“How long before you have to leave?” I ask. Archie is sitting on his skis at the end of the airstrip, waiting for takeoff. We’re down to one plane while Toby overhauls Phil’s old plane—it doesn’t even have seats anymore—and Jonah decides what he wants to do with the insurance money collected from Veronica.

Jonah checks his watch. “An hour.”

“Same here. I promised Muriel I’d be at the Christmas bazaar to make sure everything’s running smoothly.” We’re on the second weekend of the Winter Carnival. Last weekend brought record attendance. I’d like to think it had something to do with the marketing campaign Emily and I launched, targeting radio and news stations between here and Anchorage, tourist companies, schools, markets—basically everyone. We even rallied local celebrities and politicians who were more than happy to attend last weekend’s fireworks display and a fun airshow that Sam’s Fire Boss planes put on, as a tribute to all the hard work of the firefighters this past summer.

Muriel has already confirmed with glee that the community center is getting its new restrooms in the spring. The library may even get the face-lift it so desperately needs.

She also informed me that the head of the planning committee for Anchorage’s Farmers’ Market contacted her to find out which brilliant firm they hired to do their marketing because they want to revamp their summer-long program.

“Mabel say how she’s doin’?” Jonah reaches for his jacket on the hook by the door.

“Yeah. Sales have been steady.” I say this to Jonah but I mean it more for Roy to hear. Mabel and Agnes flew in yesterday to help out. Mabel’s been running the table for Roy’s carvings at the bazaar. “People keep asking her who The Curmudgeon is.”

Roy takes a break from glaring at the level on the countertop to glare at me, before shifting back. “I wish I’d made the bases smaller, so you wouldn’t have any room to sign ’em.”

“Oh, I’d find a way to make it happen.” I wink. “And your website is getting a lot of hits.” I launched The Curmudgeon Carvings without asking a month ago, mainly to showcase his work and to take online orders. Since last weekend, three customers have made purchases. “Someone asked for a custom carving—”

“No custom!” He steps back from the counter, level in hand, seemingly satisfied with his work. As with everything wood-related, Roy has been meticulous with each cut and angle of this interior. I knew he would be when I rolled up to his place a week after Jonah’s crash to ask if he’d be interested in refinishing the inside of his family’s cabin. It was a job I was going to task Steve and his crew with, but my gut told me that given the years of effort and care Roy had secretly put into the place, he might appreciate being the one to help bring it new life.

He seemed surprised to see me that day, and doubtful that I’d actually want to work with him. I assume that’s because of the confession he made on what I can only hope will remain the darkest day of my life.

I’m still trying to figure out why Roy divulged those details in the first place.

For distraction?

To warn me away from him?

But I’m not afraid of Roy. And I haven’t repeated his sins to anyone, not even Jonah, who likely wouldn’t be too keen on this arrangement if he knew.

Roy can’t be called a good man, but I also wouldn’t necessarily call him a bad one. The question of what he deserves for his past crimes isn’t up to me to answer, his punishment not up to me to dole out, especially not when he’s spent the last three decades punishing himself.

All I know is the man Roy is now, and that man was there for me.

And one day, if and when he decides he’d like to reconnect with his daughter, maybe I can be there for him, too.

“You think we’ll be ready to move the furniture in on Monday?” I ask, unpacking the soup thermos for Roy.

“More like Tuesday.” His gaze rolls around the space. “Got a few more things I wanna finish, and then it’s gonna take at least two days to clean up this mess.”

“Cuttin’ it close,” Jonah says.

“We’ll be fine. There isn’t a ton to move in.” A queen bed, a futon, propane appliances and kitchen supplies, and plenty of blankets and decorative touches to make it cozy.

“Still think we should be the ones stayin’ here.”

“Your mom is insisting.” I’ve had a dozen conversations with Astrid since they decided they were coming, and she has made it abundantly clear that Jonah and his stepfather would do best with a lake between them. I have to agree.

I’m also learning where Jonah gets his stubbornness from, and I no longer believe it’s his father. Part of me is dreading the wedding discussions. Between Jonah’s accident, renovating this place, and the planning stages of the cabin we’re building for Agnes and Mabel, we haven’t had time to make any nuptial decisions. Jonah is all for eloping, and I’m beginning to think it’s not a bad idea.

“So, meet you back there?” Jonah gives me a steady look—one that can’t be mistaken, his eyes lingering on my mouth—and my heart skips several beats. His recovery time was long for several reasons.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” I smile softly.

“See ya later, Roy,” he calls on his way out the door, not waiting for a response.

Roy grunts, too busy scowling at a corner in the wall to say more. Not that he’s ever been one for the “hellos” and “goodbyes,” anyway.

“Hey, I was wondering if you’d mind hanging this outside, by the door.” Collecting a nervous breath, I slip out the plaque I picked up from Wasilla this morning and hand it to him. “You think they did a good job?”

He pulls out a cheap pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slides them on. His jaw clenches.

“I got the information from town records.” It took me several calls and an afternoon of digging through archives to find the original homestead filing from 1965, made by Roy’s father—Richard Donovan. It took me another week to track down the names of his late mother and younger brother, because I knew that if I asked, Roy wouldn’t give them to me.

The plaque is modest—cast in aluminum and engraved in acrylic, noting the year the cabin was built and the four family members who first lived here.

I hold my breath.

“Where do you want it?” he answers, his voice more gruff than usual.

“Just outside the door. Wherever you think it’d look best. I trust you.”

His eyes flash to me, and an emotion I can’t read fills them. And then he simply nods.

That’s as much as I’ll ever get from Roy Donovan.

But it’s enough.

I back away, eager to spend time with Jonah before we part ways for the afternoon. “Oh, you wouldn’t happen to have a ten-person, live-edge dining table I could buy off you, would you?” My dining chairs arrived three weeks ago, but I know Roy was working on something for me. I’ve known since the day I showed up at his place to ask him to do the cabin’s interior and I found him in the barn, measuring wood while scribbling notes on the catalogue picture.

His gaze cuts to me before shifting back to his work, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “I think I might.”