Caroline had been busy all week with dual projects—ordering the printed shirts and sourcing the cape fabric, thread, and snaps. She’d gone to the fabricator in Astoria and negotiated a deal to buy a serger and bar tack machine, a cutting machine, and a heat press. They’d thrown in tag piercers and some other gear she’d need to set up shop.

The only problem was, she didn’t have a shop. She was going to need a large workspace for herself and Echo to get the shirts made using the industrial machines and cutting tables.

Finding a place for the support group meeting had been less challenging. There was a community room in an annex next to the police station, which was perfect. She could think of no better place for women who had been involved with violent men. She and her sisters—Georgia had embraced the project with both incredibly competent arms—had stayed up late every night, planning and organizing.

Staying busy helped keep panic at bay.

She reminded herself of that as she drove slowly through the small community of vintage houses, weathered picket fences, spectacular gardens, and oyster sheds. She turned at the mailbox with fading letters—water’s edge. Cypress sentinels lined the drive, and a weather-beaten picket fence, bearded with moss, bordered the lawn. The old painted house overlooked Willapa Bay, the preternaturally calm water mirroring a fringe of forested lowlands. There was a dock and an oyster barn, and another huge barn located across a meadow at the edge of a wooded area.

Oh, the adventures she’d had here, exploring and playing hide-and-seek, dipping a net into the water to see what came up. She remembered wearing old sneakers to keep from cutting her feet on oysters and barnacles in the bay. At certain times of the year, they could find salmon swimming through the forest on their muddy, migratory path. But the greatest adventure of all had been—

“Hey, guys!” Will strode toward her as she parked the car. “Welcome.” He wore lived-in jeans that had faded in all the right places, a denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled back, a bandanna hanging from his back pocket, and a metal tape measure clipped to his belt. He was, as always, a man completely at home in his own skin.

She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, ducking her head to hide a completely uncalled-for blush.

“We come bearing gifts,” she said, getting out of the car and holding out a mason jar. Flick and Addie got out of the back seat and looked around. “My mom’s strawberry jam. First batch of the season.”

Will took it from her. “The first time I met you, you brought your mom’s strawberry-rhubarb jam.”

“Some things never change,” she said, knowing it for the line it was. Nothing ever stayed the same. Yet she couldn’t help being a little surprised that he remembered such a small detail from that day.

He hunkered down to Addie’s level. “You were asleep in the back of Caroline’s car the first time I met you. But the second time . . .” He gave a low whistle. “You turned into Supergirl.”

“What did you do to your eye?” asked Addie, gazing steadily at him.

Caroline was mortified. “Addie—”

“It’s fine,” he said, not looking away from the little girl. “When I was in the navy, I was in an accident and I hurt my eye pretty bad. They had to replace it with an eye made out of acrylic. Sometimes I wear a patch over it like a pirate, but mostly I wear this one.”

“Whoa,” she whispered.

Caroline froze with shock. What the hell? He lost an eye?

Flick pressed close to his sister. “Which eye is it?”

“Which one do you think it is?” Will regarded them placidly, clearly unruffled by their curiosity.

“They look the same to me.”

“They’re supposed to.”

With exquisite gentleness, Addie laid her hand on his left cheek. “This one,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re right. Some people, like you, can tell right away. Most don’t notice.”

I didn’t notice, thought Caroline.

“What do you see when you look out that eye?” asked Flick.

“Enough with the questions,” Caroline said. Jesus Christ, he’d lost an eye.

Will got to his feet. “If I close my other eye, all I see is a dense fog, the kind we have around here some mornings. Fortunately, the other eye sees just fine. Come on inside. Let’s go find Sierra and maybe have a taste of Dot’s jam.”

Like a pair of imprinted ducks, they followed him up the front steps.

Sierra was perfectly outfitted in pale blue cropped jeans and a crisp white top. “Welcome to our abode. I made cookies and lemonade.”

Caroline hadn’t seen Will and Sierra together since the weekend of their wedding a decade ago. One of them knew the reason for that. The other didn’t.

Addie and Flick stuck close to Caroline as they stepped inside. The house was the same rambling Victorian that had seemed so grand to her long ago. Originally built by Will’s ancestor, it had mullioned windows with wavy glass, carved woodwork, a fancy staircase, and a big bay window with a view of the water. The smell of newly finished wood and paint mingled with the warm scent of freshly baked cookies.

“This way to the kitchen,” said Sierra. “Watch your step—it’s a work in progress.”

They made their way to a bright, open kitchen with new cabinets and countertops, and a breakfast nook with a view of the dock and oyster barn. “Have a cookie,” said Sierra, offering a perfectly arranged tray of pecan sandies, black and whites, and oatmeal cranberry cookies with white chocolate chips.

Caroline gave the kids a nod. “When it comes to cookies, Sierra is a pro, because her dad is the pastor of a big church. After services, it’s all about the cookies.”

They looked mystified, and she wondered if she should be taking them to church. Would it help them adjust to their new life?

“She’s right,” Sierra said. “I know at least ten recipes by heart.”

The kids climbed up to the table and helped themselves. “Thank you,” Addie said, and nudged her brother.

He echoed his thanks. Caroline helped herself to a cookie. “Good lord, what did you put in these things, crack?”

“She’s the cookie whisperer,” Will said. He patted his midsection. “Fattening me up.”

Caroline cut her glance away from his well-built form, which showed not an ounce of fat. She wandered over to the kitchen island, currently laden with sketches and swatches of material. “So tell me about this project.”

“Will’s obsessed,” said Sierra. “In a good way. He did most of the work himself.” She gave Caroline a quick tour of the space. “He removed a wall and put up new cabinets and countertops. Remember how old and poky the kitchen used to be?”

Caroline nodded, admiring the bright, clean space. It had been modernized, but still retained the charm of bygone days. “It’s fantastic,” she said. “After living in a tiny walk-up in New York, I feel surrounded by luxury.” What she didn’t say was that back in the city, living in a cramped apartment was a badge of honor for emerging designers. “It’s all so wonderful, you guys. I’m really happy for you.”

I’m really happy for you. One of the great empty phrases used by so many people to hide so many real feelings. Could you actually tie your happiness to someone else’s?

Maybe, she thought, watching Flick finish off a second cookie, an expression of pure bliss on his face. One of the unexpected bonuses of having these kids was that when they were happy, their smiles lifted her heart.

Addie left the table and went to the back door, looking out at the sparkling waters of Willapa Bay. “Are there chickens?” she asked. “Grammy Dot has chickens.”

“No chickens, but this morning, I spotted a robin’s nest with three eggs in it,” Will said. “Want to check it out?”

Addie turned back to look up at Caroline. “Can you come?” she asked softly.

The little girl was understandably tentative about new situations. By contrast, Flick tended to dive recklessly into the unknown. Both children held back from new people—a natural reaction, Joan had told her.

“Here’s an idea,” Caroline said. “We could all go.”

Sierra glanced at her phone and swiftly replied to a message. “Sorry,” she said. “Setting up a meeting.” Then she tucked the phone in her back pocket, grabbing a wide-brimmed straw hat as they went out the back door.

Will strode ahead, his movements loose-limbed and easy, the way she remembered. Always the athlete, comfortable in his own body. The kids tumbled outside, following him across the lawn to a stand of gnarled old rhododendrons. “Let’s be super quiet,” he said to them. “The mama bird spends most of her time on the nest, and we don’t want to disturb her. I need to lift you both up so you can see. Is that okay?”

It was cool of him to ask, Caroline observed. In her crash course on parenting a grieving child, she’d learned that kids, just like any adult, deserved to be asked before you touched them.

They both nodded assent, and in one swift movement, he scooped them both up at the same time, one on each arm.

Caroline must have made a sound, because Sierra nudged her. “I know, right? He likes to show off his Captain America arms.”

He leaned in and said, “The nest is just there, in front of us. The mama bird’s in it.”

“I see her!” Addie said in a whisper. “Flick, do you see her?”