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asked.
    â€œI’d hardly call the bungalows shacks , Mother,” she said, choosing to skirt the real issue. “They’re structurally sound and will be quite cozy once they’re restored. In all honesty, I’d like to assist with the restoration if I can. I enjoy do-it-yourself projects.”
    â€œSince when ?” Josephine demanded.
    â€œSince I married Jack,” she replied coolly.
    There was a slight pause. “Yes, Jack brought out a lot of things in you I didn’t know existed.”
    Maisey almost reacted to her sarcasm by saying, “You mean like a backbone?” But her mother was still talking. And, determined to maintain the peace, Maisey stifled that rejoinder.
    â€œYou’re no contractor,” Josephine was saying. “And I’m already paying Raphael Romero. Why would you get involved?”
    â€œBecause I think I’d find it...therapeutic.”
    Her mother waved her words away. “Therapeutic how?”
    Was she serious? “It’ll give me something to concentrate on to get my mind off...the recent changes in my life.”
    â€œSurely you have better things to do,” her mother said. “Why impinge on your writing time?”
    Now wasn’t the ideal moment—if there could ever be an ideal moment—to tell Josephine that she hadn’t been able to produce more than a few words, which she’d edited right off the page. She hadn’t been able to draw, either. Not for months. “I’m sure I can fit everything in.” These days she had nothing but time.
    â€œAt least you get paid for writing. You’ll get nothing in exchange for working on the bungalows.”
    â€œI’m not expecting anything.”
    Josephine’s chin went up as she sank back into her seat. “Except free rent.”
    She just had to make Maisey acknowledge the financial help she’d be receiving. Her mother had inherited a fortune from her father, who’d inherited it from his father. Yet she acted as though she’d earned every penny. “I’m willing to pay rent,” Maisey said. “How much would you like to charge me?”
    Josephine grimaced. “Stop.”
    â€œYou’re the one who mentioned it.”
    â€œIt doesn’t make any sense to go there when you could stay here for free. That’s all.”
    â€œHow could my moving into the damaged bungalows cost you any more than having me move here? They’re empty, aren’t they?” Maisey regarded her mother expectantly. Putting Josephine in a position where she’d have to state her objection in order to get her way was the only effective tool Maisey possessed.
    â€œIf that’s what you want, it’s of no consequence to me,” she said, right on cue.
    After a quick glance at Keith, who was standing by the hearth, Maisey sat down and pretended to take Josephine’s words at face value. But she was more convinced than ever that staying at Smuggler’s Cove, even with Rafe Romero living next door, might just save her sanity.
    There was a slight clatter in the doorway, and a girl in her late teens carried in a tray of small sandwiches, deviled eggs, cookies and tea.
    â€œThank you, Clarissa.” Josephine slid forward to pour.
    Maisey waited until Clarissa had left to question the girl’s identity. “I see you have someone new on staff.”
    â€œClarissa is Pippa’s niece. She’s helping out until Pippa’s well enough to resume her duties.”
    Maisey shot Keith another look. If Pippa was sick, why hadn’t he told her in the car? Pippa, her mother’s most recent housekeeper, had started the year Maisey left, so they didn’t know each other well. They had, however, communicated now and then over the past decade—usually when Pippa sent out invitations to Josephine’s annual Christmas party and Maisey replied with a note expressing her “regret” at being unable