The second after I hang up the phone, Jonah knocks three times on the door before opening it and calling my name. I’m proud of him. It took weeks of daily badgering for him to accept that if I didn’t want company, I’d lock the door. Otherwise, he should come right in and find me.

A part of my insistence stemmed from the fact that one afternoon, I hadn’t answered the door when he knocked. After working himself into a snit over my apparent demise—and how upset his wife would be if he didn’t investigate—he’d broken a window. His frantic yells as he barged through the house had woken me from a nap.

The main reason I want the McAdams’ to feel comfortable in the home, however, stems from guilt. During the year in which Charles looked for buyers, Jonah and Meghan occupied the farmhouse at my brother’s behest. Essentially, my moving in booted them from their home.

Something I plan on remedying soon.

“Ms. Hughes?”

I smile at the gruff, annoyed voice, and call back, “Kitchen, Jonah. Want some tea?”

Heavy footsteps pound on the old boards, heralding his arrival a few moments later. His bushy mustache is twitching, signaling that he’s uncomfortable. Usually it’s because Meghan has sent him over here to invite me to their rented cottage for dinner.

“Tea?” I ask again.

“No, uh, thank you.” The cheeks above his beard redden and he won’t meet my eyes. “Meghan wants me to tell you something. And, well, I want to tell you something, too.”

His tone makes my ears perk. Not in a good way. I set the kettle on the stove and light the pilot, then lean against the counter by the sink. “What’s wrong, Jonah?”

“It’s not natural!” he blurts, then flushes to his receding hairline. He mutters something under his breath about meddling wives, then squares his shoulders and looks at me with resolve. “A young woman such as yourself, living all the way out here, staying cooped up every night, no friends, no boyfriend…” He clears his throat. “Meghan’s concerned.”

My tension releases on a laugh. “That’s sweet, Jonah, but I’m perfectly—”

“Don’t give me that I’m fine crap,” he interjects, surprising me silent. With a sigh that lifts the corners of his mustache, he continues more softly, “I saw you, the other day. On the slope out back.”

My mouth closes with a snap.

“You were crying so hard I thought I might need to call the doctor.” He shifts his weight. “I wasn’t spying. Meghan needed to borrow some pie dough.”

“It’s okay,” I say mutedly.

Inside, my gut is churning. Since that afternoon five days ago, I’ve done everything in my power to pretend the cause of my meltdown never happened. But denial is a slippery pet. He abandons you, often when you need him most.

“You’re not sick, are you?” asks Jonah softly.

I look up, giving him a smile perfected by years of fundraising. A smile that has reassured hopeless people, romanced money out of silk-lined pockets, and tricked everyone around me in to believing I was living my best life. Sometimes I even fooled myself.

“I’m perfectly all right,” I tell him calmly. My voice is steady, my eyes sparkling warmly. “You two are so sweet to worry about me.”

As I anticipated, he doesn’t let that slide. But I’m ready.

“Why were you crying, then?”

“I missed my mom,” I say simply.

His eyes cloud with compassion. “I’m sorry. Nothing quite like the pain of losing a parent. I still miss mine, and I’m a grandfather twice over.”

The kettle whistles its first high notes. Thank God. I glance at the stove, then back at Jonah. “Yeah, it’s tough. Thanks for checking on me. And thank Meghan for me, will you?”

He nods. “I’ll leave you to your tea. But can I give you a word of advice?”

“Of course.” I lift the kettle to the back burner, taking the excuse to divert my attention.

“Holing yourself away isn’t gonna help. Not in the long run. You’re young and full of life, Ms. Hughes, and if you’ll take the opinion of an old man, you have a lot to offer this world.”

I blink hard to clear a film of tears, but don’t turn around. “Thank you, Jonah,” I whisper.

He doesn’t reply, and I listen to his footsteps receding, then the door opening and closing. After a few moments, I follow his path and lock the door.

I don’t want any more company.

After a long shower and a dinner of last night’s leftovers, I head upstairs to bed. It’s barely past seven o’clock, but my usual routine of enjoying a book and a glass of wine don’t appeal to me. Nothing appeals to me but sleep.

I wash my face and brush my teeth, then crawl into bed. For the first time, the stillness of the peaceful farm isn’t comforting. Loneliness claws inside me, shredding as it goes.

I didn’t lie to Jonah. Not exactly. On that particular afternoon, I was missing my mom. I wanted nothing more than to feel her arms around me, her voice assuring me that everything was going to be okay.

But there’s a chance it might not be okay. Not even a little bit. Not after the phone call I received. Not after the handful of voicemails left after, all from the same source, that I haven’t listened to yet.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the chorus of insects outside and the settling of the farmhouse. My loneliness doesn’t ebb, but something precious rises in equal measure. My brief months on the farm have given me something I can honestly say I’ve never had before.

Peace.

And I just want to keep it a little longer.

* * *

My final weeks in Maine are bittersweet. The first weekend of October, BlueBell Apples wins the local award for Best Harvest. Jonah and Meghan are ecstatic. I throw a party and invite the whole town to celebrate.

The night is textbook, rural magic. A barn dance, bobbing for apples and other activities for kids, and a huge, farm-to-table meal. I even dance with several handsome, single men that Meghan pushes my way. I do my best to feel something in their arms. Even the merest flicker of interest. But much to Meghan’s disappointment, I don’t.

With the first frost of the year coming soon, activity on the farm ramps up. We harvest the last of the apples and a small crop of sweet potatoes, then put the fields to bed for winter. I spend the majority of my free time in my small greenhouse tending to the cold-hardy vegetables I planted late summer. There are vibrant rows of spinach, lettuce, rainbow chard, carrots, and turnips. Early November, I do a walkthrough with Meghan and put the garden’s continued care in her capable hands.

Keeping my plans for the farm from Jonah and Meghan is an ongoing challenge. I almost spill the beans at least five times, resisting only by reminding myself how satisfying it will be to hand them the deed myself. In the interim, I convince them to make use of the house when I’m gone and even demand that they host their family’s Thanksgiving there.

The days grow ever shorter, and suddenly the day of my departure arrives. The many farewell handshakes and hugs are hardest on me, as everyone thinks I’m coming back in a few weeks. Jonah is the only one who suspects anything—last night he caught me loading my trunk with everything I brought with me. He didn’t say anything, only gave me a long, penetrating look before offering to help.

Meghan’s cheerful goodbye tells me that he’s keeping my secret for now. I hug him so tightly and for so long that he starts coughing and rubbing his eyes, muttering about allergies. I hop in my car before anyone can see my leaky eyes.

Then I drive away, leaving a piece of myself behind, but altogether more complete than I’ve been in a long, long time.