I snort. “That’s one word for it.” By the time I’d given Agnes, George, and Bobbie a tour of the house, and led them out to the garden, Mabel’s fingers were already stained red with berry juice. George and Bobbie continued on their journey, and we spent the afternoon in the kitchen, filling dozens of sterilized jars with Colette’s prized strawberry jam recipe, Muriel instructing through each step. “Anyway, she took me out one day. It’s in surprisingly good shape, for as old as it is.”

Agnes nods slowly. “Sounds like she’s taking good care of you two.”

“She gave me a gun for my birthday.”

“Jonah mentioned.” Agnes’s eyes twinkle with her laughter. “Have you learned how to shoot it yet?”

“No. But I probably should,” I admit reluctantly.

“It would be smart, given where you live,” she agrees. “And I think that rental cabin is a good idea, too. I’m sure lots of people would enjoy it year-round.”

Mabel lets out a playful shriek, followed by a firm, “No!”

“I haven’t heard her like that in a while.” Agnes smiles. But I also note how her eyes gloss over as she regards her daughter.

“Mabel is changing, huh?”

Agnes’s mouth opens but she hesitates for a long moment. “One of her friends died a few weeks ago. He was from a village nearby.”

“How—”

“Suicide.”

My stomach clenches. I’ve never lost anyone close to me that way.

“He was a little older than her. Fifteen.”

“Was he a friend? Or …”

She gives me a knowing look. “I think more, though she wouldn’t tell me. She knows I don’t want her dating anyone yet. She’s too young.”

“How is she taking it?”

“She’s managing. It happens around us, especially in the villages. It happens too much. People are isolated, there aren’t a lot of options. They get hold of alcohol as an answer, even though it’s not sold anywhere legally.” She shakes her head. “This boy had a drinking problem, and I think maybe she’s been drinking with him sometimes. There have been signs and behavior over the last few months …” Her words drift.

Mabel? How did the bubbly, innocent twelve-year-old who chased chickens and took me to pick blueberries last summer change so much in a year?

The quiet on the screened-in porch has shifted to something disconcerting. “You should have told us, Agnes,” I admonish.

“I didn’t want to worry you. You have enough to focus on here. And Jonah, well, I’m not sure telling him is the best idea. He isn’t the most graceful with communicating at times.”

“Yeah. I get that.” He’s liable to yell at her, and where will that get him with a rebellious thirteen-year-old girl?

I watch Agnes closely. I had a feeling she was sugarcoating life in Bangor. I’ve noticed it in our phone calls, when she smoothly diverts the topic away from Aro, away from the new tenant in my father’s house, away from her troubles with raising a teenager. Always away from her, and toward us.

I should have pushed, but I’ve been so focused on us, too.

“Are you happy?” I don’t think I’ve ever asked her that outright.

“I’m …” She frowns. “We’re still trying to find our bearings. Without Wren and Jonah, life doesn’t feel quite alive anymore.” She offers a gentle smile. “But I think this little trip was a good idea for all of us.” She watches the two figures on the lake. “It feels like I have my family back together.”

Family.

Yes. That is exactly what this feels like.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

When I pull up to Roy’s place the next evening, Oscar and Gus charge me with excited barks, giving my pant leg a sniff before darting away to take up their sentry posts. The barn door is open, but the goats bleat noisily inside. Roy must be tending to them in there.

It’s been two days since he left his “apology” on our doorstep. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here tonight, except for the simple truth that I spent all afternoon watching the clock and replaying Muriel’s words from yesterday while internally debating my choices.

And now I’m here.

Instead of seeking Roy out, though, I head straight for the chicken coop, dragging the hose with me. Someone has shoveled out the chicken poop and replaced the pine shavings. I’d like to think it was Toby, but if there’s anyone stubborn enough to attempt that with a collection of broken bones, it would be Roy.

I set to work, cleaning out and refilling the feeders, silently wagering with myself how many eggs I’ll find when I check the roosts.

I sense rather than see eyes on me. When I look over, Roy is standing in the entryway of the barn, a rake in his good hand. His face is still bruised but the purple has faded some, now mottled with hints of green and yellow.

“Toby said you got a new truck,” he calls out, his voice gruff as per usual.

“I did. A Jeep.”

“Why didn’t you drive it here?”

“I don’t want to scratch up the paint.”

He harrumphs but says nothing more about it, disappearing back into the barn.

I finish feeding and watering the flock for the night and then duck into Roy’s house to leave the eggs—six!—along with a plate of Agnes’s roasted chicken, strawberries that Agnes hulled, and the last slice of my birthday cake.

Roy is lugging a pail of milk when I emerge. The barn door has been pulled shut. It appears chores are done.

I head for my truck. “I have a million berries to sell at the farmers’ market tomorrow night, so Toby will be here to help you.” I booked my table this morning. Agnes and Mabel have eagerly signed up to help me.

He frowns and works his mouth as if tasting the words he wants to say before letting them out. “Will you be here in the mornin’?”

I pat Oscar on his head. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” Mabel sleeps until ten and Agnes has no issues entertaining herself. Though, she’s been hinting at meeting the infamous Roy Donovan. I pause. “By the way, I have family visiting from Bangor until next week. If one of them is crazy enough to come here with me, you better be on your best behavior,” I warn with a stare. “Because if you’re a jerk to them? No amount of eggs or wooden jackasses on my doorstep will ever get me back here again.” I climb into the driver’s seat.

“Why’d you come back, girl?” he hollers after me, tilting his head with interest.

What did make me come back?

My pity for the cantankerous bastard who chases everyone away so they can’t get too close?

Or is it my growing curiosity about the man who spent nine days in the woods, keeping Muriel company while she came to terms with the reality that her son was gone?

Or perhaps this has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

Me, sensing that he likes having me around far more than he lets on.

Me, seeing Roy as another monumental challenge in this isolated life, but one that I can overcome.

Me, feeling like, if I can win over the man who keeps reminding me that I’ll never fit in, then maybe I will belong.