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Nicholas watched as Seamie ran up the sidewalk with a wooden sword in his hand, startling a flock of pigeons into flight.

The boy, all red hair and freckles, was always bursting with pent-up energy when school let out.

He was a bright, perceptive child, but he struggled with sitting still at his desk.

He lived to climb trees and clamber up rocks in Central Park, and on the rare occasion when he did settle down to read a book, it was always about an explorer.

Soon school would be out for the year, and then he would be off to a sleepaway camp in the Adirondacks. Fiona thought he was too young, but he'd pleaded and begged and nagged until he’d finally worn her down.

“What are you worried about? Are you afraid he won’t like it and will want to come home?” Nick had asked, after Seamie had presented Fiona with a list of all the things he would do without being told to—make his bed, brush his teeth, polish his shoes, take out the rubbish—if she would let him go.

“No, I’m afraid he will like it,” Fiona had replied.

“Last night, he recited the names of all the highest mountains in the world and told me he’s going to climb every single one.

He means it, Nick. The second he finishes his schooling, he’ll set off for parts unknown. Do I have to lose him now, at seven?”

Nick, seeing her distress, had refrained from telling her that she was right—that Seamie would love camp.

Instead, he’d covered her hand with his own and squeezed it.

She had lost too many family members during her young life and had difficulty accepting that her little brother would stretch his wings one day and leave her, too.

That’s why they’d stopped at a hardware store after they’d fetched Seamie from school, and why they were carrying paint cans. Because Fiona didn’t want to lose anyone else.

Three days had passed since Mary had accompanied Milton Duffery to the concert, and Fiona—anxious to learn just how friendly Mary’s new friend was—had found a reason to drop by her uncle’s flat the very next day.

But Mary had taken Nell to the park, Michael had been in an untalkative mood, and neither Alec nor Ian had anything to share about Mary’s outing because she’d told them nothing.

Though Alec did say that he suspected Mary had met Milton Duffery at choir practice, and that this affair might’ve been developing for some time.

“Mary’s no fool, Fee,” Nick said now. “She’ll figure out what we’re up to.”

“She won’t,” Fiona said confidently. “We have the perfect excuse. I’ve come to try out some paint samples and you’re helping me.”

“But the shop doesn’t need repainting.”

“That’s beside the point,” Fiona said. She glanced up ahead and saw her brother about to jump into a puddle. “Seamus Finnegan! Don’t you dare! ”

“It’s meddling,” Nick insisted, as Seamie jumped over the puddle. “Mary and Michael are grown-ups. If something needs to be sorted out between them, they’re the ones who have to do it.”

“It’s not meddling, it’s helping,” Fiona countered.

“It’s finding a way to talk to Mary about her…

about the man…when no one else is around to make things awkward.

She works in the shop most afternoons, Nell will be napping, Alec will be digging in the garden, Ian will be making deliveries, and Michael has an appointment with a real estate agent about a warehouse we’re interested in.

It’s the perfect time to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Duffery. ”

Nick shot her a sideways glance. “I forgot. Meddler is your middle name.”

“They’re our family, Nick,” Fiona said simply. As if those words were enough, as if they explained everything.

They do , Nick thought. They explain her.

Nicholas Soames had never known what family truly meant until he’d met Fiona.

He’d had one, of course—a father and mother, sisters—but for them, love was a shiny gold star to be earned for good behavior.

Fiona had taught him that his family’s kind of love—cold and conditional—was no love at all.

She’d not only saved his life when he’d fallen deathly ill, she’d saved it again when she’d married him in a courthouse wedding to spare him from prison after he’d been arrested on trumped-up vice charges.

She’d fought for him, sacrificed for him, protected him.

She’d taught him that love—real love—is anything but conditional.

Love is ferocious and enduring, and it is not for cowards.

“Now remember, Nick, don’t bring up the outing first thing,” Fiona said as they arrived at the shop. “We have to be subtle.”

“Hi, Auntie Mary! Where’s your new suit?” Seamie bellowed as he opened the shop’s door and ran inside.

“So much for subtlety,” said Nick.

“New suit? What do you mean, laddie?” Mary asked, stepping out from behind the counter to give the boy a hug.

“You have a suiter. Fiona said so.”

Mary tilted her head and regarded Fiona. “Did she now?”

A blush crept into Fiona’s cheeks.

“Will it be nice, your new suit? Will it be blue? That’s my favorite color.”

“Seamie, love, I bet Alec could use some help in the garden,” Fiona said.

Seamie looked from Mary to Fiona to Nick, then shook his head disgustedly. “Why do I always get sent outside when Fee’s the one in trouble?” he grumbled, heading for the back door.

As soon as he was gone, Mary addressed Nick and Fiona, hands on her hips. “And what might you two be shopping for today? Bread? Pork chops? Rumor and innuendo?”

“We’re not shopping for anything, Mary,” Fiona said, feigning innocence. “We came to try out paint samples.” She lifted a paint can high. “I’ve been wanting to change the wall color in this place for months.”

Mary snorted, but before she could say anything further, the shop door opened again, and a man stepped through it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Munro,” he said .

“Why, Mr. Duffery, what a lovely surprise,” said Mary with a smile.

Nick and Fiona spun around so quickly, they smacked their paint cans together, startling the newcomer.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my friends, Mr. Duffery,” Mary said. “Mrs. Fiona Soames, may I present Mr. Milton Duffery? Mrs. Soames owns this shop, together with her uncle. And this is Mr. Nicholas Soames, her husband.”

Nick put his paint can down on the floor. Fiona followed suit.

“A pleasure Mrs. Soames, Mr. Soames,” Milton Duffery said, approaching them.

“The pleasure is entirely ours, Mr. Duffery,” said Fiona, forcing a smile.

Nick reached for Mr. Duffery’s hand, determined to give him the benefit of a doubt, and found himself face-to-face with a portly man of average height, with light brown hair macassared flat to his skull, a wispy mustache, and owlish eyes behind rimless glasses.

Nick guessed he was in his fifties. He wore a three-piece suit of gray worsted, a white shirt with a detachable collar, and a black tie.

A gold watch chain was looped across his vest front.

What Nick could see of his brown leather shoes was buffed to a sheen; the rest was covered by rubber galoshes.

Even though rain was not in the forecast.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Mr. Duffery said, glancing at the paint cans.

“Not at all,” Mary replied. “Mrs. Soames was just choosing colors. She wishes to repaint the walls.”

Milton Duffery looked around the room, frowning. “Yes, I can see why. The current color is quite dingy.” He looked up. “Then again, perhaps that is the fault of the lighting. That is an old gasolier, Mrs. Soames. Replacing it with a new model would brighten the room considerably.”

Fiona winced at the criticism. Milton Duffery didn’t see it, but Nick did, and the goodwill he’d grudgingly extended evaporated.

He picked up his paint can and started to shake it vigorously.

“There is nothing that I would rather do, sir, than rid the premises of an old gasolier,” he said, looking pointedly at Mr. Duffery.

Fiona shot him a cautioning look. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Duffery,” she said, picking up her own can.

“Of course, Mrs. Soames.” He walked toward the counter. Mary was still standing in front of it. “I trust you enjoyed the concert on Saturday evening, Mrs. Munro?”

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but Milton Duffery didn’t give her the chance. He kept right on talking. About the program, and how some find Schubert dull, but that he greatly preferred him to Beethoven, to say nothing of Mozart.

“Windbag,” Nick said, under his breath.

Fiona elbowed him in the ribs.

Mr. Duffery continued his critique by adding that the cellist was not up to par, the violin section’s pizzicato was leaden, and the bassoonist must surely have been suffering from catarrh.

“Pompous ass.”

“I did enjoy the lemon squash we shared afterwards. A bit tart for my taste, I must say, but refreshing nonetheless.”

“ Shared ?” Nick huffed. “A cheapskate, too.”

Fiona pinched him .

Nick had bought two paintbrushes at the hardware store and had stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Fiona pulled one out and walked the length of the shop, searching for a bare patch of wall where she could try out a color. Nick had begun to do the same when Mary stopped him.

“Mr. Duffery, did you know that Mr. Soames is a businessman, too?” she said. “He deals in art.”

“I’m in combinations and hosiery, myself,” said Mr. Duffery, puffing out his chest. “In fact, I’ve just launched a new line of sock garters for men.”

“Have you? How utterly thrilling,” Nick said.

Milton Duffery, blissfully unaware of the sarcasm in Nick’s voice, continued.

“I call it Duffery’s Smarter Garter . It employs a softer elastic band that doesn’t chafe, and grippier metal clips that hold the sock edge securely without tearing it.

However, my newest and most exciting innovation—” He held up a finger.

“I’m afraid I must swear you to secrecy, sir… ”