“So? You survived your first day in Alaska well enough?” Agnes asks, her back to me as she inspects a golden chicken sitting in a pan atop the stove, looking fresh from the oven.

“It was touch-and-go for a while there, but yes,” I joke. I spent most of the day updating links on the website and setting up draft posts for Diana so they’re ready for her to add her words. I floated from the duck-infested kitchen, to the painfully bland living room, to the screened-in porch—which could be comfortable enough if not for the piles of clutter and decrepit vintage-style aluminum lawn chairs—and then finally my bedroom, where I ended up drifting off for an hour.

All in all, it was a peaceful yet uneventful afternoon, after a difficult morning.

“I hope you brought your appetite. We’ll eat as soon as the guys get here.”

The guys? “Which guys?” I ask warily.

“Just Wren and Jonah. They should be here soon. Jonah got stuck up near Nome with the fog, but it was beginning to clear when I left. He figured he’d make it back in time.”

“Jonah’s coming, too?” I struggle to hide my displeasure.

Agnes smiles. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

I sigh heavily. Yeah, I’m guessing everything “will be fine” in Agnes’s eyes.

Fucking hell. I can’t get away from this guy.

“Jonah has worked for your dad for over ten years now. He’s like his right-hand man. Does all the risky off-airport landings for the hunters and fishermen, sorts out most of the plane issues. And the customer issues, not that we have that many. Helps Wren make the tough decisions. He’s a good guy, once you see past that hard shell.” She glances over her shoulder at me, her eyebrows arching when she sees the daisies.

“Just something to say thanks. For dinner . . . and everything else you’ve done.”

She smiles wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time anyone brought me flowers. It’s been a while.”

I damn well know Jonah hasn’t. But has my father, ever? Is he the kind of man who would? Have they ever had the kind of relationship where he should?

“Do you have a vase that I can put them?”

“I think I have a tall jar. I’ll have to dig it up. Just leave them on the counter for now.”

Setting the bouquet down, I yank my sleeves up and head for the sink to wash my hands. “What can I help with?” I note that the table has already been set.

Agnes peers at the tall pot that sits on a trivet, and then at me, as if considering. “The potatoes need mashing, if you don’t mind?”

“No problem.” I can’t remember the last time I mashed potatoes. Mom has all but eliminated them from our house, the carbohydrates “devastating” to her waistline. But every once in a while, I come into the kitchen late at night after she’s gone to bed, to find Simon at the table with a bowl of instant mashed and a sheepish look on his face. Where he’s ferretted those packets away, I haven’t figured out yet.

“The masher is over there.” She juts her chin toward a drawer. “And there’s milk and butter in the fridge. Wait, can you have that? Because we can make it without.”

I smile, appreciating her concern and the fact that she remembered. “It’s fine. I’ll skip the potatoes.” I push up my sleeves and set to work. “So, did my dad say anything about bringing my luggage home today?”

“No, but I expect him to. The plane should have arrived an hour ago.”

“Thank God. All my shoes are getting ruined.” I found an old scrub brush under the sink today and spent an hour gently brushing the mud from my wedge heels. I’m afraid it was in vain, though.

Footfalls stomp up the six wooden steps outside then, and a moment later the door flies open.

My stomach tightens automatically as I turn, preparing myself to greet one of two men, both of whom seem to cause me anxiety, for entirely different reasons.

Instead I find a teenaged girl facing me, long, glossy hair the color of espresso pulled into a messy, off-kilter ponytail, her inky black eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Calla! You’re here!” She kicks off her muddy boots.

“I am,” I say warily. She seems to know who I am, and yet I have no idea who she is.

“I was gonna come over last night but my mom said you were tired, and then I stopped by on my way to the farm and Jonah said you were still in town.”

Her mom . . . My gaze flickers to Agnes and then to the dining table, where the four chairs tricked me into not noticing five settings, and then past, to the wall of pictures, to the child’s face that graces more of them than I first realized, and it suddenly dawns on me. “This is your daughter?” Agnes has a child? Did she mention her last night and I missed it, too wrapped up in my own worries?

Agnes smiles. “This is Mabel. She’s a fireball of energy, just to warn you now.”

Mabel’s face splits into a wide grin that rivals her mother’s. Her face is not as round as Agnes’s, I note. But she certainly has the same deeply set, hooded eyes, only larger.

“So, you’re from Toronto, right? That’s so cool! I want to visit Toronto so bad one day. George has been there and he said it’s amazing! I’ve creeped, like, your whole Instagram account. You should be a model. You’re so pretty!”

“Toronto’s great,” I agree, taking a moment to process all that just flew from Mabel’s mouth. She’s definitely not shy, and she talks a mile a minute, in an oddly husky voice for a girl, and with an inflection that’s slightly different from her mother’s.