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stairway and hall were navy, which should have closed in an already close space. But Caroline had known that between moldings, balusters, and newel posts, the white trim would bring the navy alive.
    A window at the landing three steps up was open, with Master now frozen on the sill, stalking an invisible dove that cooed in the maple’s depth. The living room on her right was also navy, here over peach panels. It had originally been built in the old English style, with front and back parlors, but the walls between the two had long since come down, leaving only striking trim work to mark what had been. Caroline had accessorized the room in burgundy and placed a dining table at the far end. Large and round, it was a magnificent walnut piece—she had made it herself—and was the focal point of the room for many who entered. For Jamie, though, the pi è ce de r é sistance was the swatch of Victorian lace that hung in a frame on the wall. Taken from Caroline’s mother’s wedding dress, it was a Rorschach test of sorts. Jamie had grown up seeing her moods in the lace.
    Rather than confirm turmoil there now, she simply checked to be sure the two ceiling fans were whirring at either end of the room and strode on.
    The kitchen was a sage cubby at the back of the house. High wainscoting covered its modest wall space and was topped by a wide plate rail holding rescued antiques. Though Caroline had added a line of ceiling cabinets, the storage space was sparse.
    Setting her bags on the lone counter, Jamie opened the fridge and stashed what needed chilling. The rest went on the stove simply for lack of space, not that any cooking would be done here today. The room was already warm, and the heat would only rise.
    In anticipation, she turned on the ceiling fan. Then she took a small plate from a glass-front cabinet. The china was hand-painted, though sturdy enough to have survived her childhood with only a single small chip. The plate she held was blue-rimmed with an apple in the center; others beneath it in the stack had different colored rims, different fruits. And oh, the memories served up on these plates—of apple wedges sprouting in eighths from a slicer ( Let’s count, baby, one, two, three ) of pound cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream, of s’mores oozing marshmallow over chocolate over graham crackers.
    Tucking nostalgia back inside, Jamie took a sticky bun from one of the bakery bags, a mini scone from the other, and napkins from the drawer. After refilling the iced-tea glass from the pitcher she had brewed the night before, she tucked a slim package with a red bow under her arm. Unsure, she set it back on the counter. Seconds later, she grabbed it again and headed back out to the porch.
    She reacted more sharply this time to the slap of the screen door. “A pneumatic closer would eliminate that,” she advised, placing the refilled glass on the swing’s wide arm beside Caroline’s phone and bandaged wrist.
    “But I like the sound,” Caroline said without apology. Taking the sticky bun from the dish Jamie held, she bit a pecan from the top. “The slap of a screen door adds something.”
    “Noise.”
    “Flavor. It’s part of what I love about this place. MacAfee Homes builds a great house—we renovate a great house—but recycling and repurposing and replicating, say, period millwork can only go so far in adding character. Character has to mature. It takes years for that.” The love seat shifted when she lowered her legs for Jamie to pass. “I have it here now.”
    Jamie sank down beside her. “Air-conditioning has nothing to do with character. That sun’s heading for brutal today. You need central air.”
    Caroline slid an indulgent glance at the paddle fan whirring softly overhead. After taking a full bite of the bun, she offered one to Jamie.
    Jamie shook her head. Having deprived herself of bacon, she had every intention of eating the scone. How else to deal with frustration? She so wanted to do