“Are you my twelve thirty?” she asks. “I thought it was Ann, but maybe I mixed things up. I’ll have to check my appointment book. Come in, come in.” She holds the screen door open to me and waves me inside. A black cat appears to rub up against my leg. “Right this way,” she orders, before turning on her heel and floating down the hall toward the back of the cottage, leaving the scent of lavender oil in her wake.

“Um, excuse me,” I call out, but she’s already disappeared. Feeling that she’s left me no choice, I follow her down the hall and find her in a small sun-room spreading a sheet over a massage table. “Look,” I say loudly to get her attention. “I’m not your twelve thirty.” At this, she finally stops moving and looks directly at me. “I’m your neighbor. June Bennett from Avril Island.”

Her eyes go wide; she drops the sheet and steps around the table to get closer. “Well I’ll be,” she says breathlessly. “The Bennetts have returned.”

“Just me, actually. My mother, she’s passed away. May, my sister, she … well, she’s not here. It’s just me,” I say again, clumsy over the avoidance of my sister’s death. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but I was looking for Suzanne Swann.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Her eyes narrow, and I can tell it’s a trick question.

“Are you related to Suzanne?”

“I’m Leslie. Her daughter?” She pauses, waiting for my recognition, but unfortunately the name doesn’t ring any bells for me. She waves a hand dismissively, the silver bangles on her wrist jangling loudly. “We played a few times together when your family came over, but I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been so long. I didn’t even recognize Ezra Keen the other day, and he was at Avril Island every day when we were kids.” I’m hoping she’ll see that it’s just me not being good with faces or names and that she won’t take it personally, but I can already feel a slight edge to her that wasn’t there when she thought I was her twelve thirty.

“Ah yes,” she says, with an exaggerated nod of her head. “Your lot and the Keens were pretty tight back in the day.” The comment sounds heavily loaded, but maybe I’m just paranoid.

“Is your mom still around?” I ask, attempting to return to the reason I’m here.

Leslie shakes her head. “No, she passed away years ago of a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” My words barely seem to penetrate her leathery, tanned skin. “What about your father?” I would have preferred Suzanne, but he’ll do.