What Maggie and Caleb didn’t do: ask about the logistics of juggling college with a young daughter or wonder aloud about Linnie.

Sam didn’t mention these matters, either, not even when Kate arrived home from school, bounded past her grandfather, and stormed the workshop.

She let Caleb swoop her up and, suspended in the air, squealed when Sam tickled her. As soon as Caleb returned her to the floor, she stopped laughing and glared at Maggie. “What is she doing here?”

“We’re just hanging out, Squirt,” Sam said.

Thomas, jangling his keys, paused in the doorway. “What’s up?” he asked, smiling curiously.

“Nothing.” Sam’s gaze slid away from his dad’s. He stuck his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

Maggie and Caleb shared a glance.

So Sam hadn’t told Thomas yet. Maggie supposed not even Wren knew. And Linnie? Not likely.

21

WREN DIDN’T KNOCK on the Blakes’ door. Striding right into the great room, she announced, “We’re here!” Then she tossed her messenger bag onto a deep chair and flung herself into the chair’s twin. “And I’m “hungry.”

Thomas’s voice drifted their way from upstairs: “Hey, Hungry. Be down in a minute.”

Maggie perched on the edge of an ottoman. Her aunt might have been hungry. But she looked wiped out.

It was Sunday. Maggie hadn’t expected Wren home until late. She’d been surprised when the truck roared up the cabin’s driveway just a few minutes ago, kicking up clouds of snow. After dropping her small suitcase on the kitchen floor, the aunt had hauled Maggie into a tight hug and said, “Grab your coat. We’re heading next door.”

Now Maggie frowned at Wren, limp in the armchair, her head back, eyes closed. Her aunt hadn’t said a word about the exhibition, merely mentioned Sam’s invitation to supper.

What supper? The unlit kitchen was clean, not a pot or pan in sight. “So how did it go?” Maggie asked.

Wren opened bleary eyes. “Good. Bad. Frankly, I don’t even know. And at this point, I don’t give a shit. I’m just so glad it’s over.” With a sigh, she sat up, dragged herself to her feet, and crossed to the windows.

Vermilion saturated the sky. The setting sun lit up the peninsula—blurred the whole length of Devil’s Tongue in a fiery glow. “When I gaze out this way from my studio,” Wren murmured, “a sunset like this feels personal, a treat whipped up especially for me. From here, though…” She stepped back from the window and ran a hand along the side of a rocker, its cherry grain reddened by the waning light. “Everything here, inside and out, still belongs to Muriel.”

A distant screech erupted.

Maggie tensed. She knew that howl.

Thomas appeared on the upper landing. “What’s going on?”