Ivy shrugged and did as he suggested. She let the candy dissolve on her tongue. “You’re right,” she agreed. “It’s tart and sweet, with sort of herbal undertones. So different from anything else I’ve ever tasted.”

The old man selected another candy and chewed it slowly. “My doctor would give me the dickens if he knew I was eating all this sugar. He’s always fussing at me about my diet.”

“You look pretty healthy to me,” Ivy said.

Mr. Jones patted his stomach. “Ninety-six, and never spent a single day in the hospital.” He looked over at the fireplace mantel, at the photos of his departed wife and son. “But I never thought I’d outlive almost everyone in my family.”

“Same with me,” Ivy said softly.

“Surely not,” he protested. “A young girl like you?”

“I’m an only child. I have some cousins, but we’re not close,” Ivy said. “I got divorced last year.”

“And your folks?” he said gently.

“My dad died three years ago. It was very sudden. Heart attack.” She felt unexpected tears welling up and swallowed hard. “My mom died when I was seven.” She wiped at a stubborn tear. “Right after Christmas. So maybe that’s why this is not my favorite time of year. Too sad.”

“But you must have lots of friends,” Mr. Jones pointed out. “Like the young lady you told me about, who works at the courthouse?”

“Phoebe.” Ivy nodded. “Yes, she’s great. Do you know, she came out to my house on Saturday, and almost single-handedly rebuilt the chicken coop. And my real estate agent, he’s been an amazing help.”

She recounted the sad tale of the moving van collision and told him about her agent’s valiant assistance in making repairs at the farmhouse and removing and then returning the original furniture at Four Roses Farm.

“My wife and I moved nearly a dozen times back when I was working, and we never had a real estate agent do anything like that,” Mr. Jones remarked.

Ivy blushed a little.

“I’ve tried not to encourage it, but I do think maybe he has a thing for me,” she confided.

“A thing. Is that like a crush?” Mr. Jones asked.

“Yes.”

“And why wouldn’t you encourage a fella like that? He’s not married, is he?”

“Don’t think so,” Ivy said. “It’s hard to explain. But he’s really kind.”

“Good-looking?”

She blushed again. “Yes. Okay, yeah, he’s very cute.”

“Then what’s stopping you, for Pete’s sake?”

“It hasn’t even been a year since my divorce. I still feel so raw. So vulnerable. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to let down my guard. I’m not ready to let a man hurt me like that again.”

“Ohhhh,” he said, nodding. “It’s like that? With your ex-husband?”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing he cheated on you?”

Ivy gulped. She took a deep breath. She hadn’t told a single soul about the level of Kyle’s betrayal. The loss had been too searing, too personal. And stupid.

“Yes. Kyle and I—that’s my ex—we owned a big marketing and public relations firm in Atlanta. The largest in the Southeast. Our most important client owned several high-end restaurants. Kyle and I became really close friends with the owner. Bianca. She was looking to expand into some new markets—Houston and Dallas and Birmingham. It was my account, but Kyle volunteered to help out on the project, scouting new restaurant locations, which meant lots of business trips. The next thing I know, he tells me he’s deeply unhappy in our marriage. Wants time to think and ‘find himself.’ That’s the short version of what happened.”