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got to be. Ms. Bastian, you make the best chocolate cake in town.” Vaughn kicked the door shut as they guided her into the living room.
    “MaryAnn made it once and it didn’t taste anything like yours,” Sean said.
    “Your wife is a wonderful cook.” Claire unzipped her coat. “You’re smelling chocolate chip cookies. There’s some in the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator.”
    She held her breath while Sean helped her off with her jacket. Once again his fingers burned her flesh wherever they touched. The two men eased her into her flower-patterned chair, placed so she had the best view up and down Broad Street. Then they stood, arms crossed, dripping on her highly waxed floor. Claire could almost see the silence hanging in the air. “My package. Where is it? And my umbrella.”
    “In the car. I’ll get them,” Sean said.
    “You can go now,” she told Vaughn. “I’ll be all right, really.”
    She knew he was reluctant to leave her alone in that big empty house, but he also knew she would insist on it. Vaughn shifted restlessly, putting his hands into, then out of, his pockets. “Are you sure? I can come back…”
    “I’m sure. Really. Thank you for being such a lifesaver.”
    Sean returned. Instead of bringing the package to her, he traipsed down the hall to the kitchen. She stifled a groan thinking about the footprints on her floor. The cookie jar lid rattled and footsteps returned down the hallway. Sean stopped in the living room doorway, three cookies in his left hand.
    “Well, I guess we’ll be on our way.” Vaughn walked to the newspaper rack beside the chair. He picked up the topmost one, took a pen from his pocket and wrote two phone numbers in the margin. “You know to dial 911 if you have an emergency, but here’s my home and cell numbers. Please call if you need anything: a cup of tea”—his cheeks reddened—“help to the bathroom, anything. I’ll stop during my rounds and check on you in a couple of hours regardless.” He laid the newspaper on the small table beside her comfortable chair.
    “Sean.” It was hard for Claire to say his name. He flashed those brilliant blue eyes her way, eyes that had captured several Sackets Harbor’s citizens. “Felicia’s painting is beautiful.”
    He put a finger to the cleft in his chin. “She bought Sunset , right? Yes. It is very nice.”
    “I was wondering where you got it.”
    “At an auction in Boston. Would you want something similar?”
    “Uh, no, thank you.” Claire hoped her face didn’t show the consternation she suddenly felt.
    They left. Finally.
    The cruiser pulled away, sadness clutched her insides. Was Felicia in for a downfall? Would Sean find another a way to screw up Mamie’s future? For now, she shook off worries. There was nothing she could do about any of it right now.
    Claire gazed at the wet spots on her imported Persian rug. Of course, she hadn’t imported it—had bought it used—but preferred to think of it the other way around. She struggled to her feet taking plenty of time. After all, no one was there to see her pain now. The ankle wasn’t broken. To prove it, she leaned heavily on the arm of the chair and flexed the foot in a slow circle. It hurt but moved freely. She hobbled into the hallway and threw a disdainful look at Sean’s trail of footprints. She blew out a breath and, using the wall for support—usually a no-no—made her way to the kitchen.
    The mail and package were on the table. The brown paper was a little spotted but didn’t look soaked through. She shuffled to the sink, ran water into her favorite mug, dropped in an herbal teabag and popped it in the microwave. Her eyes roved back and forth between the digital blue numbers on the microwave and the package on the table. What a blessing credit cards were. You could call or e-mail to order absolutely anything and they sent things out the same day.
    Her plans were finally coming to fruition. The temptation to tear the wrapping off right