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you want to buy the place?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    Why? Wasn’t it obvious? “This is home now.”
    “Is it? I mean, I know you like it there, but geez, Lyddie. Do you really want to tie yourself to a place where they call you the Young Widow Brewster?”
    Oh. That.
    “Not everyone says that.”
    “But they think it,” Zoë pointed out, and Lyddie realized that what had intrigued her most about J.T. was the way he’d talked to her. There’d been none of the deference that characterized so many of her interactions with her fellow residents. Other than his brief condolences, there had been no mention of Glenn, no pity in J.T.’s gaze. It had been, well...refreshing.
    Still, even if she sometimes felt a bit stifled by the way people dealt with her, she couldn’t discount the way she and the kids had been embraced by the town. “This is a good place. The kids need to be here.”
    “That’s debatable. Sara seems awfully excited about coming here for the summer.”
    “Sara is fourteen. Of course she wants to get away, it’s part of the adolescent code.”
    “Are you sure that’s all it is?”
    The question was so un-Zoë, so very much like something her mother-in-law would say, that Lyddie had to laugh. “Did Ruth pay you to do this?”
    “Oh, my God. You mean Ruth and I actually agree on something?”
    “Not precisely, but...” Lyddie sighed and leaned back until she was flat on the ground, staring at the pink-tinged clouds floating through the darkening sky. “Look, you know why I’m here. I agree it gets a little, um, claustrophobic at times, but everyone is really very nice. Plus it’s the closest I can come to keeping Glenn alive for the kids.”
    “And there’s no other way that could be done?”
    “Not nearly as well.”
    There was a moment of silence, during which Lyddie could easily visualize her sister perched on the edge of her bar stool, one finger twirling her hair while the other tapped against the phone—Zoë’s favorite thinking position.
    “Is he married?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “The landlord. Is he married?”
    “What the heck does that have to do with anything?”
    “Because if he’s married, I can’t tell you to jump him.”
    “Zoë!”
    “Oh, come on, Lyd. You said he’s kind of James Dean–ish, right?”
    Lyddie remembered the shorts, the sass, the smile. The man did have a basic animal appeal. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone who obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about him—a rare find, indeed, in Comeback Cove.
    “I am not going to jump him.”
    “You sure? It would go a hell of a long way toward improving your negotiating position.”
    “Positive.”
    “Then I guess you’ll have to start researching mortgages.”
    The shudder that rippled through Lyddie had nothing to do with the damp ground or the cool breeze coming off the river. Of course she had to get a mortgage to buy the building. It was the only way. She hated the thought of taking on that much debt, but she would do it. Even if it meant working until after she was dead to pay it off.
    Her kids had already lost their father. They weren’t going to lose one of their strongest links to him, too. Not while she had any say in the matter.
    * * *
    L ATE THAT NIGHT , Lyddie stared at the computer, the only light in the darkened den, and tried not to get too depressed as she focused on the sample mortgage payments in front of her. Amazing, how simple squiggles on a screen could generate such worry.
    It hadn’t been like this before, when she and Glenn had bought their house. That research had been accompanied by giggles, nervous excitement and a bottle of champagne.
    This time, each figure she took in seemed more overwhelming than the one before it. It was almost enough to make her seriously consider Zoë’s suggestion that she improve her negotiating position by jumping her landlord.
    Right. And then she would pull a Lady Godiva in the middle of Main Street.
    She minimized the page