She was in front of a large expanse of lawn with a narrow driveway that led up to an enormous, glass-fronted log home with a wraparound porch and a pond beside it. There was no mailbox, no visible address. She drove on, scanning both sides of the road for a dairy farm and an old farmhouse. She passed fields of low-growing corn and even a pasture with some Holsteins grazing, but there was no sign of a farm or farmhouse. She had to be close to the old Gray place, though. Riley must have gotten the address wrong, or the GPS wasn’t doing well with Vermont directions (it often didn’t). Maybe there was an old County Road and this was the new County Road. She’d have to stop and ask someone. She continued on, hoping she’d come to the center of town. She only passed more fields, some grown over, abandoned.

Had Ann passed these fields often, walked them, even?

At last, Helen spotted a large red barn up ahead on the right. HAY BARN ANTIQUES was painted in tall white letters on the side. Perfect. She’d stop in, ask about the Gray place, get proper directions.

Helen parked, went through the front door and found herself in a room crowded with furniture and knickknacks. Classical music played from a back room. She passed an old schoolhouse desk with an abacus on top, a stuffed fox, an ornate cast-iron coal stove (FOR DECORATIVE USE ONLY, warned a hand-lettered sign), couches, chairs, mirrors, and tables of all sorts. At the end of the room, a mantel leaned precariously against the wall.

It was a reddish hardwood, polished to a shine with straight sides and carved brackets. There was something beautiful about the simplicity of the design. The price tag said $200, but it had been crossed out, marked down to $100. Helen felt drawn to it, imagined it in the living room of the new house, above the woodstove.

“It’s a lovely piece,” a voice said.

Helen turned, saw a gray-haired woman in a turtleneck with little Scottie dogs all over it. A real-life Scottish terrier trotted up behind her, squeaking a rubber hedgehog in its jaws.

“This is Mulligan,” the woman said. “He’s the real owner of the place. I just work for him. My name’s Aggie.”

Helen smiled at the woman and the dog, who was now sitting by her feet, torturing the rubber dog toy.

“The mantel is solid maple. I’d let it go for seventy-five dollars—I’ve got another load from an estate sale coming in at the end of the week and I need to make room.”

“It’s beautiful,” Helen said. “You’ve got a lot of lovely things.” She walked around a bit, stopping to pick up sad irons, to touch a treadle Singer sewing machine. Then she approached Aggie.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Aggie asked.