The box Sydney hauled from the attic this morning had been calling her name all day.

But not until now had she had the opportunity to slip away to the privacy of the room she currently called her own.

From somewhere down the hall, the sound of Indi’s voice drifted through the walls, until the latch of a door cut off her muffled conversation. Probably on the phone with that fiancé she’d talked about all through dinner.

Sydney cinched the belt of the fluffy pink robe she’d found in her bedroom’s closet. Might’ve been Diana’s once upon a time, though it wasn’t nearly as faded as she might’ve expected if it were really that old. The plastic tub of scrapbooks awaited her on her bed.

It had taken her and Maggie more than an hour to locate it in the attic this morning, and by then, Maggie had seemed completely done in. By the search and the dusty air of the attic? Or from their conversation?

“There’s, um, there’s this photo . . . I guess I sort of stole it from my birth . . . from CarleeAnn Picknell when I met her. We met just the one time. She was dying. She didn’t say much. But there was this photo on her bedside table. I . . . I shouldn’t have taken it.” Sydney had finally let out a huff of frustration at her own inability to speak in more than stilted starts and stops. “There were three young people in the photo—CarleeAnn and another girl. I didn’t know until Wilder showed me a picture of Diana that it was her. And there’s a young man in the photo, too, and according to the note on the back his name is JP—or maybe those are his initials. And I can’t help wondering . . .”

She’d known before she even finished her stuttered explanation that there’d be no easy discovery of JP’s identity in that moment. Maggie’s gaze had clouded.

“I understand what you’re asking. What you’re wondering. Diana’s teenage years were so difficult. There was so much distance between us. I knew CarleeAnn, of course. They were attached at the hip from the time they were kids. But the name JP . . .” She shook her head. “Perhaps if I see the photo.”

“That’s the problem. I couldn’t find it before I left. I looked everywhere I could think of. So the father of Diana’s baby . . . you don’t know . . . ?”

For the first time since Sydney had met the woman, Maggie had seemed to close up, an invisible barrier every bit as effective as the windbreak of trees out back. Sydney had let her questions go, and when they’d finally come down from the attic, Maggie had lain down for a nap.

She’d thought maybe after the nap they’d look through the box of scrapbooks together. Instead, they’d spent the rest of the afternoon baking cookies and sharing them over tea in the sunroom. She’d helped Maggie sweep both the front porch and back, then fold a load of towels. At some point Indi had come home, and eventually Lilian. Neil had straggled in just before dinner.

And that’s when she’d realized that eating dinner together as a family was a regular thing in this house, last night apparently no oddity. They’d even prayed before the meal, then passed the food around the table and talked about their days. It was like something out of an old episode of Leave It to Beaver

And if she wasn’t mistaken, each sibling had made a concentrated effort to include her. Indi had asked if Sydney had met her goats. Lilian had asked her about her employment back in Chicago. Neil had wanted to know if she’d recovered from her fall.

He’d asked the question quietly while the others were distracted by Indi’s story of how she’d met her fiancé, leaning over in his chair—close enough she’d been able to see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. In another instance, they might’ve hinted at laughter, added a certain charm to his already handsome face.

But this evening those thin lines had told of stress. Fatigue. And probably a fair bit of frustration considering she’d overheard him telling Lilian that generator he’d been concerned about was shot. That was about all he’d said through dinner—one comment to Lilian, one question to Sydney.

Sydney toed on a pair of fuzzy white slippers now—also a closet find—and moved to the bed. But before she got as far as pulling the lid off the tub of scrapbooks, her phone blared.

One look at the screen sent shoots of relief beaming through her. Micah. She plucked it from the bedside table and lifted it to her ear. “Forty-eight hours, Micah Terrence Porter. That’s the longest you’ve ever given me the cold shoulder.”

He grunted, probably at her use of his middle name. He hated it. Which obviously contributed to her love of using it. “We didn’t talk for three days after I pushed you into the pool that one summer. Only that time, you were the one giving me the silent treatment.”

“Because I’d just gotten a perm.”

“I was doing you a favor, Syd. That perm made you look like Annie.”

She sank onto her bed, one elbow propped on the tub. “So . . . you’re not mad at me anymore.”

“I wasn’t mad.”

Through the phone, she heard the ding of his key in a car’s ignition, engine waiting to be started, and the thump of his door closing. Where was he going at this time of night? “Your face—”

“Still don’t want to talk about it.”

Everything in her wanted to argue. Press for answers. Insist that after nineteen years of surrogate older sister status, she deserved to know why he’d shown up at the bakery Saturday morning looking like he’d just stepped out of a boxing ring.

But wisdom, or maybe simply a bone-deep weariness of one too many conversations just like this, bade her to hold her tongue.

Finally, after a stretching silence, he sighed. “I just owe someone some money, okay?”

Don’t ask. “How much—”

“So you’re in Maine? You said it was a long story. Can I get the short version? I’m on my way . . .”

Somewhere he was apparently as reluctant to tell her about as the whoever it was he owed or how much or how it could be so serious he’d ended up with a bruised face. What in the world had he gotten mixed up in this time?

And what kind of big sister was she to abandon him?

The kind who’s trying to do what Nikola said—to show him what it looks like to take a different path, for once. Her friend wasn’t wrong. They’d been stuck in a cycle for years. Maybe it was time for Micah to stand on his own two feet, figure out his own solution to whatever trouble he’d found himself in now.

But she prickled at the thought. Could hear fifteen-year-old Micah in her head: “You’re all I have, Syd.” He’d said the same words so many times since. And, always, she gave the expected response: “You’re all I have, too.”

Except now that might not be true. Now she might have a grandmother. Might have a whole family history with roots that tied her to land and sea alike. She spilled the story to Micah as quickly as she could.

“Wow, that’s, uh . . . that’s crazy,” he said when she finished. “I guess I get why you wanted to take the trip and go figure out your heritage or whatever. Just . . .”

He paused and she could hear him cut his car’s engine. “Just what?”

“Don’t forget you’ve got family back here, too, even if it’s not by blood.” There was something vulnerable in his voice.

“I won’t forget.”

Their call ended a few minutes later, with Micah promising to keep his eyes peeled for CarleeAnn’s photo and Sydney promising to eventually come home. She’d laughed as Micah had wrangled the vow from her. As if she could actually stay here. For all she knew, this whole thing was still a wild goose chase.

Or maybe the scrapbooks awaiting her perusal would reveal . . . something. Sydney rose and peeled the lid off the tub, but movement out her window caught her gaze before she lifted out the first scrapbook. She padded to the sill, peering outside just as she had last night.

And just like last night, her attention hooked on the man crossing the backyard. Neil, once again heading . . . somewhere. This time he carried a flashlight, the moon obscured by clouds.

He couldn’t have chores to do at this time of night, could he? Why, it had to be after ten. Where are you going, Neil MacKean?

Instinct took over then. Or maybe impulse. Whatever it was, it propelled her to her bedroom door and into the hallway, scrapbooks once again abandoned. She hurried down the steps and through the dining room, the kitchen, into the mudroom.

She halted. She couldn’t run outside in slippers. That would be ridiculous.

More ridiculous than chasing a man down while wearing a robe and pajamas?

Well, with any luck, he wouldn’t actually see her. All the same, she’d ruin these white slippers if she wore them outside. With a huff, she scanned her surroundings, focus landing on a pair of rubber boots near the door. Perfect.

She tugged off the slippers and pulled on the boots, wiggled her toes. Too big, but she could manage. A second later, she was out the door, just in time to see Neil’s form disappearing into the trees.

You are bananas, Sydney Rose.

But she was also curious.

Try nosy.

Whatever twinge of guilt she might feel was entirely lost in the exhilaration of the moment. Or maybe that was the cold filling her lungs and urging her to keep her muscles moving in a paltry effort to ward it off. She moved her feet as quickly but quietly as she could, reaching the grove and straining to make out Neil’s striding form and the bobbing light of his flashlight up ahead.

She kept a healthy distance behind him, praying she didn’t step on any snapping twigs or crunching leaves, hoping his own steps were loud enough to drown out hers.

The light veered after a time, leading into a stretching field. Should she keep following? If he turned around, there wouldn’t be any trees to shield her.

But you’ve come this far . . .

With a shrug, she stepped from the cover of the grove.

Froze. A third set of steps came scampering through the trees. Oh no, not good. Captain—that had to be him. Unless there was some other dog on this property.

A yip, a bark.

And then Neil’s light—jerking, swiveling . . .

Landing square on her motionless form just as Captain jumped at her.

If not for Captain’s interference, Neil might’ve let Sydney follow him all the way to the copse at the edge of the far field. Might’ve risked letting her in on his secret for the sole purpose of seeing just how dedicated she was to this nonsensical pursuit of hers.

Really, did she honestly think he hadn’t heard her traipsing after him? And what in heaven’s name was she wearing?

He pitched toward her, marching across the sparse field.

“I—I can explain.” Captain gave another jump, bumping his nose against her knee, a plea for attention. But she remained immobile.

“Explain what? Why on earth you’re following me? Or why the heck you’re wearing a bathrobe?” Over pajamas, judging by the baggy pants tucked into . . . were those Lilian’s rain boots?

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as he reached her. “It’s just . . . you looked . . . suspicious.”

“I looked suspicious. Me. The man who lives here on this property. Not the girl in Greta Turner’s bathrobe.” Now that he got a better look at the thing, he’d recognize it anywhere. Guess the woman had left it here when she’d hightailed it out of town.

“Who’s Greta?”

He ignored her question. “Out with it. Why were you following me? What about a late-night walk looks so suspicious?”

She hugged her arms to herself over her front, but even in the dark, he could see the defiant gleam in her eyes. “It’s the way you darted across the yard. Looked behind you. Like you were making sure no one was watching.”

“I don’t remember looking behind me.”

“Not tonight. Last night.” She clamped her lips together.

But she’d already given herself away. “Ah, so this isn’t the first time you’ve spied on me.”

“I wasn’t spying.”

“And tonight you added stalking to the list.” Despite all the frustrations of this day—the dead generator, Tatum Carter, the still-broken air blower, and oh yeah, that hole in the barn loft he really needed to fix one of these days—he couldn’t help the tease in his tone. He crossed his arms and lifted one eyebrow.

Bit his cheeks to keep from laughing when her eyes narrowed.

“Just go ahead and laugh. Laugh all you want. I’m glad of it. Because you might be the grumpiest man I’ve ever met. So I’m glad I can provide some entertainment. I’m glad I could look ridiculous in your coat this morning. And in this getup tonight. And last night, barging into your bathroom.”

“Don’t forget falling through the haymow. Or being scared of Melba.”

“I’m not scared of that old cow.”

“Did you just stomp your foot?”

Her eyes were mere slits now and she mimicked his crossed arms. Then, with a huff, she spun and marched toward the trees. “Goodnight, Neil.”

There was an uncanny charm to the ire in her voice as she said his name. He probably shouldn’t enjoy it so much.

Probably shouldn’t let her roam through the woods in the pitch black by herself, either. It’d been one thing when she was following him and his flashlight, but it’d be too easy for a person to get turned around this late at night, especially one who wasn’t familiar with the lay of the land.

“Syd, wait.”

“No, no. Go on with your secret caper.” She flung the words over her shoulder. “I won’t stalk you anymore.”

Wind whistled through the grass, carrying the faint, distant echoes of the waves folding into the shore. Either walk her back to the house, despite her protests, or . . .

No way. He’d kept the structure under wraps this long. Had exactly zero desire to let anyone else see it until he’d completed the thing.

Then again, what would it hurt to let her tag along? It’s not like Sydney Rose would still be around when he finally got up the nerve to let Maggie in on his secret. And he was fairly certain if he asked Sydney to keep the place to herself, she would.

Because he’d seen the way she was with Maggie at dinner tonight. Attentive to every word. Insistent on helping clear the table and rinse off dishes before loading them into the dishwasher. She’d oohed and aahed over dessert—the leftover cheesecake from the night before. Refilled Maggie’s mug with decaf coffee. Twice.

Underneath her bewildering decision to let Wilder drag her here and her out-of-place attire now, he got the distinct impression that Sydney Rose was a decent person.

Either that or both his and Captain’s instincts needed fine-tuning.

“Sydney, stop.”

She’d nearly reached the edge of the woods.

“You can come with me.”

She halted, finally. Glanced over her shoulder. “Come with you where?”

He whistled for Captain and started across the field once more. “Just come on.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed, but he felt the slight tug of a grin all the same when he heard her rustling steps switch course and hurry toward him.

“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”

He pointed his flashlight toward the grouping of trees at the far end of the west field. “Nope.” Miss Nosy Parker could just hold her horses.

“Then will you tell me who Greta is?”

She sounded out of breath. For the second time that day, he slowed so she could keep up. “The last impost—the last guest to sleep in the room you are currently occupying. Only in her case, she actually claimed to be Maggie’s missing granddaughter. Showed up of her own accord.”

Sydney gasped. “You mean . . . there were others?”

She didn’t know? “You’re the fifth one.”

Apparently that stunned her into silence. Because she didn’t say another word the rest of the walk. Not when they reached the spot where the field turned hilly. Not when he led her under the cover of more trees. Not when he slackened his pace several yards from the oak tree, Captain slowing with him.

Only when they neared the tree, his flashlight grazing over the ladder descending from above, did she open her mouth again. “Is this where . . . ?” She tipped her head, following the lead of his light, toward the structure jutting up in the air. “A . . . a treehouse?”

He might chuckle at her incredulity if he hadn’t already been scolded once tonight for laughing. “I’m glad you can tell what it is. There was a point where I’d seriously begun to question my carpentry skills. But it’s not a normal treehouse.”

She stepped back, slanting her neck, obviously trying to take in more of the structure. “I can see that. It’s ten times the size of any treehouse I’ve ever seen.”

“Just put the walls up last week.”

Her gaze was back on him. “Why?”

“Why did I give it walls?” He reached down to ruffle Captain’s fur.

“Why are you building it? There aren’t any kids around, and even if there were, this isn’t some small kids’ playhouse. Are you going to live out here or something?”

He allowed a snicker and, remarkably, she didn’t glare at him. “No, I’m not going to live in it. I’m not a hermit. Believe it or not, most people find me pretty personable. Even sociable. I think you might be the only person who’s ever called me grumpy.” Not true. Lil had called him a grump just the other day.

“To your face anyway.”

No more trying not to laugh. He let it belt out and moved to the ladder. Wary as he’d been of bringing her or anyone here, now that they’d reached the treehouse, he was suddenly eager to show it off. “Want to go up?”

“Is its base sturdier than the barn loft?”

Could she see the amusement in his frown? “I built it with my own two hands, Sydney.”

“For all I know, you built the barn, too.”

“Suit yourself.” He tucked his flashlight under one arm and climbed the ladder with practiced ease, emerging into the treehouse and heaving himself over the landing. The familiar, sweet smell of new lumber and sawdust clung to the air, and a flicker of satisfaction pulsed through him as he glanced down to see Sydney making her way up the ladder. “Careful climbing in those boots.”

He reached one hand down to help pull her up and in when she made it to the top, then turned to power on the battery-operated light he kept in here for nights like this.

Light flooded the spacious room—larger, even, than his bedroom back at the house. Sydney turned a slow circle, noticing frames for windows on each wall, surely. The high ceiling. Had she spotted the opening for a skylight overhead? On a clear night, the stars almost felt within reach.

She turned back to him, mouth gaping. “I just don’t quite get it.”

“It’s a luxury treehouse. Or will be. Once I get it painted and furnished and hooked up to electricity. I know it feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere, but there’s an electrical line not too far away.”

She still looked clueless.

“I want to rent it out. Put it on Airbnb. Give the farm a supplementary income. And once I’m finished with this one, there’s other spots on the farm where I could build—cabins or more treehouses. There’s an abandoned outbuilding I could turn into a small lodge.” Now that he’d started talking, he couldn’t stop the rest from spilling. “There’s other farms in Maine where tourists actually get to rake their own berries. That might be fun for guests who stay during harvest. Agricultural tourism—it’s a thing.”

And he knew—he knew—he could make a proper go of it.

If only he could convince Maggie. Twice, he’d brought up the idea, though he’d never gone so far as to mention the treehouse he’d begun constructing. Twice, she’d shaken her head at the idea. “This is Muir Farm, Neil. Not Muir B&B. We’re a family farm. Not a tourist destination.”

He couldn’t seem to make her understand that he wasn’t trying to veer them away from being a small family farm. He was trying to make it possible for them to keep being a family farm.

“I’m honestly not sure what made me think of it originally, but the truth is, we could really use the extra income.”

“Neil, this . . .” Sydney’s voice drew his focus. “It’s . . .”

Crazy, most likely. About as far-fetched of an idea, probably, as picking up and traveling across the country on the oh-so-slim off-chance that you might be someone’s long-lost relative.

But it was a far-fetched idea he hadn’t been able to let go of.

And so here he found himself, night after night. Putting in an hour of work here, two hours there, wondering when he’d muster up the gumption to show this place to his sisters, to Maggie. Honestly, how they hadn’t all already figured out he was up something, he didn’t know. But then, Lilian was working so much these days and Indi spent half her time in Augusta.

As for Maggie, she was so often caught up in the past. Guess that made it difficult to notice all the details of the present.

“It’s incredible.”

His gaze dashed to Sydney’s face. What had she just said?

“It’s impressive too. You built this treehouse. By yourself. It’s just . . . it’s incredible. And your vision for the farm—I love it.” She paced from one end of the treehouse to the other, ducked her head out a window frame, glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Next door to my apartment building back home, there’s this old Victorian house. I walk past it every day on my way to work, and I always think about how much fun it’d be to get my hands on it. It could be so much more than a run-down house. It could be a bed-and-breakfast or an artsy sort of coffeehouse or even a restaurant. If I had money and time and resources, I could do something with it. That’s what you’re doing. That’s what you’ve done. You have a vision and you’re making it happen. It’s so . . .”

She faced him once more. “I guess I’m being repetitive, but it’s incredible. That’s all I can think to say.”

Her words, the unmistakable awe in her voice—he was rendered mute. There she stood in that silly robe and those silly boots, saying things that just plain dumbfounded him. But there was no denying the way her words burrowed deep under his skin.

Say something.

“I, um . . . thank you.” The words felt paltry next to the appreciation simmering inside of him.

“So what’s on the agenda tonight?”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You were coming out here for a reason before I waylaid you, weren’t you?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Painting. I was going to start painting.” He motioned his head toward the unopened cans in the corner.

“Want some help?”

“Well . . . sure.” Why did his head feel so foggy? And his throat—had he inhaled sawdust? “You’re not exactly dressed for it, though. Might get paint on your robe.”

She flashed a grin. “Too bad for Greta.”