A man could only handle so much in one week.

Neil stopped outside the back door of the house, the wind scraping over his cheeks, knowing the moment he stepped over the threshold, the day’s last semblance of peace and quiet would end. Tonight was the Muir Harbor Autumn Market, which meant his usual weekend night rest would have to wait.

He rubbed his palms over both bristled cheeks. He’d finally shaved earlier in the week, but he likely would’ve sent at least one of the women in this household into shock if he’d come downstairs entirely clean-shaven, so he’d kept his five-o’clock shadow. He wiped the dust from his jeans and dragged his work boots over the rug outside the door.

On a normal Saturday, he’d give himself the gift of an early end to his workday. Especially after a week like this—long days, short nights. He’d spent the past three nights working on the treehouse until after midnight. Usually he liked the alone time, but there was simply too much to worriedly mull this week. Indi, for one thing. They’d never had the chance to talk after shooing all the farm animals back to the barn. She’d headed up to Augusta first thing Wednesday morning.

And while Ansel Barrett might’ve located a cheap used generator for him to look at next week, he was nowhere closer to figuring out what to do about the harvester. Then Tatum Carter had called yesterday, though he’d purposely refused to answer and . . .

And then there was their houseguest. Other than evening meals, he’d barely seen Sydney in the past few days. She’d been spending all her time with Maggie and he was clueless as to what to feel about it. He’d accepted that Sydney didn’t have any ill intentions in coming to Maine. But that didn’t mean there still wasn’t a bucketload of potential hurt waiting for Maggie at the end of all of this.

And maybe not only Maggie. More than once, he’d found himself thinking about the look he’d seen in Sydney’s eyes out by the shore. Or her soft words later. “I just want to know who I am.”

He shook his head as he opened the back door. At least there hadn’t been any more unknown vehicles idling in the driveway or strange prints in the yard or animals running loose.

“Neil. Those crates of jam. Trunk.”

Lilian’s barking voice greeted him the moment he stepped into the kitchen, the chaos pulsing through the crowded room tempting him to step right back out. He’d hoped to grab a shower before being pulled into market preparation. If only he’d been smart enough to walk in the front door and slip upstairs before Lilian spotted him.

The heat of the kitchen told him Maggie had been doing plenty of last-minute baking. And she’d had help, by the looks of things. A pie balanced in each hand and a third tucked in the crook of one elbow, Sydney moved across the room as if gliding, her berry-stained apron hanging unknotted and loose. Was that a streak of flour on her forehead?

“I don’t know how she does it,” Maggie said, suddenly at his side. “Earlier I watched her carry five of them at once.”

Sydney must’ve heard the remark. She glanced over at them, grinned. “A thousand years of waitressing, that’s how.”

“The jam, Neil.” Lilian again.

“She’s bossy today.” Maggie lifted a basket filled with Saran-wrapped baked goods. Blueberry scones, muffins, turnovers. The heavenly smells permeating the room made his stomach gurgle.

He picked up the crate filled with jams, mason jars rattling inside. “She’s always bossy on market days.” And frankly, he was thankful for it. Lilian’s organization was the reason Muir Farm had one of the best booths each fall—not to mention at the winter, spring, and summer markets too.

The seasonal Saturday evening events, much bigger affairs than the weekly roadside farmers markets that took place throughout each summer and autumn, were Muir Harbor traditions, coaxing visitors from surrounding counties and even all around the state. Vendors came in by the dozens, selling all manner of homemade wares, hand-crafted jewelry, and art and gift items. The food stands were his favorite—though the chances of Lilian freeing him from their own booth long enough to fill his stomach were slim, especially with Indi busy at the Bits & Pieces stand.

Then again, they had an extra pair of hands helping this year.

Sydney pulled one last pie from the oven, her gaze glimmering with delight as she turned to Maggie. “Will it cool in time to pack it up?” Her gaze tilted to Neil. “My very first pie. That is, the first one Maggie let me make on my own.”

“And she did a fine job. Crimped the crust and everything.” Maggie waved a hand over the pie’s surface. “Probably best not to cover it just yet. Hold it on your lap on the drive into town. Should be fine for boxing up by the time you get there.”

“Or you could keep it here.” Neil lowered his crate to the table once more. “We could all have a midnight snack when we get home tonight.”

Sydney’s rosy cheeks—from the heat?—stretched with her grin. “No way. Maggie told me pies go for sixteen dollars. With the amount of anxiety I put into this thing, I’m getting every penny I can out of it. Even if I have to beg some poor market-goer to buy it.”

“Eighteen dollars,” Lilian interjected from across the room. “We’re upping prices this year.”

“You won’t have to beg.” Neil knew it for a fact. Because the blueberry pie looked delicious. And because she looked . . .

Never mind how she looks.

He had no business whatsoever noticing the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks or the way that green sweater she wore under her apron turned her eyes from mossy to almost jade. Certainly shouldn’t be fighting the urge to brush the flour not only from her forehead but also, he noted now that she stood closer, from her hair too.

She turned away, carefully placing the pie on the counter and pulling off her oven mitts. No, she wouldn’t have any trouble at all selling that thing.

“Stop staring at Sydney and carry that box outside, will you?” Lilian elbowed his side. When had she sidled up to him?

“I wasn’t—”

“On second thought, I’ll finish loading the car. Go clean up. You smell like a barn.”

“I don’t . . .” He probably did. He’d spent most of the day repairing the loft. Had the dirt and sawdust clinging to his flannel shirt to prove it.

Lilian hoisted the crate away from him and bustled out the back door. Had Sydney heard her comment about staring?

Suddenly, he couldn’t get out of this hot kitchen fast enough. But when he turned, Maggie blocked his path. She leaned in and up, patted his cheek with one hand as she’d done so many times before. “There’s a Tupperware container in the fridge with two big slices for you. Make sure to grab it before you leave in case Lilian doesn’t give you a break tonight.”

He smiled down at her. “You’re too good to me, Maggie Muir. Always looking out for me.”

“Always, Neil. That’s what love does.” She patted his cheek once more and stepped back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us tonight? Everyone would love to see you.”

He’d known there wasn’t much point in asking. Maggie hadn’t come to the market in years. But foolish impulse had pushed the question out.

And foolish anticipation awaited her answer. Maybe this fall would be different. She’d been so lively these past few days. So happy with Sydney here.

But she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve spent almost all day in the kitchen, and I’m beat. You young people have fun and tell me all about it when you get home. Or better yet, at breakfast tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be sound asleep long before you return.”

He swallowed his sigh and managed another smile. Turned in a hurry lest she glimpse the disappointment he tried to hide.

But only halfway down the hall, Sydney’s voice called after him. “Neil, wait.” She caught up to him at the base of the staircase. “Can I show you something real quick?”

“Sure you don’t want to wait ’til later? Lilian says I smell like a barn.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t know. My whole day has been blueberries—pies and pastries and jams and I don’t even know what all. It’s literally all I can smell.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Come on. This’ll only take a minute.”

He followed her into the dining room and then the office, his least favorite room of the house. Because it’s where the computer was. And the computer was where his budget spreadsheets were. And his budget spreadsheets never failed to give him a headache.

But Sydney didn’t even notice him pausing at the doorframe. She hurried forward, rounding the desk and dropping into the swivel chair behind it. She clicked on the mouse and typed a few words, the light of the monitor dancing over her face. “By the way, why haven’t you asked me to come help at the treehouse at all? You always sneak out of the house when I’m not around. Wasn’t I a good help with the painting?” She finished typing and hit Enter. “Come look.”

He shuffled toward her. “Of course you were a good help. And I don’t sneak out.”

Her smirk told him she didn’t believe that for a moment. Fine, maybe he did sneak. Force of habit, that was all. He’d been keeping his secret from Maggie and the girls for so long it was simply second nature.

Except that’s not the reason and you know it.

But he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of honesty at the moment. Really didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted Sydney’s help the past few nights. It was that he feared he wanted it too much.

Might enjoy it too much. Working alongside her. The close quarters . . .

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Sydney nudged the monitor so it faced him over her shoulder.

He peered at the screen, seconds ticking by before he understood what he was seeing. A picture of wood crates filled with lush berries, white letters overtop. Welcome to Muir Farm. Underneath the heading, three more pictures of the farm and smaller headings. Reserve Fresh Berries. Join Us for Harvest. Book Your Stay.

A website?

“What do you think?” Sydney moved her mouse, clicking on the third photo. “Putting the treehouse on Airbnb is smart, but I also think it’s a good idea to have a reservation form on your own site.”

“You made us a website?”

“Maggie was napping yesterday and I was feeling creative. I’ve only got the bare bones in place and, of course, it’s not live yet. But you need a website, Neil. All those orders you take over the phone—it’d be so much easier to track them here.” She clicked open another page. “And if you were serious about inviting guests to help with harvest, they can sign up for that here too.”

“But . . . but why would you . . . how . . .” He was speechless again. Just like that night in the treehouse. Was that a logo at the corner of the screen? A graphic of a house, ocean waves behind it, Muir in scripted font in front of it.

“I built a site for my friend’s bakery recently, and the restaurant where I work, too. My one year in college was good for something, at least.”

“Syd, I . . . thank you. But you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to. You’ve all been so welcoming. This is a small thing I could do to say thank you.”

They hadn’t all been welcoming. Not at first. Lilian still hadn’t warmed up to her. “This isn’t a small thing.”

She swiveled in the desk chair and stood. “Well, it’s like I said the other night, you need to let other people help. This is what I could do to help. You know, since I’m still not up to milking Melba.”

He shouldn’t do it. He really shouldn’t do it.

But he couldn’t stop his hand from lifting, his fingers from brushing the flour from her hair.

Until her look of surprise brought him to his senses. “Uh, sorry . . . flour. In your hair.”

“Oh.” She took a step back, gave a nervous laugh.

Stupid, Neil. What in the world had possessed him? He needed Lilian in this moment, barking no-nonsense orders and telling him not to stare. Say something.

But Sydney came to the rescue first. “By the way, I thought of something else we could add to the website.”

Was there an airiness to her voice or was he only imagining it?

“Maggie told me this old Muir Harbor legend yesterday while we were baking. I think we should offer nighttime hayrides or seaside walks or something and we could tell that story. Make it kind of eerie and fun.”

“That’s what we should do, should we?”

She blinked. “Oh. Oh, I mean you, of course. It was just an idea. Just a thought. Anyway, I guess I better clean up before we go, too, since apparently I have flour all over me.” He definitely wasn’t imagining the blush tinting her cheeks.

At least now he wasn’t the only one off-kilter. “I call the bathroom first. Try not to walk in on me.”

“Very funny, Neil MacKean.”

If not for the fact that at some point tonight, Wilder Monroe would be showing up with a man who may or may not be her uncle, Sydney might find herself enchanted by the Muir Harbor Autumn Market.

The air, startlingly warm for the last weekend in October, smelled of cinnamon and popcorn, and the strains of “Goodnight, Ladies” from the trio of fiddlers in the gazebo filled the town center, along with the buzz of a growing crowd.

What had been an empty stretch of grass when she’d been in town earlier this week was now lined with booths and tables, all crowded with people. Paper lanterns hung from the branches of every tree in the circular lawn, promising bubbles of light once the sun finally set.

But as of now, it still lingered in the horizon, the sky a show of pinks and purples that reflected in the glass windows of the buildings surrounding the town center.

She’d spent the past three hours following Lilian’s instructions, first organizing and arranging their stand, one of the largest at the center of the market, and then assisting customers as they picked out and paid for items.

A woman she recognized perused the array of jams and jellies and baked goods arranged at the front of their counter. Mason jars filled with dried wildflowers and the last of the season’s produce from Lilian’s garden—a few pumpkins and a slew of various varieties of squash—festooned their stand with color.

“I think I’ll take this pie.” The woman’s bottle-blond hair peeked out from the burgundy scarf she wore over her head and tied under her chin.

Patti Brighton-Smythe. The wig lady. “Oh, you picked a good one. Maggie just made that one this morning.”

“Well, then, I will buy it and not even comment on the price increase.”

Lilian’s snort sounded behind her.

Patti lifted both penciled brows. “Lilian Muir, you missed the Thanksgiving committee meeting on Thursday.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Brighton-Smythe. Work.”

“I suppose you haven’t given any more thought to hosting the holiday dinner?” Patti Brighton-Smythe—why was it impossible to think of her by anything other than her full name?—handed Sydney a twenty-dollar bill.

Sydney passed the money to Lilian and received a look of vexation in return. Only, for once, she wasn’t on the receiving end of Lilian’s annoyance. Actually, not once this whole evening had Lilian appeared put out with her. She’d almost seemed grateful for the help.

Neil certainly had been. He’d taken off a few minutes ago to find Indi, see if she needed any assistance at her stand. But he’d thanked her no less than three times in the past couple of hours, even complimented the way she’d arranged their wares.

“Hey, Syd.” Wilder strode up behind Patti Brighton-Smythe. She handed the woman her two dollars in change, then took a deep breath. Lifted her gaze.

Wilder read the question in her eyes. “He’s waiting for us. Over by the gazebo.”

She turned to Lilian, who nodded and waved them on. “Neil will be back soon.”

Okay. Okay. Time to do this. She moved out from behind their stand, glanced up at Wilder. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“Other than that phone call the other day and a quick greeting just a minute ago before I came to fetch you, no. I’d like to think I’m good at reading people, but I can’t get a pulse on the guy.”

Sydney fell in step beside Wilder as he veered around the line extending from a booth with a homemade sign displaying crooked letters. Lottie’s Moon Punch.

“Did Lil or Neil warn you about the moon punch? Don’t try it unless you’ve got the constitution of a sailor.”

“Spiked?”

“Try doused.” He steered her behind the gazebo.

“So what exactly are we hoping to get out of this conversation with CarleeAnn’s stepbrother?” Who might be her uncle. Who might be no relation at all.

“My hope is that seeing you will jog something in his memory. Or it’ll further cement the theory that CarleeAnn never had a child of her own.”

“Even if she didn’t, that doesn’t guarantee I’m Diana Muir’s daughter.”

She didn’t miss the tic in Wilder’s jaw. “No, but it’s a better lead than we’ve ever had before. I’ve followed up on every trail my dad ever tried. I’ve attempted to put a name and a face to the man Diana was seen with at the pub before she disappeared. I’ve tried to pinpoint where Diana was when she was gone—we know she was in Atlanta at one point, but that’s all we know. I’ve tried to puzzle together what drew her back to Muir Harbor the weekend of the accident. All to no avail.” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “The connection to CarleeAnn—at least it’s a new thread to tug on.”

He stopped near a towering tree, its burnt amber leaves lit by the sun, and pointed. “That’s him.”

She followed his gaze to where a man sat at a picnic table—alone, hunched, wearing a baseball cap and an unzipped hoodie. Fingers curled around a red plastic cup, he stretched one leg to the side, foot wiggling impatiently.

Wilder tapped her elbow. “Shall we?”

She caught a whiff of the homemade pretzels from a stand nearby as they moved.

“Creighton, thanks so much for taking the time to meet with us.”

The man stood as Wilder extended his hand, and they shook. Sydney followed suit, offering what was most likely too wan a grin. He might be family. She should be filled with anticipation.

But she just couldn’t shake it—the unreasonable hope that he wasn’t her uncle. That the woman she’d met in that hospital room six years ago, emaciated and raspy-voiced, wasn’t her mother.

“At least I did the right thing. Leaving you . . . at least I did that.”

Would those words lose their sting if she discovered the one who’d uttered them hadn’t had any claim on her in the first place?

Creighton zipped up his hoodie before resuming his place, his curious gaze roving over Sydney. “So, you might be . . . my niece.” His look said he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Weird, I know. We’re not actually that far apart in age.” Not with him being so much younger than CarleeAnn.

Wilder sat across from Creighton and motioned for Sydney to lower next to him. “As for whether you’re related, we’d hoped you might be able to shed some light.”

“I thought you said my sister gave her up for adoption?” He flicked one hand toward Sydney. “That would seem to indicate . . .” He shrugged. “Look, we weren’t a real close blended family. Even when CarleeAnn was living at home, we didn’t see a whole lot of each other. By the time I was walking and talking, she was a teenager—always out with friends and whatnot. And then she went to college and then . . .” Another shrug.

Sydney peered at the man’s face, looking for anything that hinted at a family connection. But no, even if they were connected through his stepsister, they wouldn’t share physical similarities. “Wilder said your sister dropped out of college during her first semester. Did she come home at all after that?”

Creighton’s nose scrunched. “I don’t think so. If she did, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.”

Wilder leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But the weekend of Diana Muir’s accident—she was in town then?”

Creighton nodded. “That, I do remember. They’re kind of tied together in my head. Everyone heard about the accident.”

“And what else do you remember about that weekend?” Wilder prodded.

“I remember being sent to bed early. I remember yelling—my mom, my stepdad, and CarleeAnn, downstairs.” He looked away. “Weirdly, I . . . I think I remember CarleeAnn coming into my room later. It’s blurry. I was only seven then. But I’m pretty sure she kissed my forehead and then . . . well, she was gone the next morning.” He rubbed one palm over the back of his neck. “And, um, that was the last time I ever saw her.”

But why? If there was anything at all to Wilder’s theory, if CarleeAnn had somehow been in Diana’s car during the accident—or happened upon it or had even gone looking for it—and if she’d found Diana’s toddler still alive, why wouldn’t she have gone straight to Maggie? To her own parents? To the police, if nothing else.

Or if there was nothing to Wilder’s theory, if CarleeAnn had had a baby at eighteen or nineteen, why not take her home to her family? What had led her to Illinois?

Why never return to Muir Harbor?

Too many questions and they were decades old. What were the chances of answering any of them so many years later?

“Do you remember if your sister ever had a boyfriend?” Sydney asked. “Maybe someone named JP?”

Another shrug. Another shake of his head. “Sorry, no.”

“Did your parents ever say anything about her whereabouts? Talk to you about where she was? Why she didn’t come home?”

Creighton studied her again, perhaps looking for a hint of the older stepsister he remembered. “Not really. I heard Mom on the phone with her once—at least, I think it was her. Mom was crying. But mostly, they didn’t talk about her. And then Mom got sick and my stepdad had to quit his job so he could care for her. We moved to D.C. to be closer to her specialist.”

Had CarleeAnn ever even known that? Or had she been cut off completely?

Wilder laced his fingers on the table. “Creighton, were your parents the kind of people who . . . that is, if they’d found out their daughter had gotten pregnant out of wedlock, would that have been enough for them to become fully estranged from your sister?”

“I mean, I’d like to think not. No, we weren’t necessarily close-knit but it’s not like they were cruel. I should’ve asked more questions, I guess. But you know how it is when you’re a kid. You just kind of accept things. And then I was a teenager and all I cared about was baseball. Until Mom died and . . .” His palms drifted open. “I always knew I had a stepsister out there somewhere, but . . .”

Pain inched over his face. Not only pain—guilt. And Sydney could see what this was doing to him—dredging up old confusion, creating new hurt. Making him question his parents’ character, feel culpable for his sister’s absence. “You were only a young boy. It wasn’t your job to have all the answers.”

He nodded. “Just so I understand, you thought my sister was your birth mother but now you’re doubting it?”

Not until a week ago. Not until Wilder Monroe had come crashing into her world. And Maggie had welcomed Sydney into hers.

Wilder answered for her. “Maybe you’re too young to remember, but Diana Muir and your sister were childhood friends—best friends. They both returned to town the weekend of Diana’s accident. It’s a loose connection but—”

“Wait, you’re not saying CarleeAnn had anything to do with that accident, are you?”

Sydney sucked in a breath. That thought had never even entered her mind. But one look at Wilder told her the same wasn’t true of him.

He spoke slowly. “There was another car in that accident. That’s never been in question. But the other vehicle wasn’t found.”

Creighton jerked to his feet, yanked his hat off his head. “It’s one thing to intrude in my life asking questions about a sister I barely remember and her baby that may or may not exist. But then to insinuate . . . no.” He stuffed his cap back into place. “I think I’m done with this conversation.”

Wilder stood. “Creighton, I’m sorry but—”

“No, I’ve had enough.” His focus wrenched to Sydney. “If it turns out . . . if you and I are . . . look, I don’t know what exactly you want from this, from me. But I’m probably not cut out to be a doting uncle even if we are related.”

“That’s not what I—”

He twisted before she could finish her sentence and stalked away.

Wilder released a sigh. “Not exactly how I foresaw that going.”

Sydney’s legs were shaky as she stood. “And how exactly did you think it was going to go? You all but accused his sister of being involved in a hit-and-run or . . . or worse. Causing an accident and then running off with Diana’s baby. What, do you think she kidnapped me . . . the baby?”

“I didn’t say anything like that.” Wilder palmed both cheeks. “But I’ve been doing my homework, Syd. I found a couple of women who were in the same residence hall as CarleeAnn during her short time in college. She was big into the party scene. One of them remembers her getting high.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Do you know what she died from?”

Of course she did. She’d found her. Visited her.

Opened a door she later wished she’d left closed. “Acute kidney failure. She was only forty-three.”

“Acute kidney failure caused by more than two decades of hard drugs and alcohol. If she was already mixed up in a bad scene when she was nineteen, then I don’t think it’s such a stretch to think that if she was there the night of the accident, she could’ve caused or at least been involved in that accident. Might’ve left out of fear of getting in trouble.”

Might’ve taken Diana’s daughter with her.

She could only stare at him, no words, no way to purge her mind of the memories clogging it now. The sight of CarleeAnn in that hospital bed, bruises under her eyes, IVs taped to both hands. The smell of the sterile room. The thumping of her heart when she’d walked in.

Then the splintering. “At least I did the right thing. Leaving you . . . at least I did that.”

The trio of fiddlers had moved on to some other upbeat tune now, but it grated against her nerves. And the smell of homemade pretzels no longer made her stomach gurgle. So many people . . .

“I need a minute, Wilder.” More than a minute. She needed space. She needed something, anything, to make sense.

She needed Maggie sitting next to her, assuring her the mess of the past couldn’t reach her now.

But that was the thing. It already had.

There was something satisfying about watching Indi man her store’s booth. Pride, that’s what it was. His youngest sister had made a success of her business.

But there was some relief mixed in, too, with what he was feeling now as he watched her barter with a customer over an antique handheld mirror. He’d been worried about Indi ever since Tuesday night, but tonight she was in her element. She passed the mirror to her customer and turned to Neil, smile wide as she held up her payment. “How about that? A crisp fifty-dollar bill.”

“Impressive.”

She smoothed the bill atop the others in her metal lockbox. “Lilian really needs to get over the idea that haggling is uncouth. She could be raking in more at the farm stand.”

Neil would be happy as long as they took in enough tonight to pay to fill the propane tank this winter. He could almost always count on proceeds from the Autumn Market to cover that, though he felt bad that Maggie had done the bulk of the baking and preserving and canning that made it possible to have a profitable booth. Of course, Lilian’s produce helped, too. And Indi’s pressed wildflowers.

All he’d done was make the wooden Muir Farm sign that hung at the back of the booth.

“You don’t have to do everything on your own, Neil. You’ve got this amazing family. Let them help you.”

He’d been playing and replaying Sydney’s words all week.

But Lil and Indi shouldn’t have to help him keep the farm afloat. They had their own careers, their own lives. And Maggie had given him so much through the years, imaginably more than most others would for the orphan grandson of a long-ago friend.

Things could’ve turned out so differently for him. He could still be there. Back in Edinburgh. Unwanted by his only remaining family. If not for Maggie, he might be . . .

Like Sydney. Alone.

“Earth to Neil.” Indi waved her hand in front of his face. “I should send you back to Lilian. For Sydney’s sake, if nothing else. She’s not used to our sister’s bossiness the way we are.”

From what he’d seen so far tonight, Sydney could handle Lilian’s demeanor just fine. He might’ve felt a tingle of pride at that, too.

“Before you go, though—” Indi reached into the lockbox, pulled out a stack of bills, fingered through them. Held them toward him. “My first payment. I owe you, Neil. I’ve owed for four years.”

He held up both palms. “Nope.”

“You can’t keep refusing to let me repay you.”

“Your second store isn’t even a year old. I know it hasn’t been easygoing since opening day. Use it toward that.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing around her face, exasperation written in her frown. “Neil—”

“It wasn’t a loan, sis. It was an investment.”

“Then you should have a cut of the store’s profits.”

He placed his palms on her shoulders the way he used to when she was eight and struggling with reading. When she’d get so frazzled trying to study at home that she’d jump up from the living room floor and declare she was giving up. And he’d stand in front of her, hands on her shoulders to still her, and talk her through word after word.

“It wasn’t an investment in the business, Indi. It was an investment in you. And the way I see it, it’s paid off a hundred times over.”

Gratitude filled her green eyes. Tears, too. And then, “Drat you, Neil.”

He dropped his hands. “Um, excuse me?”

“I’d completely convinced myself it was the right thing to do—not telling you. I just wanted to save you the extra stress and I figured the guilt of not saying anything was worth it. Then you go and say something so nice and all of a sudden, I feel like a heel.”

“What didn’t you tell me?”

She whirled away from him, stuffing her wad of cash back in the lockbox. “Tuesday night. When the goats got out.”

“Oh, that. You can save the confession. I kind of already assumed you were the one who—”

“But I wasn’t. I know I latched the gate after feeding them. And even if I hadn’t, that wouldn’t explain Melba wandering around the grove and the chickens scattered all over the place.” She shook her head. “Plus, I think I saw footprints. It was dark, but . . . I’m pretty positive someone was on our land and purposely let the animals out.”

Footprints. Again. “And you’re just now telling me?”

“I told you—I was trying to save you the stress. I figured it was a bored teen looking for some amusement.”

She was probably right. ’Least, he hoped she was. But the last thing they needed was a prankster. What if someone found the treehouse, decided it would be fun to escalate from unlatched gates to vandalism?

“I shouldn’t have told you. Your forehead lines are showing.” Indi let out a puff of air. “But it’s hard not to tell you things.”

If only he didn’t have the opposite problem. For one split second, he almost considered taking Sydney’s advice. Telling Indi about the broken equipment, the farm’s financial struggles. But then she’d probably try to shove every dollar in her lockbox at him.

“Thanks for telling me.” He gave her a quick side-hug. “You’re right—probably just a kid out on a lark.”

But as he left her booth and made his way through the maze of stands toward the center of the square, he couldn’t shake it—the sense that too many things were happening at once. The harvester, the generator, the animals . . . not that any of it was related, but . . .

They weren’t related, right? Of course not. Old equipment broke. It happened. Just because two vital pieces of machinery bit the dust in one week’s time didn’t mean anything. He paused near the gazebo, squeezed his chin, and looked to the sky. The half-circle sun wasn’t doing much to light the landscape any longer, but the lanterns hanging from tree branches and streetlamps covered the square in a glow.

When he lowered his gaze, it landed on Sydney, as if drawn to where she sat at a table, shoulders slumped. What was she doing there alone? Where was Wilder? Had they already met up with that Creighton guy?

On impulse, he beelined back to the farm booth. Ah, that answered the question of Wilder’s whereabouts. He’d taken Sydney’s spot behind the stand. Bet Lilian was none-too-pleased about that. But he wasn’t sticking around to find out.

He reached for the item he’d tucked behind a basket at the back of the booth and ducked away before Lil or Wilder spotted him.

He reached Sydney in seconds. Wait, was she nursing a red cup? Oh, for Pete’s sake, had none of them remembered to warn her about the moon punch? “Sydney, don’t drink the punch.”

Oh. Now he saw what he hadn’t from a distance. Red-rimmed eyes. A mark on her bottom lip where she must’ve bit down. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “Why do you have that?”

He held it up. “I paid for it fair and square. Just felt like if it was really the first pie you’ve ever made, you should at least get to try it.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Why in the world are you being so nice to me? You didn’t even want me here. And you were right. It’s all so much messier than I thought. I’ve been here almost a whole week and we’re nowhere closer to answering anything and the longer I stay, the more it’s going to hurt Maggie. It’s what everyone’s thinking.”

Sydney lifted her cup, but he intercepted it before she could take a drink. “Oh no, you don’t. That stuff’s lethal.” At least it didn’t look like she’d taken more than a sip or two so far.

He dumped the punch in the grass and tossed the cup in a trash bin, then reached for her hand and towed her to her feet. “Come with me.”

“Come where? To do what?”

“To eat this pie, of course.”

When had it become second nature to follow Neil with no clue where he was leading her?

Through a veiled grove on a cool morning. Across a pitch-black field at night.

And now, away from the lights of the town square. “Why couldn’t we eat the pie back at that picnic table?” Did Neil realize he still held her hand?

And how had he managed to turn up just when she’d needed someone? The moment she’d sent Wilder away after that flop of a conversation with Creighton, the emotion had slammed into her.

More than that, the unforgiving truth. The possibility that a week from tomorrow, she might go back to Illinois without one single answer about her past.

Neil tugged on her hand. “Got somewhere better in mind.”

What else was she supposed to do other than let him pull her along? The music of the market faded as they crossed the cobblestone street, rounded a corner, and passed the First State Bank, down another block . . .

Her eyes widened as the view unfolded in front of her. The ocean—but not as she’d seen it before. Streetlamps and port lights lit up the harbor, dots of yellow and white rising and falling in the blue-black water. Boats of every shape and size crowded together around a series of docks that lined the waterfront.

“I guess I see where Muir Harbor gets its name.”

“We’re not a huge industrial port like some. Though we get a fair amount of trade boats and fishermen in our waters, and there’s a nice-sized lobster farm about a mile up the shore.” At some point on their walk, Neil had released her hand, but he stood close enough now that his shoulder brushed hers as he pointed. “That’s the dock we want.”

She followed him down the pier and onto a wobbling wooden dock surrounded by smaller boats. He pointed again, this time toward a boat with The Marilyn painted in hunter green on its hull.

“It’s Wilder’s.”

Ah. Wilder Monroe. “As in Marilyn Monroe. Does he live on that thing?”

Neil nodded. “Most of the time. Now you see why he hangs around the house so often. Sometimes when your room’s empty, he even stays at the house.”

Her room.

“He claims he loves living on the water—it’s how he grew up, just him and his dad—but I think every once in a while he appreciates a bed that doesn’t sway at night.”

“We’re going out on it?”

His mischievous grin did something to her insides, sent warmth feathering through her that only intensified when he grabbed her hand again, leading her onto the wobbling deck and over the edge of the boat.

Once on the boat, he handed her the pie and ducked under a small door, returning in seconds holding up two plastic forks. From there, he steered her up the ladder to a deck at the top of the boat.

She paused at the top of the ladder. “I’m still not sure what we’re doing here.”

That grin again. “The pie, lass.” He retrieved it from her hands, then lowered to the deck floor, crossed his legs, looked up at her. “Don’t make me eat the whole thing myself.”

“We’re going to eat straight from the dish?” She dropped down across from him.

He tucked a fork straight into the center of the pie, came up with a bite. Held it toward her. “Too many questions. Not enough eating.”

Well, then. She took the fork. As her mouth closed around the bite, her eyes shuttered too. Heavenly. The berry flavor burst on her tongue, the crust buttery and flaky. “Oh my word, I’m an amazing baker.”

At Neil’s laughter, its perfect timbre familiar by now, she opened her eyes. A faint red tinged his cheeks and his nose. He’d shaved yesterday, she’d been startled to notice. Even more startled by the dimples on both sides of his mouth. How was it those twin dimples somehow did him even more favors through his thin five-o’clock shadow tonight?

Stop staring. “Fine, Maggie’s the amazing baker. I’m just really good at following her recipe and obeying her instructions.”

“No, credit where credit’s due. You did the work. And this is delicious.” He dug in for another bite before holding the pie plate toward her.

Her hair tangled in the wind, but she made no attempt to catch it and pull it back. Just swallowed another bite and went in for more. “I guess you probably want to know how the conversation with CarleeAnn’s brother went.”

“Only if you want to tell me. Although, fair warning, Indi says it’s hard not to tell me things.”

Those crinkles at the corners of his eyes—maybe even more charming than the dimples. Or how steadily he was shoveling in bites of the pie. Her pie. And it just spilled from her—the whole story, every piece of the encounter with Creighton. Every doubt it’d planted in her mind.

“I don’t know, Neil, I was just sitting there thinking no matter which woman is my mother—either way, they’re both dead. And nobody knows any JP, and now Wilder’s talking about drugs and the accident and maybe CarleeAnn actually kidnapped me and . . . I gave myself two weeks to come here and get answers but I’m honestly beginning to think there aren’t any answers to be had.” Oh goodness, she could feel tears again, pricking the backs of her eyes.

But she wouldn’t cry again. Not in front of Neil. Not when she wasn’t the one who would end up hurting the most at the end of this. Maggie.

She blinked and lifted her eyes to Neil. “Why’s she doing it, Neil? Why’s Maggie still searching? Why’s she so willing to bring a stranger into her house and invest and give of herself when . . . when there’s no guarantee she’ll ever get anything more than pain and disappointment in return? She already has you and Lilian and Indi.”

Neil looked away. He had stopped eating at some point during her retelling. A quiet moment passed as his gaze wandered into the distance, moonlight tracing his profile. “Because that’s what love does.”

He said it so quietly she wasn’t even sure she’d understood him correctly. “Hmm?”

“It’s something Maggie said earlier tonight,” he murmured. “About pie, actually.” He turned back to her, slid the dish in between them out of the way, and scooted an inch closer, their knees almost touching. “I think Maggie would say that’s what love does. It keeps hoping even when the answers don’t come easily. It invites strangers in. It doesn’t give up. Love keeps searching.”

The boat’s gentle sway gradually stilled her distraught spirits. More, the impact of Neil’s words. “Like in the Bible. The story of the shepherd going after the one lost sheep.”

“She’d be happy you know your parables.” He looked to the sea again. “I don’t think I realized until just now how strong Maggie is. She has more love to give than anyone I’ve ever met.”

One quiet moment slipped into the next, stars like diamond studs peeking one after another through the sky’s canvas of velvety black.

“How’d you come to live with Maggie? If you don’t mind sharing . . .”

“Maggie had a pen pal from Scotland when she was young—my grandma. They stayed friends through the decades, such close friends that my grandparents would visit her in the States every other summer or so. They took me for the first time when I was five.” He looked to Sydney. “My parents died when I was a baby—plane accident.”

“Oh, Neil, that’s . . . awful.”

“I know, though I don’t have any memories of them. My grandparents raised me and that’s how I first knew Maggie, as Grandma’s friend from across the Atlantic. But then Grandpa died when I was twelve and Grandma when I was thirteen. My aunt and uncle were named my guardians, but, uh . . . taking in a teenager hadn’t really been in either of their life plans.”

He said it all in such a detached way, almost indifferent. But it had to have been a painful time in his life.

“Anyway, the summer after I went to live with them in Edinburgh, Maggie emailed my aunt and explained her connection to my grandparents and invited us for the summer. My aunt flew over with me. Then she flew back without me.”

Something—not a frown, but not quite a grin—passed over his face. “The funny thing is, I always got the feeling Maggie knew I’d be staying. To this day, I don’t know how she and Aunt Irene came to the decision. I just know I’m glad they did.”

“But Maggie never formally adopted you. Your last name . . . not Muir like the girls.”

The indifference returned to his face, but this time it seemed forced. Instead of replying, he let out a sharp breath and then surprised her when he stood. “We should probably get back.”

“Oh. Okay.” Had she said something wrong? He leaned to retrieve the pie dish, wrapped both forks in a napkin, kept his gaze away from hers. “Neil, if I—”

“You’re wrong, by the way.”

She rose slowly. “What?”

“You haven’t brought pain and disappointment to Maggie.”

Now she was the one to exhale, more relieved than she should be when his eyes finally connected with hers.

“She spends so much time in that house alone while the girls and I are off doing our thing. But not this week. It’s not pain and disappointment you’ve brought to Maggie. It’s joy. And it’s time the rest of us start helping both of you find your answers.”