She looked over her shoulder at him, her expression dripping with condescension. He grinned back. “It’s March,” she said. “Of course there’s a chill in the air.”

“Good point,” Sam said, noting she hadn’t responded to the other two questions. He walked over to the lunch pail someone had left behind, grimacing when he peered inside. “What happened here?”

“Why should anything have happened?”

He looked pointedly around the room.

“Fine,” she said, deflating. “My crew has abandoned ship, leaving all their possessions behind. I don’t know very much about building work, but I can’t imagine that’s common behavior.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Sam said, crouching to examine a large saw propped up against one wall. He ran one finger over its teeth. “I’d guess some of these are the equivalent of a month’s pay for a builder. They didn’t tell you what happened?”

“Only that they were leaving.” Alva rolled her eyes. “And I don’t know why I’m telling you this; it doesn’t concern you. Come to think of it, why are you here?”

“I brought you something,” Sam said, accepting the change of subject with good grace. “Which I definitely brought in with me … Ah, there it is.” He retrieved the parcel from the doorway and held it out to her.

She stared down at it with suspicion. “You came all the way from New York City to give me a present.”

“Oh no,” he said. “I came all the way from New York City to convince you to change your mind about the house. The present is merely an excuse.”

There! The side of her mouth twitched. She wanted to smile but was restraining herself. She’d smiled at him once before, the night she’d met his family. He wondered what he could do to provoke another one.

“I see,” she said. “Well, since you did scare me out of my wits—”

“I thought I merely startled you.”

“Since you crept up behind me and shouted at me like a lunatic”—here she broke off to glare at him—“I suppose I’ll accept this present as recompense.” She took the parcel, wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with twine, and began carefully picking at the knotted twine.

“Why, Mrs. Webster, I never would have thought it,” Sam said, leaning against the wall while he watched her. “You like getting presents.”

“Everyone likes getting presents,” she said, apparently giving up on the knot and deciding to shimmy the twine off the package.

“No one hates getting a present,” Sam said. “But you’re barely restraining yourself from ripping the wrapping off with your nails. You adore them.”

“No more than anyone else. Do you have a knife?”

“Somewhere.” He rooted through his pockets, producing several feathers, a coil of wire, and an interesting rock before he found his knife. He passed it to her.