The easel still stood where it always had, with its back toward the windows. An incomplete landscape rested on it, waiting to be finished by an artist who would never return. Just as likely to remain orphaned, Brooke’s various painting tools lay on a nearby table.

Brooke once told Chelsea that her interest in painting had begun shortly after her last visit to Lake Evergreen. She had hired a teacher to come to the house and instruct her, Brooke had also said, until she had developed a style all her own. But when Chelsea had innocently asked Brooke whether her final visit to the lake had had anything to do with her wanting to paint, a sad look had overtaken Brooke’s face. She then politely told Chelsea that her reasons had been personal and that she didn’t wish to speak of them.

Chelsea picked up one of the brushes, remembering. Its wooden handle felt warm, as if her grandmother had just held it. She sadly closed her eyes, realizing that it was the sun that had blessed it, rather than her grandmother’s touch. She put the brush back down, wondering what would become of such cherished mementos. Just then, someone touched her shoulder.

“Hi,” Lucy said softly.

Chelsea turned and gave her mother a long, meaningful hug, as if some of the strength she had been storing away might somehow be imparted to her in this hour of need. When at last she stepped back, Chelsea was disturbed by what she saw.

Lucy hadn’t slept in two days, and dark circles lay beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her usually perfect makeup looked haphazard and wrong, from being so frequently reapplied between crying spells. Although her short gray hair was in place and she was suitably dressed, an overwhelming sense of grief showed through her every attempt to appear normal. When her tears erupted again, she did her best to wipe them away.

As Chelsea searched her purse for a tissue, her fingers brushed against Brooke’s aged letter, reminding her of both its message and its warnings. Much the same way that she had kept it a secret from her father, she must now also do the same with her mother, she knew. She had never been guarded around her parents, and she didn’t enjoy being that way now. But she had resolved to follow Gram’s wishes, so when the tissue came out of her purse, the precious letter stayed behind.

“How are you doing, Mom?” Chelsea asked.

Lucy’s faint smile seemed forced, manufactured. “As best I can,” she answered. “It’s just so hard, you know? We lived together for ages . . . and now I’m rattling around in this big house all by myself. It’s so quiet at night, after everyone has gone home . . .”

Then Lucy looked carefully around as if she were appraising her home, rather than admiring it. “Do you think that I should sell it now?” she asked Chelsea. “With Mother gone it seems so big, so empty . . .”

Chelsea sighed and shook her head a little. Less than an hour ago, she had asked Allistaire Reynolds that very thing about Gram’s cottage. Death has an odd way of forcing us into making choices, she thought. She put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders.

“I think that you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Chelsea answered. “There’ll be lots of time to consider that. And we’ll talk to Dad about it, too. He always knows what to do.”

Lucy’s next effort to smile proved no more genuine than before. “I don’t suppose that I could ask you to stay with me for a few nights?” she said.