I opened the envelope alone in the pantry with the door barely shut. The offer was tidy, full of numbers that made Harbor House sound like a row of measurements rather than the place where I had learned to make beds tight enough to bounce a coin. The company wanted to buy after Ruth's birthday. It offered to keep the painted porch, the guestbook cabinet, even the lantern hooks. None of that made the word sale gentler. For six months I had been taking bookings between florist jobs, fixing taps after Jonah went to sleep, and telling everyone it was temporary. The letter made temporary feel like a cliff with a railing missing.

Theo arrived before I could hide the papers. He stepped through the gate carrying a bakery box, polished shoes sinking into the gravel. He kissed Ruth's cheek, asked Jonah about school, and looked at me in the particular way that meant he had rehearsed being reasonable. Outside, under the porch eaves, he said the buyer had asked whether I would stay on as manager. I heard the word manager and pictured another year of answering every midnight call while someone else decided what the house was worth. I told him we would talk after supper. He said that was exactly the kind of answer that made people stop offering help.

Then the ferry horn sounded twice. Guests began calling from the mainland to say the crossing had been halted, and the caterer left a message about a flooded road. Ruth opened the pantry and began taking out beans, onions, apples, and a jar of mustard as calmly as if the storm had arrived on her invitation. I wanted to be angry at her calm. Instead I put a knife in Theo's hand and told him to chop. When I turned back toward the desk, the envelope was gone.