He smiled sheepishly and palmed a plastic bag of blue powder, as if he were weighing it. His smile wilted. Eyeing the chemical, he murmured, “Poor Linnie. Two of the foster placements were shitholes. They came with their own unique crappiness.” He blew a sigh and tossed his head. Briskly, to Maggie: “Didn’t think you’d find me here, working on a Sunday, did you? Your aunt’s a tyrant.”

Wren smirked. “Sam’s helping me catch up.”

“I didn’t see your truck out back,” Maggie said to him.

“Pickup’s in the shop. I walked.” She must have continued to look surprised, because he smiled. “I’m not that out of shape. It only takes ten minutes.”

“Didn’t you know Thomas is my neighbor?” the aunt asked. “That’s how we got to know each other. When I bought this place—back in the good old days when my sculptures were raking in cash—the Blakes were relieved. There had been some talk in town about using this property for a casino, of all things. Sam’s folks were glad I purchased it.”

“Grateful,” he said.

She smiled. “We became fast friends. Muriel and I used to take yoga together. She was an artist, too. We even collaborated on some projects.” The aunt gazed distractedly at the teapot body on the wheel and then, with a little shake of her head, picked up the wire tool and ran it under the pot.

“They liked to co-mother,” Sam said with a lopsided smile, “the two taking turns telling me what to do.”

Aunt Wren sniffed. “You were a handful.”

“I kept you busy.” He raised the small bag. “We’re low on cobalt carbonate. Want me to add it to the order?”

She nodded. “And chromium oxide. I need to marble some clay.”

Maggie wandered to the windows. She considered both ends of the stretch of beach, the short bluff and the long. “Which side is yours?”

Sam went to stand beside her. “We’ve got a little beach west of here. Nothing like Wren’s. Mostly what we have is that.” He pointed to the long end, where the low cliff jutted over the water. “Devil’s Tongue, it’s called. Dad has an awesome old map from the early nineteenth century, with that name scrawled across the bluff, along with ‘Vile Graveyard of Many Ships.’ The reefs go for almost a mile into the lake. They fucked up the barges and boats coming in.”

“Sank them?”

“Or trapped them. The visible part of the bluff’s scary enough, rocky and steep. Not worth investigating—believe me, I’ve tried—and no point, really. The fishing there sucks.”

“So the bluff is yours?”

He shrugged. “As much as something like that can belong to anyone.”

Maggie studied the peninsula. Devil’s Tongue. A good name for a dangerous place.