunroom windows. She reached for a spot she’d missed, and when she was satisfied, climbed down only to trip on the bottom rung.

Panda stood just inside the door, a can of Coke in his hand, combat in his eyes. “I’ll bet you were real popular with the Secret Service.”

Chapter Eight