Michael’s clients came out of hibernation all at once, as if they’d spent the entire winter dreaming of nothing but their precious summer-home lawns. His phone lit up with calls from Boston, New Jersey, Connecticut, and New York. His clients wanted everything yesterday: new annuals, thicker grass, stone patios, and, of course, puffy blue hydrangeas as big as pompons.

Unfortunately for them (and for Michael), their wish lists were piling up because of the weather. It had been a brutal spring, with a couple of freak nor’easters that locked the Cape in ice and pounded the bluffs, leaving the ground as hard as concrete. Some of his clients wanted him to risk it and put the plantings in early, but Michael patiently refused. There had been some unusually warm days, but he’d lived on the Cape long enough to believe in the “Three Icemen” Ed had told him about long ago. Ed said that just when you thought winter was over, there would be three more bouts of bad weather, or “visits” from the icemen. Michael waited, and just like every year, Ed’s theory was rock solid. The third iceman hit late in March.

Now the ice was finally gone, the earth was soft, and the weather was warmer, but the forecast called for heavy rain that would wash away whatever grass seed the birds hadn’t eaten. Michael didn’t have time for rain. Shelby, Deeds, and Avery were in Santa Fe for a well-deserved vacation before the summer season kicked into full gear and the renters descended in droves. Michael had to deal with their inn—taking reservations, assembling a cleaning crew, and fixing the broken window in the corner unit—and, of course, he had plenty of his own landscaping work. And then there was Anibitz. His company wasn’t unlike a bright but troubled teenager with the kind of potential to become either a heroin addict or a Harvard grad. There was some kind of bullshit trademark dispute he needed to address, lawyers he had to call. He’d gotten used to having a partner at the landscaping business; he wished he had a partner in Anibitz. It was too much.

But what really bothered him was Poppy.

A few days ago, he’d been poking around the house the way he usually did. He wanted to see if any more furniture had been cleared out, and he’d brought a bag with him so he could take a few things he wanted to keep for himself, just in case. He filled it with a few of Ed’s records, some of Connie’s books, and the Yahtzee game they’d played so many times that first summer he’d lived with the Gordons. The score sheets still had Poppy’s doodles and Ann’s careful math.