“Can you do me a quick favor, Summertime?” Jillian tips her chin toward a jar on the counter containing a gooey white concoction. “Feed that sourdough starter a cup of flour from the tin above the oven, would you, hon?”

“I can do that.”

I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the flour tin, but I complete the chore without too much trouble. As I work, Grandpa Al explains this sourdough starter’s long history with the Tate family.

“The kids always wanted a pet,” he says, a sweet look of nostalgia overtaking his face. “So their dad got ’em that starter from the bakery in town. Said if they remembered to keep it fed with flour, they could prove themselves responsible enough to graduate up to a goldfish.”

“And guess who ended up feeding it the flour.” Jillian rolls her eyes, suppressing a laugh, and Grandpa Al agrees with a snort.

“Yup. Hence, no goldfish and no other pets.”

The story leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in my chest.

It’s good to know there was a time when this house wasn’t so stressful, when conversations revolved around potential pets instead of shoring up the family finances. I’m tempted to push the topic further, to ask Jillian what Logan was like back in those days, but before I can work up the courage, she steers the conversation elsewhere.

“Speaking of town, have you been in yet? That bakery has scones that would put mine to shame.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe that for a second. But actually, a trip to the store might be necessary. There’s a few toiletries I left behind, and if I’m going to be staying . . .”

“You can stay as long as you want,” Jillian reminds me, her tone as serious as her eyes. “And as long as it takes to get our Logan right as rain.”

An uneasy feeling turns over in my stomach. Right as rain is an awfully big goal for Logan, especially considering what went down last night, but I offer Jillian a reassuring smile anyway. I’m already nervous about letting Les down. Now I guess I have to add my client’s mother to that list.

“There’s a little general store about half an hour from here that should have everything you need.” Jillian wipes her soapy hands on her cotton apron, gnawing her lip as she thinks. “We can lend you a car.”

“Take my truck,” Grandpa Al says, shooting Jillian a glare that could curdle milk. “Apparently, I’m not allowed to drive it anymore,” he adds under his breath.