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The energy from the other side of the kitchen quieted down.

Vivian explained the process she would undertake, analyzing the paper and binding to make sure it was of the correct age and doing an in-depth study of the handwriting used in both manuscripts. “Miles is there with you, isn’t he?” Vivian asked. “I’ll need help from him, too, as a local expert on Marshall Merriweather.”

Miles straightened. “I’d be happy to help!” he called in the direction of Cam’s phone.

Cam smiled, even as a nervous knot formed in her stomach. At least the librarian would be on their side when the time came, even if it did mean ticking off Roxy Shipman.

“I can deliver the manuscript and the diary to Sotheby’s in New York,” Avery said suddenly. “I’ve been thinking I need to get back home anyway, and this will speed things up.” She positioned herself behind Cam to speak to Vivian. “I can be there by this afternoon. Just tell me what I need to do to package it up.”

“I’ll send instructions,” Vivian said. “Bring the cookbook, too. And if all goes well, I should have a preliminary assessment within a few days.”

Later that afternoon, Cam heaved the last of Avery’s luggage into the rental car as her cousin peeked into the paper-bagged lunch Cam had packed for her trip. Avery and Birdie had said their goodbyes inside the warmth of the house, but Cam wanted to see her cousin off—and she wanted to stretch out their time together here in Silver Cove as long as possible, savoring even the last few minutes of it.

“I’m going to miss this,” Avery said, pulling out the Brie-and-butter baguette sandwich. “I guess it’s back to delivery Thai and Sweetgreen salads for me.”

“Just don’t get crumbs on the manuscript, please,” Cam said, knowing there was no chance of that. Ada’s writings were wrapped up as if they were the Mona Lisa, the package sitting on Avery’s passenger seat like the precious cargo it was. Cam opened the door and gave the package a last, affectionate pat. “If you’re still in there, Ada, good luck,” she murmured. “Oh, and you’re gonna love New York.” The plastic wrap was cold.

“As much as I’ll miss your cooking, I’m going to miss you more,” Avery said.

“Me too,” Cam replied. “But I’ll be back in the city soon, and we’ll get together there.”

Avery gave her an inscrutable look. “Sure thing, Summer Sis,” she said. “But while we’re here, I wanted to give you something.” Avery reached into the car’s back seat and fished out a wrapped present. “I told you I had a surprise for you,” she said, handing it to Cam.

“I haven’t had a second to shop for you,” Cam said. “I’m sorry, Av.”

“Yeah, I’d say you’ve been just a little too busy for shopping,” Avery said. “Don’t worry, you’re forgiven. This was something I’ve been working on. Honestly, it started as kind of a therapy art project while I was here.”

“Oooh, it’s an Avery original?” Cam asked excitedly as she carefully unwrapped it. “You know I treasure the ones I have.” Two of her cousin’s works—vibrant abstracts with swirls of pattern—hung in prominent spots in her apartment.

“It’s, um, a little different than my usual style,” Avery said.

Usually, Avery was confident about her art, but Cam sensed she was nervous, as if she were awaiting the judgment of a particularly influential critic. Cam pulled away the last bit of wrapping to reveal a painting that looked nothing like Avery’s others. For starters, it was much more figurative and realistic than her usual undulating waves of color, and the tones were muted and subtle. At the center of the painting stood two girls holding hands, their backs turned away from the viewer as they looked out onto a shimmering body of water and the horizon beyond. Their feet were tethered to the ground by a tangle of entwined roots that seemed to grow up from the soil and encircle the children, as if to keep them cocooned. Amid the roots was an image of Birdie’s house, and as Cam pulled the canvas closer, she saw the outlines of two people—her grandmother and their late grandfather, Eddie—peeking out at them through the glow of a lower window in the dwelling. Another figure stood in the next window. Flora. Above the couple’s heads, the light to Avery and Cam’s attic room was also illuminated.

“It’s us,” Cam said softly, drawing her breath in as if it were a slow-motion gasp. “And it is so, so beautiful.”

“I just wanted to make us a reminder that, no matter what happens, we’re safe here, and we always have been. And that just like the house and just like Birdie, you and I are strong,” Avery said. “And I can’t believe I haven’t said this to you yet—I think I’ve been too wrapped up in my own miserable funk—but thank you for saving this place for Birdie. I think this place, and being here with you all, well, it saved me a little, too.”

Cam threw her arms around her cousin for a last hug. So it had turned out Avery wasn’t made of emotional Teflon after all. Just like anyone, her seemingly always-carefree cousin was capable of being wounded just like anybody else. But wasn’t that for the better? Cam thought of Ian, with all his complications. Maybe he was worth taking a chance on.

“That makes two of us,” she said, drawing Avery even closer, the painting pressed between their hearts.

Cam spent the next few days in a buzz of nervous energy. She threw herself into deep-cleaning the cafe kitchen. Martina would be back after the holidays, and she wanted the space to be as pristine as when she’d taken it over. She baked Christmas cookies—cornmeal thumbprints with dabs of raspberry jam, almond-flour crescents dotted with pine nuts, chocolate drops warmed with ginger spice—and delivered a tin to Francine and another to Marcus.

It was all she could do to keep from telling her grandmother’s dear friend about the news they were waiting for. After all, he, too, served on the Historical Society board, and Cam could only hope he would prove to be an ally when the time came. But she knew the man was constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret, and if she told him, the cat would be well out of the bag and headed directly to mew into Roxy Shipman’s ears. She was also studiously avoiding Ian, staying upstairs if he came in to talk to Birdie and ducking out to take Parsley on walks during his lunch breaks.

As she scrubbed and baked, Cam wished she could summon Ada again, just to see what she would have to say. Would the desperate edge in her voice have softened? Or had the ghost simply gone to… some other plane, now that her mission here among the living was finished—at least, mostly? The thought of never seeing Ada again left Cam feeling empty. After all, Ada had been such a presence in Cam’s life these last few weeks, pushing her to do things she never would have done before meeting her and getting to know her story. And there was no way to even try to contact Ada, anyway, since the cookbook had gone with Avery to New York. In a weird way, Cam even missed the book itself.

Cam and Francine were gaming out their strategy over beers and burgers at Captain Jeb’s.

“I think we need an element of surprise,” Cam said from her swiveling barstool as she dunked a fry into ketchup. “If Roxy has time to prepare, she could mount a defense. Maybe she would call in another expert to try to debunk us. That’s assuming Vivian and her team can verify the manuscripts.” Cam had been vacillating between optimism and anxiety ever since Avery had left.

“Rox will have a hard time refuting the world’s leading experts on rare manuscripts,” Francine reassured her. “That’s some serious brain power right there.”

“Oh, and did you see the wall of the old drugstore—the one where Roxy is having the mural portrait of Marshall painted?” Cam asked. “It looks like they’re preparing it.”

“Oof,” Francine replied. “They’re going to have to scrap those plans—or change them in a big way. I hope, anyway.” She sipped her Dogfish Head lager.

“Same. Oh, and did I tell you Martina offered to sell me the cafe business?” Cam asked. “Wild, right? I mean, obviously I’m not going to do it because I’m planning to go back to New York after Christmas…”