By the way her shrewd gaze flits back and forth between us, I’ll bet she heard the shouting match.

“Hello. Can I help you?” I ask in a forced polite tone.

“You must be Calla.” Her voice is huskier than I expected. “You’re even prettier than the guys said you were.” The moment she smiles—a wide, feature-transforming grin that reaches her gray eyes—I know exactly who she is.

“You’re Toby’s mom,” I say before she can introduce herself. The resemblance is uncanny. And I’m even more embarrassed that she’s a witness to our fighting.

She thrusts out a rough-skinned hand wrapped in bandages. A hand that sees daily manual labor. “Muriel.” She turns to Jonah, sizing him up with a single astute look. “And you’re the pilot.”

“I am. Come on in.” Jonah settles a hand on the small of my back—as if we weren’t just screaming at each other—and holds the door open for her to shimmy through. She heads down the long, narrow hall without pausing to remove her boots, leaving a trail of mud on our freshly finished wood that I’ll have to mop up the second she leaves.

“So, he’s been tellin’ his mom how pretty you are,” Jonah whispers.

I ignore him and move ahead, my anger set to a low boil for the moment.

“You two have been busy.” Muriel surveys our house as she ambles into the kitchen, her jeans rolled at the cuffs to fit her short legs. She seems comfortable in our home, which would make sense seeing as Toby said she was close with Colette. It must be odd, though, to have two strangers invade your friend’s space, especially when that friend died so suddenly. “I’m guessing Phil left you with quite the mess.”

“He didn’t take much with him, that’s for sure,” Jonah confirms.

He didn’t take anything with him, I silently correct.

She shakes her head. “I offered him help but he refused, obstinate old ass. He was never the sentimental one, though. It was all her.” She pauses another moment, lost in thought, and then pulls a page out of her pocket. “Toby said you’re afraid of goin’ out running on your own, so I’ve got here the name of two gals who run on Saturday mornings. Jodi and Emily. They know the area well. Meet ’em outside the Burger Shack at eight a.m. tomorrow. They’re expectin’ you.” She caps that off with a smile that’s so contradictory to her harsh tone.

“Thanks. That’s … nice of you,” I stammer. And presumptuous that I don’t have plans, that I would want to join a running group.

“You can’t live in Alaska and hide inside like a mole. You’ll go mad,” she says matter-of-factly. “How’s your garden lookin’?”

“I … uh … don’t have one yet?”

“Sure you do. That big space with the eight-foot fences out back! It can’t go to waste. You’ve gotta get the soil ready for planting. The days are long but the summers are short.” Her eyebrows arch, as if waiting for an answer.

I can’t help but hear the hidden meaning in her words and that look. If you can’t get over your fear of wildlife and take up gardening, then you may as well reconsider living out here.

“Yeah, we’ve been so busy with the house and the charter business, we haven’t been back there lately.” But do I dare admit to this woman that I have no plans to become a gardener?

“Okay, come on. Let’s go and see what state it’s in.” She marches for the side door, her heavy boots clomping on the floor, leaving more muddy prints.

“Right now?” I peer down at my pajamas. “But I’m not dressed.”

“Who you got to impress? The goat?” She snorts.

“Uh … I …” I’m momentarily stunned, unsure how to respond. But she’s Toby’s mother and one of only a few neighbors, I remind myself. Someone I might need help from in the future. And a woman whose son disappeared five years ago, never to be seen again.

My annoyance softens with that reminder.

I just need to nod and go along with this charade until she’s gone.

She gives Jonah a broad smile. “It was nice to meet you. Make sure you get Toby in here if you have any issues with your planes. He’s the best mechanic around, and I’m not sayin’ that because I gave birth to him.”

“I’m planning on giving him a call in the next few days,” Jonah promises.

“Good. Come on, let’s go, Calla. I haven’t got all day!” She caps off her request with a wave of her hand, one that tells me I’m coming with her whether I like it or not.

I shoot a glare at Jonah—he’s still grinning, amused by Muriel’s stern demeanor or by my visible discomfort over my predicament, or maybe both—and head for my rubber boots.

“There’s a good boy.” Muriel pulls chunks of banana peel from her pocket and tosses it over the fence to Zeke. “You’re looking a little thin. Aren’t your new owners takin’ good care of you?”

Zeke bleats and rushes to gobble it up, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

“Jonah comes out every morning and night to feed and check on him,” I say, a touch of defensiveness in my tone.

“Well, no wonder he’s not eatin’. You know, Zeke doesn’t like men.” Again with that matter-of-fact voice.

“He doesn’t mind being fed by one.” Something tells me my childhood horror stories wouldn’t earn any sympathy here.

She harrumphs, and it could be in agreement or disappointment with me—I can’t read this woman—but then says, “Probably the stress of change. First Colette gone, then Phil, though Zeke never liked …” Her words drift as her eyes go wide, locked on the triangular face watching us from the tiny opening. “Is that a raccoon in your chicken coop?”

My stomach tightens instinctively. There’s no mistaking the displeasure in her tone. “Yes?” He’s taken to his new home. Though he has free range of the entire pen, he usually lingers inside the coop.

“You can’t have a raccoon living in your chicken coop. How are you gonna have any chickens?”

We’re not, I want to say, but admitting that would somehow feel like another strike against me. So, I say the next best thing I can think of because I’m tired of bearing the brunt of Muriel’s disapproval and I’m still angry with Jonah. “Bandit is Jonah’s pet.”

Maybe she’ll scold him, too.

The jerk would probably enjoy it, though.

Another harrumph, and then she continues traipsing through the boggy, brown grass as if this property is her own, leading the way to the spacious clearing and the enormous rectangular enclosure that Phil put at about a quarter acre in size. “That’s your greenhouse.” She points out the small, dilapidated structure on the far end of the pen—the wooden frame missing pieces, the plastic sheeting tattered and dangling. “Bad storm came through and twisted it all up last summer. Never got around to fixin’ it in the fall.” She flips open the lid on a panel next to the gate and flicks a power switch. “This is a voltmeter,” she announces, pulling a black rectangular box from her plaid coat pocket.

“I think I found one of those.” I put it in the hallway closet with everything else that Jonah said we couldn’t throw out, but I have no idea what to do with.