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“What can I do for you?” she said, as if this were perfectly normal footwear.

She had short gray hair, clipped practical and close, and a thin gray sweater over what was clearly a nightshirt. A pincushion was strapped to her left wrist, three pins sticking out of it at odd angles. The semi-retired seamstress was never not working on something, even in a blizzard, even in homemade snowshoes.

“Hey, Mrs. Steigler,” Emily said, peering past her shoulder. “Is Kit around?”

The small dog, a Yorkshire terrier with the attitude of a Rottweiler, continued to bark from somewhere at ankle level.

“Oh, stop that, Russell.” Norma tried to reach for him, but the tennis rackets made any quick movement a logistical challenge. She shuffled sideways, scooped him up, and turned back to them with the dog tucked under one arm like a handbag, still yapping. “Nope, Kit’s off cooking at the inn. Left this morning. I’m just getting the mail. Meant to get it before the storm hit.”

“Let me,” Cole said, already turning back down the porch steps. He followed the footprints across the street to the mailbox, pulled it open, and collected what looked like three days’ worth of catalogs and Christmas cards.

He walked back over to Norma, holding the door open for him, Emily and Russell safely inside.

She looked down at the tennis rackets on her feet, then back at Cole. “Guess I’ll just have to try out my new shoes some other time.”

Inside, Norma’s house was exactly what Cole expected, which was to say it looked like a sewing studio that happened to have a living room attached. A dress form stood by the window with something half-finished pinned to it, a deep green fabric with a complicated neckline that Cole was not qualified to have opinions about. Bolts of cloth were stacked on an armchair. Scissors, patterns, and spools of thread competed for counter space with cups of tea clearly forgotten about.

Christmas had been added on top of all of it, rather than replacing any of it. Tinsel garlands were draped across the mantel, weaving between more spools of ribbon. A small tabletop tree sat on the side table, decorated with miniature ornaments.

The fire was going strong. Kit’s work, Cole assumed. The room was warm and a little cluttered, but Cole decided that it suited Norma.

She settled onto the couch, deposited Russell on the cushion beside her, tucked a blanket around them both, and picked up a piece of needlepoint from where she’d left it. From where Cole was standing, it looked like a basket of poinsettias, half-finished, the reds vivid against the cream fabric.

“We’re checking in on everyone,” Cole said, keeping his voice professional. “Making sure you have what you need. That you’re warm enough.”

“Oh, I’m plenty warm. Kit’s been stopping in every couple of hours, bringing food from the inn, making sure the fire’s going.” Norma’s needle moved steadily through the canvas. “She said the power company’s starting on my street next.” She glanced at the basket Emily had set on the coffee table. “But I wouldn’t say no to some of that famous spice cake your grandpa used to make.”

Cole looked at her. Something shifted in his chest.

“Spice cake?” Emily asked, and Cole could hear the slight edge in her voice, the one that meant she was filing information.

“Well.” Norma set her needlepoint down and looked at Emily with the frank warmth of a woman who had no interest in diplomacy. “No offense to your nana, God rest her soul, but Mr. Alders’ spice cake is the most delicious cake I have ever had. Bar none. It’s been a few years since I’ve had it. He used to have it down at the hardware store at the holidays; you could buy it by the slice! It would be nice if he could do that again, not sure how he’s getting on,” Norma said.

“He’s doing alright,” Cole said. “I’ll mention it to him. He might like knowing it’s missed.”

“Oh, it sure is. We were talking about it at church just last weekend. Mrs. Bishop made a spice cake for coffee hour, and I wasn’t going to say anything, but it just wasn’t the same. Not even close. But once Mrs. C. said something—you know how that woman has absolutely no filter—well, everyone had to chime in. Poor Mrs. Bishop. Thought she’d be offended, but even she admitted she’d been trying to recreate Mr. Alders’ recipe. That’s why she’d attempted the cake in the first place. Can you imagine?”

Norma picked up her needlepoint again, shaking her head fondly.

Cole froze. It was an odd feeling, hearing someone say something nice about his family, which it really shouldn’t be. His grandfather had been a member of this community his whole life, a respected one; somehow, that status hadn’t befallen him.

He thought about being ten years old, standing in the school hallway while a kid called his grandfather a thief. He thought about the fistfight with Zach. About the long drive to New York a few months later, his mother’s hand on his knee in the backseat, the quiet relief of arriving somewhere nobody knew his name or his family’s history. He’d been happy to leave. He’d been ten years old and genuinely, completely happy to walk away from this town and never come back.

“Do you remember anything about my nana’s sugar and spice cookie disappearance in 2009?” Emily asked, shifting the conversation to their hidden agenda.

Norma shook her head slowly. “People are still talking about that? My word.” She pulled a stitch through. “If you ask me, Mr. Alders had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Emily’s head tilted. “What makes you say that?”

“Because why would he?” Norma looked at her like the answer was obvious. “His spice cake was clearly the better entry. Everyone knew it. He had nothing to worry about from those cookies. Why on earth would he steal them?”

Cole felt something spread across his face that he didn’t entirely recognize.

It was a smile. A real one. Not the controlled, professional version he used on the job. This was a genuine, unguarded, warming-from-the-chest-out kind of smile.

He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened either.

Emily was looking at him. He could feel it. He didn’t look back.