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When I come to, I find myself on the studio floor. I sit up, dust off my clothes, and pinch my eyes shut against the sun glaring through the split in the curtains. My hangover from the night before is slightly better, but confused thoughts run through my head. I’m not quite certain what Weston meant for me to glean from my latest foray into the past, but apparently he was honest about his intentions toward Aunt Claire, who seemed just as besotted with him as my grandmother. Something must have happened to derail their betrothal, because Claire was unmarried when she died. Did my grandmother interfere, just as Weston implied?

I cover Weston’s portrait with its dustcloth and lock the studio door behind me. The upstairs hall is silent, apart from the ticking grandfather clock. Downstairs, Marguerite and Melva are sorting mah-jongg tiles on a card table in the parlor. A woman I don’t recognize sits across from Marguerite, who looks up as I descend the stairs. “Ah! Here’s our North Wind. I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”

“Just reacquainting myself with the house. Your nooks and crannies.”

“All morning? It’s half past noon.” Marguerite raises a brow and motions to the gray-haired lady across from her. “This is Georgia Merritt. My neighbor.”

Georgia Merritt of the blue steamboat gothic and the fancy radio set. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Merritt,” I say, offering my hand. “Sadie Halloran.”

“Oh, it’s just Georgia.” She pats my fingers. Everything about her is tidy, from her attire to her trim, petite figure. “Marguerite, you didn’t tell me how perfectly lovely she is.” Her thick drawl rises in pitch with every word. I know that tone. All too well. It’s the tone of a would-be matchmaker with some weak-chinned, clammy slob of a son, grandson, or nephew she’d like to set me up with.

“Are you a Sarah?” Georgia continues. “Sometimes they’re called Sadie.”

“No. Only Sadie.” I smile tightly and fold into the chair across from Melva. I’d hoped to speak to Marguerite alone—to ask her more about Claire and Weston—but our long-hidden family secrets will have to wait.

Melva shuffles the tiles and deals out thirteen apiece. It isn’t a fortuitous hand for me, and my losing streak continues through two glasses of iced tea, three cucumber sandwiches, and a rousingly shrill rendition of Verdi’s “Sempre Libera” by Georgia, who claims she sang the role of Violetta in 1906, which I believe to be a confabulation of the highest order.

I applaud her all the same. We’re having a nice time, and Marguerite seems to be in a high mood—a marked improvement from last night. She seems to have forgotten about the incident with the knife, and I won’t say a word to remind her. After our game, Melva clears the table and returns to the kitchen, while Marguerite, Georgia, and I retire to the conversation nook in front of the parlor’s bay window.

“I saw Beckett when I drove in,” Georgia says, before daintily taking a sip of her tea. “What does he think of your Sadie?”

Marguerite presses her lips together and glances at me before answering. “We’re all very glad that Sadie is here. It’s nice to have family close.”

“Hmmm ...” Georgia smacks her lips. “Do you think he’ll ever marry? Beckett?”

I turn my head, uncomfortable with the conversation and the pointed way in which Georgia studies me.

“He’s never shown an interest in courting anyone,” Marguerite says archly. “Why do you ask?”

“ Well ... it’s just all so sad , isn’t it? He’s such a handsome young man. That face .”

“There isn’t a thing that’s sad about Beckett,” I interject, bristling at the implication behind her words. “He’s quite capable.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply ...”

That his handicap makes him pitiable and less desirable in your eyes? The words are there, on my tongue, which I hold only for Marguerite’s sake. I wonder at my own defensive reaction—at my sudden urge to champion him when he seems to hold me in low regard. But how many times have I been talked about in rooms where I wasn’t present? I think of my time at Elm Ridge and how, after I came back home, my debut season fell by the wayside, and the women in Mama’s circle no longer offered up their sons and nephews as my escort. Was anyone ever my champion when they called me “Mad Sadie”? No. They merely laughed behind my back. No one deserves that.

Marguerite smiles at me, as if she can read my thoughts. “Sadie’s right. Beckett will be quite a catch, for the right sort of girl. He’ll marry. Someday.”

“Indeed.” I clear my throat. “I think so, too.”

Georgia looks at me for a long moment. “I have a nephew, just out of university. He’s seeing a girl now . But she’s a bit of a flapper. Wears her skirts much too short.”

There it is.

“I used to be a flapper,” I say, with a haughty lift of my chin. “I’ve aged out of the enterprise, but it was a great deal of fun while it lasted.”

Marguerite snorts, covering her mouth with her hand.

“ Really? ” Georgia asks, flabbergasted. “But you’re so genteel .”

I hide my smirk behind my glass of tea. “Well. I’m twenty-eight, after all. I already have my burial plot paid for and everything .”

“Oh. Oh. Are you ill, my dear?” Georgia’s eyes widen.

“Only in the head, I’m afraid.” I laugh, much too heartily. Being diagnosed with a nervous condition is beneficial in certain situations.

“I think I’d better go ,” Georgia croons. “Must tend to the ... the table linens.” She pats her upswept hair and twitters goodbye to Marguerite, who rises to see her out.

I’m still laughing to myself when I bring our dishes to the kitchen. Beckett is there, scrubbing carrots and potatoes at the sink. He glances over his shoulder at me and smiles. “I see you’ve met Georgia.”

“She’s a hoot,” I say.

“And a gossip. By this time tomorrow, all of Eureka Springs will be talking about you.”

“It’s probably good, then, that we’re going to town in the morning. The villagers can see for themselves that I don’t have two heads and sixteen legs. I’m certain Georgia thinks I’m a lunatic. I won’t be able to disprove that very easily. At least I won’t have to worry about her pawning me off on her nephew.”

He chuckles. “Just as well, for your sake.”

“Yes ...” I look at him, there at the sink, his strong, angled chin tilted down. Thunder crackles in the distance. I clear my throat. “Sounds like you were right, about the rain. Did you get your mowing done?”

He nods. “And more firewood cut for the stove.”

“I wish I’d been as industrious. So far, the only thing I’ve accomplished is losing at mah-jongg. I had fun, though. Marguerite is having a good day, I think.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

An awkward silence descends as the first patters of rain hit the kitchen’s metal roof. Melva comes in from outside, a basket of laundry in her arms. Beckett takes it from her, setting it on the trestle table. “Fixing to come a gully washer,” she says. “I should have sent you to the market this morning, Beck. Hopefully the road won’t wash out overnight.”

“This is the sort that blows over quick,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. “It’ll be done by morning.”

“Lord, let’s hope,” Melva says. “We’re out of everything. When you go, I need two heads of cabbage, white beans, and rye bread, the darkest you can find. Oh, and if you get the chance, swing by the butcher and ask Frank for some soupbones. I mean to make broth. Don’t forget the coffee. This is the last of it.” Melva fills the coffeepot with water, then slams it down on the stove.

“Yes, ma’am.” Beckett glances over at me, a smile creasing the skin around his eyes.

“I hope ham and eggs are to your liking for breakfast tomorrow, miss,” Melva calls to me. “About all I’ve got left. Nothing to be done for it now.”

“Ham and eggs happen to be my favorite, Melva,” I say, raising my voice above the storm. The soft, pattering rain has become a torrent.

She mutters something beneath her breath and goes to work folding the laundry.

“And you were worried about me ordering you around,” I murmur to Beckett, teasingly. “Seems as if Melva has you well under hand.”

He leans close to me. “I learned from my mother to never get on a cook’s bad side.”

“I should go check on Marguerite. See if she needs anything,” I say, turning away from the surprising warmth in his eyes. One moment, he’s charming, the next he seems determined to drive me away. Despite my attempts to convince him otherwise, I have the feeling he still only considers me a gold digger ... and the fact that I care so much about what he thinks of me tells me more than I’m comfortable admitting, even to myself.

That night, as the storm rages overhead, blowing the tree limbs sideways to scratch against the house, I imagine I see Weston again, writing at his desk under the eaves, the lightning illuminating him briefly before he disappears. A frisson of fear and excitement runs through me, as I blink and refocus my eyes, willing him to return, to no avail. I can’t help but wonder whether my encounters with him are only flights of strange fancy. I’m tempted to go down to the studio, to open myself to his world once more, but Marguerite’s mood turned fitful and dark again after dinner, and I don’t want to risk waking her.

She was convinced there was a crying baby in the house, and it took Beckett, Melva, and me more than an hour to calm her and ease her anxieties. According to Melva, the crying baby is another of her recurring delusions—one real enough to bring me to tears.

Beckett insisted on spending the night in one of the guest bedrooms, despite my assurance that I can manage Marguerite on my own. He still doesn’t trust me. It’s obvious. His mistrust rankles, but why do I care so much what he thinks of me?

I toss and turn, thoughts of Beckett, of Weston, of Marguerite and her sisters running through my head until morning glows pale gray through the attic windows. The rain slows to a gentle shower, then ceases before dawn. I rise, pull my wrapper on over my nightgown, then go downstairs to fill my ewer with warm water.

Light bleeds from the kitchen. Either Melva arrived incredibly early to work, or Beckett is up for the day. I’d bet on the latter. I’m suddenly conscious of my state of undress—a state he’s already seen me in once before, after my episode with sleepwalking. I turn and start to pad silently back through the dining room, hoping to avoid another embarrassing encounter, when a shadow falls long across my path.

“Good morning, Miss Halloran.” Beckett clears his throat. “Up early?”

“I didn’t sleep well, with the storm.” I turn to see him standing there in his undershirt and trousers, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “I ... I just came to fetch some water, for washing up.” My eyes flit from the dark stubble on his jaw to his narrow waist and broad shoulders, where freckles scatter the surface of his suntanned skin.

“Here,” he says, setting his coffee cup down. “I’ll get it for you. I’m warming a kettle of water to shave. You can have it.”

“Oh, you don’t ...” He takes the ewer from me before I can finish, his fingers brushing mine. My belly tumbles. I cross my arms awkwardly as I wait. He returns a moment later and hands me a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” I say, inhaling the warm aroma.

“Come into the kitchen and sit with me. It’ll be a while for the water.”

I follow him and sit at the trestle table, feeling suddenly shy. I pat at my braided hair, rub the sleep from my eyes. Beckett sits across from me, propping his elbows on the table. I do my best to avoid staring at him. His work has made him lean and hard. Strong. I remember the note of pity in Georgia Merritt’s words. If she could see him right now, she’d eat crow. He looks better than butter on sliced toast. The very picture of ideal masculinity. My skin warms and I quickly take a drink of coffee. “Marguerite sleep through the night?” I ask.

“She did. I didn’t hear a peep.”

“I hope Harriet’s mother-in-law is feeling better, so she can come today. She’s so good with Aunt Marg, even if she acts like Carry Nation with her hatchet around me.”

“She doesn’t care much for drinking, that’s for sure.” Beckett laughs. “I wouldn’t expect her today. When one in the family gets sick, the others usually follow.”

“True. I suppose it won’t matter, since we’re going to town today. The roads didn’t wash out, did they?”

“I don’t think so.” Beckett raises his cup to his lips.

After a moment of awkward silence, I move beyond our stilted small talk. “Has Aunt Marguerite ever talked about her sisters with you, by any chance?” I ask. “Claire or Florence?”

“Not really. I know that your aunt Claire died when she was fairly young, and that your grandmother and Marguerite didn’t always see eye to eye. I met your grandmother a time or two, when I was little.” He chuckles. “She frightened me.”

“How so?”

“She was imposing. Tall. Grand.”

“We called her the Snow Queen, my cousins and I. Louise always claimed she was a witch.”

“A very pretty one,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “I can see where you get your looks.”

“Oh ... I don’t really look like her,” I hedge, avoiding his gaze. “That’s Louise. I favor Aunt Claire, most of all. I’ve seen her pictures. We have the same heart-shaped face. Same nose.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How family traits skip generations.”

“Yes,” I say. “Do you favor your father, or your mother?”

“My father, although the curly hair comes from the Clemson side. My mother’s. Charlie looked just like her.”

“Marguerite told me about your brother. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Beckett’s fingers flex around his cup. “Lots of people lost brothers over there. Sons. Husbands.”

I reach out, lightly skimming the skin on his wrist with my fingertips. “Yes, but it doesn’t make your loss hurt any less.”

He looks at me through his long lashes. “I suppose you’re right. Tell me about your little brother. What was his name again?”

“Henry.” I smile, sitting back in my chair. “He was such a proud little stoic—from the time he was a baby. Once he could read, he had his head in a book from morning to night. Studying the lives of the saints. The works of Augustine. He was an altar boy at our church. Wanted to be a priest. He would have made a good one, I think.”

Beckett nods. “I’m sorry. It’s a shame.”

“Yes.” I take a long sip of coffee to soothe the ache in my throat. “It is.”

The teakettle begins to steam but doesn’t yet whistle. “Marguerite told me more about you last night, after dinner,” Beckett says. “About your father’s death. And that you’d had a tragic love affair.”

I bristle. “She did?” I haven’t talked about Ted at length with Marguerite, and she doesn’t know much at all about us, other than things didn’t end well. I’ve kept the details of our relationship sparse, but knowing Louise, she probably phoned Marguerite and told her everything, and in one of her moments of clarity, Marguerite remembered. I’m upset that she shared such intimate details of my life with Beckett. “What else did she tell you?” I hesitantly ask.

“Not much. She just said your engagement had ended badly and your man was a fool for letting you slip away.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way.”

“What happened?” he asks.

I waver, unable to meet his eyes. It’s none of his business what happened between Ted and me. If I tell him the truth—that Ted was married to someone else when I fell in love with him—it will only give Beckett another reason to judge me. To respect me even less than he does now. I think of the conversation I had with Weston, and how sympathetic he was. Only a person who’s been in the same shoes can understand the complexity of that kind of love and how it tears a person apart and makes them feel alive, all at the same time.

The teakettle’s shrill whistle interrupts my tumbling thoughts. “There’s my water. I’d better get washed up and go dress for the day.” I stand, tightening my robe.

Beckett rises. “I didn’t mean to be intrusive ... I—”

“It’s all right.” I grab the knitted square Melva uses as a pot holder and lift the kettle by the wire handle. Made of cast iron, it’s much heavier than I expect it to be, and I fumble, nearly dropping it.

“Here, you’ll burn yourself,” Beckett says, his hand at my waist to steady me. “Let me help.”

Let me help. How hard that is for me. To accept help from a man. “I can do it.”

I tighten my grip on the handle and bring the kettle above the ewer. Beckett’s hand is still on my waist, warm and strong, as he grabs a towel and uses his other hand to help me lift and tilt the kettle above the mouth of the pitcher. Together, we pour the steaming water inside.

I lower the empty kettle back onto the range and stand there, out of breath. Beckett is looking at me the same way he did yesterday, with warmth behind his eyes. His hand slips from my waist. “Would you like me to carry it upstairs for you?” he asks. “I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you, but I ... I can manage. I do it every day.”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll be outside. Come get me when you’re ready to go to town.”

“Okay.” The moment is broken, and I turn away, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin. I return to the attic with my ewer of water. As I’m washing up, I feel like I’m being watched. I glance over my shoulder, my senses heightened, but there’s no one there, although for the briefest moment, I smell the warm scent of a fine cigar.