There is a hole the size of, say, my open mouth in the top of the turret, and melting snow is now falling through it.

“Shit.” I sputter and cough.

I look around and, thankfully, don’t see any water damage, so the hole must be a recent development. I zip downstairs, find a pair of my mom’s old snow boots in a closet and trudge through the snow until I can get a vantage point of the turret. I look up, down, all around, and there—in the yard by the cottage—I see it: a huge pine branch. It must have snapped off in the wind during last night’s storm, fallen directly onto the turret and punctured a hole in the roof.

“Mornin’!”

I yelp.

“Sorry, Mrs. Clarke.”

“It’s Kruger,” I say a bit too abruptly before turning to see Frank Van Til, the contractor whose grandfather and great-grandfather supposedly helped build Cozy Cottage. Frank lifts his arms innocently. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d taken your maiden name again.”

I haven’t officially. In fact, I don’t know why I just blurted it out. But it just sounds right to me for some reason at this moment.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say, extending my hand. “You just surprised me. I didn’t hear you pull up. Lost in my own thoughts...and misery.” I nod up at the turret and then down at the branch. “Hole in the roof. I’ve had enough surprises already today.”

“I’ll get that covered today while it’s nice and sunny,” Franks says softly.

Nice? I think. Nice in Michigan is thirties and sunshine in February. I wouldn’t be surprised to see kids playing basketball in shorts and tank tops later.

“But let’s take a look at your plans for the cottage first,” Frank continues.

“Sure,” I say, walking Frank inside and kicking off my boots. “What time is it?”

“Eleven,” he says. “Isn’t that the time we agreed on?”

I shake my head. “I overslept. By about three hours. My first day as an entrepreneur isn’t going as well as I’d imagined,” I say, forcing a smile. “Coffee?”

Frank nods, and I lead him into the kitchen, pour two cups of coffee and then spread out my drawings for the cottage renovations. Frank sets down the case he is holding and actually giggles, an odd sound to emanate from a burly, bearded Dutch man.

“What?” I ask. “Is there a problem?”

“I take it you’re not working with an architect?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “You asked for some drawings when we talked a while back, remember? I did some renderings.”

Frank nods. “I see, I see. Well, these drawings are...” Frank stops, searching for the right words. “More like the ones my daughter used to draw.”