“Ohhh,” she said softly.

“Well damn,” Ezra said. “That must be Big Bob’s Santa suit.”

He saw her puzzled expression.

“The previous owner? According to what I’ve been told by the locals, Bob Rose was Santa Claus in these mountains.” Ezra returned to the closet, running his hands over the shelves. “Huh. Looks like it’s not here.”

“What? Rudolph? The sleigh?”

“Mrs. Santa’s costume. According to my broker, Betty Rae Rose had an outfit she’d wear that matched Bob’s outfit.” He shrugged. “Maybe one of the grandkids decided they wanted it.”

“Too bad they didn’t decide to take the rest of this junk,” Ivy said, pointing at the pile of clothing in the corner of the bedroom, where Punkin had already made himself a nest.

“I’ll have my guys haul off anything you don’t want,” Ezra promised, looking at his watch again. “Sorry, I’d better go.”

“Big date?” He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and much to her own annoyance, she’d been wondering about his marital status.

“Seeing a client about a potential new listing,” he said. “Divorce. It’s the gift that keeps giving.” He paused at the front door. “Welcome home, by the way.”

Chapter 2

As darkness fell on Four Roses Farm, the little farmhouse took on a more noticeable chill. Ivy paused in her unpacking and bundled up, donning a bulky sweater, a knit scarf, and two pairs of socks, as she searched the house for a thermostat for the heater, but came up short.

She dashed out to the side porch and brought in an armload of logs and stacked it in the fireplace in the living room, adding a handful of dried-out pine cones she salvaged from a dusty arrangement on the mantel, and some crumpled up sheets of newspaper with a 1998 dateline she’d found lining the shelves of the pantry.

“Here goes nothing,” she told Punkin, who was watching her progress while lolling near the hearth. She did a little happy dance when the tiny flame caught, then flickered, then blazed. “Now for some supper.”

The setter’s ears pricked up and he followed her into the kitchen, where, for the first time, she noticed the large gift bag on the counter. She lifted out a very good bottle of red wine and a gaily decorated round tin full of cookies. The handwritten gift label taped to the lid said: MAMA W’S OATMEAL CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. DEFINITELY NOT LOW-CAL. OR GLUTEN-FREE.

“It’s the thought that counts, right?” she asked Punkin, pushing the cookie tin aside. There was a small pamphlet—New Homeowner’s Checklist—Courtesy of Carolina Countryside Realty and Ezra Wheeler—clipped to the side of the gift bag.

Ivy read down the items, convinced she’d already taken care of all the red tape involved in moving. Her father had been an engineer, and Ivy had been raised to be detail oriented. She’d already filled out all the change-of-address forms, applied for a North Carolina registration and license tag for the Volvo, and even ordered a driver’s handbook in preparation for applying for a driver’s license in her new state.