“I came with intentions of staying at least until the end of summer,” Nessa said, “so I cleaned out my fridge and my pantry. If I stay past the end of August, I’ll have to make a trip back out to the Panhandle and get the rest of my stuff.”

She rolled the suitcases across the gravel driveway and hoisted them up the steps to the porch. Then she took them, one by one, to the bedroom that she and April had shared when she came to visit. The room looked the same—trundle bed on one wall, dresser on the other, small closet, window with lace curtains overlooking the backyard.

Nanny Lucy had told her that when her boys, Isaac and Matthew, were growing up, there had been bunk beds in the bedroom. Her daughter, Rachel, hadn’t come along until the boys were fourteen and fifteen, and her husband had already passed, so she had kept the new baby in her room until she was two years old and then moved her crib into the living room. It wasn’t until the boys had left home, at eighteen and nineteen, that Rachel had gotten her own bedroom.

Nessa pulled back the curtains, slid the window up, and propped it open with a wooden stick, probably the same one that had been used back when her father was a small boy. The fresh air blowing through the screen brought in the scent of roses with just a touch of mint mingled with it. She inhaled deeply and made a mental note to water the flower beds, and then she went back out to bring in the boxes of stuff that would go in the kitchen and pantry.

“How long will it take you to make your list?” Flynn kept arranging his tools in an old leather belt when she came through the living room.

“Maybe fifteen minutes.” Nessa looked up at the ceiling. “You do realize that it’s going to be a hot job rewiring this place.”

“I’ll sweat in a hot attic any old day rather than having to crawl under the house,” Flynn answered. “I’ve worked in extreme heat, and I don’t mind it, but I’m just a little claustrophobic.”

“Did your daddy ever put you in a closet when you disobeyed him?” Nessa remembered spending some time in the pantry with the door closed when she was a child. She was supposed to be asking God for forgiveness for whatever sin she had committed, but instead she’d usually spent the time eating cookies, or even just brown sugar.

“Of course not,” Flynn answered. “My dad was too busy to care what I might or might not do wrong. As long as I did my chores, he pretty much left me alone.”

“Did you have to crawl under houses?” Nessa pushed the issue.