“Wait. What? Tuscaloosa?” Ivy cried. “You told me my stuff was down in Florida. Tuscaloosa is not on the way to North Carolina. Not even remotely on the way—”

“If you’ll just let me finish…” Stephanie said, sounding somewhat hostile. “Your furniture was consolidated with another load of furniture for a client in Baton Rouge. The driver was on his way back from there when he had an unfortunate collision with a log truck—”

“You just said it was a bit of a fender bender,” Ivy interrupted. “Now it’s an unfortunate collision? With a freaking log truck? Could you please just tell me what happened to my belongings?”

“The driver was able to recover a few of your pieces,” Stephanie said. “He sent photos. Let’s see. There’s a desk lamp. What looks like a box of books. Maybe a Crock-Pot? I don’t have an exact inventory yet, but I will say you might want to start shopping for a new sofa.”

“My sofa?” Ivy cried. “My brand-new, blue velvet, custom-ordered down-cushioned sofa?”

“Hmm. All I have is ‘blue sofa.’”

“That’s it? So, you’re telling me I have no furniture? At all? The only thing that survived was a six-year-old Crock-Pot that was a wedding gift from my ex-in-laws? Let me ask you something, Stephanie. You said this was ‘not-so-good news.’ What’s your definition of good news?”

“Well, the driver escaped serious injury, and I see from your paperwork that you are fully insured. So that’s what I call good news, Miss Perkins. Our claims adjuster will be in touch with you soon. Have a nice weekend.”

Stephanie ended the call. Ivy looked around her chilly kitchen, barren with the exception of the chickens’ crate sitting on the wooden table and the one chair she’d wisely refrained from donating to charity; then she looked down at Punkin, who was scratching at the back door, eager to greet the day. “I guess we’re gonna have to go furniture shopping, buddy.”

He wagged his tail.

“Right. What do you care? You’ve got your dog bed. All I’ve got is a mattress on the floor.”

She opened the door and Punkin went bounding outside to greet the day.

Phoebe arrived on Saturday at nine o’clock, in a mud-spattered pickup truck, with an awe-inspiring array of power tools and an assortment of lumber. She wore a heavy plaid woolen jacket, jeans, and thick-soled work boots, and her newly blond hair was hidden under a knit ski hat.

“I wasn’t sure what we’d need to fix up the chicken coop, so I just threw in some random boards and spare lumber I found hanging around in my dad’s old workshop,” she explained.

Ivy impulsively threw her arms around her friend. “Phoebe, this is great. I don’t even know how to thank you.”

Phoebe grinned. “Show me the house. I’ve always loved Four Roses Farm, and I’m dying to see the inside.”

Ivy’s own smile faded. “Not much to see, especially in the furniture department. I had a call from Stephanie with the moving company just now. The van carrying all my belongings—except for the stuff I brought up here myself—was in an ‘unfortunate collision’ down in Alabama. She didn’t have the exact details, but it sounds like pretty much everything was destroyed.”