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transpired during the last month of her twenties. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He didn’t need to know any more than she was willing to tell him. “I’m here to sell the cottage,” she said matter-of-factly.
    The anger that had been evident on his face deepened, and the softness was now gone completely. “You're getting rid of it?” he asked, his green eyes shooting daggers at her. His face was flushed, his jaw set in a rigid line.
    The cottage had belonged to Pete’s grandparents. But now that Anne was gone, and Hugh was living with Pete, she didn’t know why he cared one way or the other about that cottage. Especially since she’d heard from her mother that he had an amazing house he'd restored himself, right on the water and not far from her own childhood home.
    “Yep.”
    “Why? Isn’t it good enough?”
    This wasn’t about the cottage. “Pete,” she took in a breath, trying to decide how to start. Her arms were crossed around her body, and anyone looking would think she was cold, but it was really an effort to keep herself from trembling. She felt as if she’d fall apart if she let go.
    “You waltz back into town like you own the place, with your,” he swung his finger up and down in the air at her, “high and mighty, too-good-for-this attitude. You show up just to sell off the cottage, fluff out your feathers. Well, I don’t care about your wealth or all the airs you’re putting on. None of us care.”
    Libby opened her mouth to retort, but the words weren’t there. She could feel the sting of tears, but she wasn’t about to let them show. Irritation burned in her stomach. She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. What did he know?
    The two ladies in the shop window were talking to each other, their knobby fingers pointing in the direction of Pete, and Libby felt like she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She’d lost everything, and now Pete was making a show of her poor choices for everyone to see. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands trembling. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said through clenched teeth.
    “Oh, yeah. I forgot. We’re not smart enough in this insignificant town to understand anything.” He took a step back, his eyes still on her. Then, without another word, he walked around the front of his car, got in, and sped away.
    Libby stood still for a moment, shock and confusion swimming around inside her.
    The light turned green and a few more cars passed, bringing her back to reality. She went into the market and tried to avoid the curious glances of the women in the window, who were now following her every move, their gazes burning into the back of her.
    “That’s Celia’s daughter,” she heard one of them whisper before saying something else that she couldn’t hear. Libby’s mother had made her thoughts about the town quite clear, while Libby was growing up, and she’d been sure to let everyone know Libby’s plans for the future. All those carefully executed plans had come crashing down, and Libby felt like it was her failures that everyone saw when they looked at her. She continued walking past the counter and into the bathroom where she finally allowed herself to cry.

Chapter Four
    O nce she’d gotten herself together, Libby walked the few shady blocks from the market toward Jeanie’s house, shaking her head at how small a block in this little town was compared to the city blocks she used to walk in New York. She’d heard once that about twenty New York blocks equaled a mile. The entire width of White Stone seemed to equal a mile. The Maple trees that lined the sidewalks had grown in her absence, casting dark, thin shadows toward her destination.
    With a rolled white paper River Market bag in her hand, containing muffins bigger than a grown man’s fist, she took in the fresh, salty air. She knew that the other women would show up with dishes of breakfast casserole wrapped in warming blankets that they’d