“So we’ll call whoever you’re supposed to talk to and explain what happened.” If they didn’t already know, he added to himself. He was pretty sure that everyone in St. Dennis knew by now that Grace had taken a tumble. There were almost a dozen flower arrangements lined up on the windowsill. “I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet will understand. We can reschedule and—”

“No. You don’t understand.” Her eyes filled with tears and she began to cry. “I wanted to write a series. The articles are supposed to spread out over the next weeks. It’s important. I have it all planned …”

Ford couldn’t remember seeing his mother cry since his father died. A few tears now and then, but she was really crying.

“Mom … Mom … it’ll be okay.” He tried to soothe her.

“I’ve never, ever failed to get the paper out on time. Not one time, in all the years since my father passed it on to me. Not even when your father died. I’ve always gotten the paper out on time.” She began to cry harder, and Ford thought for sure her heart was breaking.

He ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t stand to see his mother so upset. It almost seemed that this realization—that her beloved Gazette might have to go on hiatus—was more devastating to her than the physical pain of her injuries. “Mom … look, tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you need.”

“You would?” With her good arm, she reached for the tissues on the tray next to her bed. Ford handed her the box and she pulled a tissue free. “You’ll help me get the paper out?”

“Of course, Mom. Whatever you want me to do.” He patted her left shoulder reassuringly.

She pulled another tissue from the box and wiped her eyes. “I’m afraid it’s more complex than you might think.”

“So you’ll walk me through it.”

“You’d really do this for me?”

“Mom, I’d do anything for you.” The lump in his throat cautioned him not to say more.

She rested her head back against the pillows. “You’ve taken a huge weight off my mind, Ford. I don’t know what I’d do if we couldn’t …”

“Don’t even think about it. The paper is going to be out on time, Mom. Just give it to me in steps.”

“Well, the first thing you have to do is this interview.” She paused. “Have you ever done an interview, son?”

“Sort of.” He wondered if interrogations might count as roughly the same thing but thought better of asking. “What’s the interview about?”

Grace told him about Curtis Enright’s handing over his property to St. Dennis and the new art center in detail, and her plan to do a series of articles about the proposed gallery in Enright’s newly renovated carriage house. She yawned, the effort to explain having exhausted her. She rested her head again and closed her eyes.

“The appointment this morning at the carriage house is to interview the person setting up the gallery and the exhibits. Today’s just the first interview, like I told you. It’s just to introduce her to St. Dennis. Take some pictures. Make sure there’s a good one for above the fold. There’s a file on my laptop that has a good deal of background material on it along with my notes for the interview. There’s also a little notebook on my desk that you should probably read before you go.”

“Okay. Not a problem.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

She sighed happily and began to drift off to sleep.

“Mom.” He shook her gently. “You didn’t tell me who I’m supposed to be interviewing.”

“Carly,” she whispered. “Carly Summit …”

Carly Summit. Ford frowned. Where had he heard that name before? It sounded familiar, and yet he couldn’t put a face to that name, something he was usually very good at.

He hurried through to the parking garage, located the car he’d borrowed from Dan, and drove straight to the inn. On his way to his mother’s office, several people stopped him to ask about Grace. He realized then he didn’t have a key to the office and couldn’t find Dan. The grandfather clock in the lobby chimed twelve noon. Frustrated, he stood outside his mother’s office door, wondering if it would be inappropriate to kick it down. He was seriously considering doing just that when Dan showed up and unlocked the door. Ford went straight to Grace’s desk. Her laptop sat in the middle, but once he turned it on, he realized he didn’t know her passwords. He groaned, then spotted the notebook she’d mentioned. He picked up and flipped through it. Just as she’d said, there were lots of notes about the carriage house renovations and a list of questions she wanted to ask during what she referred to as “Interview #1.” He didn’t have time to read through it now, but he could skim the outline as the interview progressed. How hard could it be?

He pocketed the notebook, turned off the light, and headed for the lobby door and the car he’d left right outside the door in front of the “No Parking at Any Time” sign.

The drive to Enright’s took exactly seven minutes, due mostly to traffic in the center of town. Summer Saturdays in St. Dennis, he was learning, were swell for the merchants and the restaurants because of the weekenders and the day-trippers, but they were murder on the residents. He took backstreets all the way down to Old St. Mary’s Church Road, all the while wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

He almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut. In one way, he did wish exactly that. He knew nothing about real interviewing. Oh, he’d taken a course or two in journalism back in college, but that was years and another life ago. Even he had to admit that interrogating terrorists wasn’t the same thing. But his mother had looked so despondent, had been in such a state of despair—well, there was no way he could not have stepped up.

In his mind’s eye, Ford kept reliving over and over that terrible moment, watching Grace fall. He could see himself moving as if in slow motion to reach the bottom of the stairs before she did, hoping to catch her, to break her fall—and failing. He couldn’t help but think if he’d been just a few steps quicker, she might have been spared the pain of those broken bones. The doctors said it was a miracle that she hadn’t fractured her hip. Actually, what they’d said was they couldn’t understand how she hadn’t.

Grace had been a great mom—the absolute best—and if what she needed was someone to take her place at the paper, he’d be her man. He wouldn’t fail her in this.

The Enright place looked pretty much as Ford remembered it. Big and stately, the graceful brick house in the Georgian style stood surrounded by tall trees on the biggest single parcel of land that still remained in St. Dennis. He parked in the wide driveway behind a big, shiny, expensive-looking SUV with Connecticut plates and a battered old pickup with more than its share of nicks and dents. He paused once on his walk down the driveway to admire the gardens behind the house that were in full and glorious bloom.

He still thought it sounded crazy that anyone would just hand over a place like this, just give it away, since it must be worth a fortune. Mr. Enright must have a philanthropic streak as wide as the Chesapeake, Ford was thinking as he approached the door.

He’d just reached for the handle when the door opened.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” Cameron stepped out into the bright sunlight, the door closing quietly behind him.

“Not much. You working here?”

Cam nodded. “Just finishing up a few details. Hey, sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”

“A little better each day. We’re hoping she’ll be home by Monday or Tuesday.”

“Knowing her, I’m sure she’s getting antsy to get out.”

“I’m sure she will be once she isn’t sleeping as much. They have her on some pretty heavy meds right now for the pain.”

“Poor Grace.” Cam shook his head. “Give her our best, will you? Let her know we’re thinking about her.”

“Will do.”

“So what are you up to? Curious about what we’ve done inside?” Cam gestured toward the building behind him.

“My mom had an interview set up for this morning with the woman who’s running the gallery, and she was so upset to miss it … you know, afraid the paper wouldn’t get out, that sort of thing. Anyway, I said I’d do the interview for her.”

“Nice of you.” Cam grinned. “Your mom is going to make a newspaperman out of you yet.”

“Not likely.” Ford snorted. “This is just temporary, till she’s back on her feet.”

“Well, let’s hope that’s soon, for both your sakes.” Cam glanced at his watch. “I’m late. Ellie’s going to kill me. I promised I’d be back at the house by eleven.” He hoisted the toolbox he held under his arm. “Carly’s inside. I’ll see you around …”

“Right.” Ford opened the door and stepped inside and out of the heat and humidity. The cool air surrounded him and he closed the door quickly.

“Cam, did you forget some …” The woman stepped out from behind a partition that divided the room into two equal parts, and Ford’s breath caught in his chest.

He blinked to make sure the heat hadn’t brought on a hallucination.

But no. It was her.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Ford Sinclair,” he somehow managed to say.

“Yes, I know.”

“You do?” He frowned. “How do you know?”

“I was at your welcome-home party.” She leaned back against the end of the partition.

“You were?”

“Yes, don’t you remember? We met in the lobby. I was looking at—”

“A painting, the one behind the receptionist’s desk, yes, of course I remember that part.” He could have added that he’d been kicking himself in the butt ever since for letting her get away that night without finding out more about her. Like her name. “But I thought you were a guest at the inn.”

“I was staying with Cam and Ellie, and I think your mother probably invited me to the party because she was afraid they wouldn’t come if they had to leave me home alone. I went into the lobby because I felt awkward, since I hardly knew anyone, including the guest of honor.”

“You weren’t the only one who felt out of place.”

“What, you? The party was for you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a party guy,” was all the explanation he offered.

“By the way, I’m Carly Summit.”

“I was hoping you were.” And he had been, ever since he opened the door and saw her standing there. He should have put it together right away—the pretty blonde who’d shown such intense interest in the painting in the lobby would, naturally, be the art dealer. For days, he’d been wondering if he’d ever see her again, and now here she was, compliments of his mother.

Apparently, it was true: no good deed goes unrewarded.

“I’m so sorry about your mother’s fall,” Carly was saying. “I think it must have happened right after she left here.”

“She was here on Wednesday?”

Carly nodded. “She stopped by to go over a list that she was working on for me.”

“A list?” Grace hadn’t mentioned a list that morning.

“People who may have inherited paintings by a local artist. The same artist, incidentally, who painted the picture I wanted to look at in the inn.”

“Just say the word, anytime you want a closer look.”

Carly smiled. “So, Ford Sinclair, what can I do for you this morning?”

“You can give me those few minutes you were going to spend with Mom.” When Carly raised an eyebrow, he explained, “My mother asked me to interview you in her place. She was really worried about the series of articles she wanted to do for the paper not getting done, so I told her I’d take over until she’s recovered enough to do her thing.”

“That’s nice of you. You’ve done this before?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But she did tell me what she wanted and she gave me the questions she’d planned on asking …”

Carly nodded. “I see. Well, then, where would you like to begin?”

Ford took the notebook out of his back pocket and opened it.

“She thought we should start with introducing the community to you. You know, where you’re from, where you went to school, that sort of thing.”

“I’m from Connecticut—I still live there—and I went to Rushton-Graves Prep in Massachusetts from sixth grade on. Grad school at Penn, some art-history courses at the Sorbonne, art conservation internship at Winterthur, that sort of thing.”

“So you’d categorize yourself as an art historian … conservationist … dealer? What?”

“All of those things, actually, and I own galleries in New York, Boston, and Chicago. I also have invested in one in London and another in Istanbul …”