When she clicked on the last image, the engraving of Sadie’s name in the glass, her attention was drawn to the light. “That’s odd.”

“It doesn’t look from this world.”

“It’s the kind of place that looks like it could be haunted,” Libby joked.

Elaine’s expression remained serious. “I believe it is. I think this entire property is filled with restless spirits.”

“Why here?”

“Old places often have difficult pasts.”

“You said your grandfather built it for your grandmother.”

“It was built in the summer of 1941. My grandfather wrote to his estate manager and included the sketch of a solarium he had seen in London while he was practicing medicine there. He ordered construction to begin immediately. When he returned home in November 1941 with his new bride, he presented it to her as a gift.”

“That’s love.”

“I suppose it was.”

“How long were they married?”

“Forty-seven years. My grandfather died in 1989.”

The oven timer chimed, and Elaine rose and, using mitts, removed the two steaming dishes. One appeared to be bread, and the other cinnamon rolls. “Margaret left these for me last night with instructions to put them in the oven at seven. I thought you or the crews would be hungry. There’s also coffee here. Help yourself.”

Libby rose and filled a cup, hoping she had not maxed out her morning caffeine quota. As she stood beside Elaine, she noticed the dark, full veins on the back of her hand and the faint mark that indicated a recent IV.

Elaine served up a plate for Libby and then grabbed a ginger ale from the refrigerator for herself.

“You’re not eating?” Libby said.

“I’m not much of a breakfast person.”

Libby cut into the moist, gooey cinnamon roll, stabbed it with her fork, and took a bite. She almost sighed with pleasure. “Amazing.”

“That’s Margaret. Never a minute of formal training but can cook with the best of them.”

Libby noted that in the morning light, she could see that Elaine’s hair was thinning in some spots. She took another bite, wanting to ask but thinking better.

“You can ask,” Elaine said, as if reading her mind.

Libby covered her surprise with a sip of coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve caught you eyeing my arms.” Likely subconsciously, Elaine smoothed her sleeves down over her arms.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I never sensed any rudeness. Only curiosity and concern.”

“That’s the nurse’s training,” Libby offered. “I’m always diagnosing. It’s a tough habit to break.”

“It was breast cancer,” Elaine said. “Stage three. I was diagnosed two years ago. I’ve had surgery and finished two rounds of chemo. So far it seems to be working.”

“When will you know?”

“By the end of June.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elaine tapped her finger against the cold ginger ale can. “Don’t be. Cancer has a way of stripping away whatever doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for the treatment.”

“Colton said you hired him and started work on Woodmont two years ago.”

“I decided the craziness of Washington, DC, was too much. Lofton was immersed in law school, and suddenly the idea of spending the rest of my life living in a congested city didn’t make sense. I’m still only here part time, and I’m not sure Ted will ever be able to live in the country. But I spend as much time as I can here.”

“I didn’t see him on Saturday.”

“He’s preparing for a trial. He’s making this coming weekend longer and arriving tomorrow.”

“How long have you two been married?”

“Thirty years in August. We’re planning on a big party here at Woodmont. Consider yourself invited.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I mean it. I like you, and it would be an honor to have you here. It’s going to be a real celebration.”

“Thanks. I’ll take pictures as my gift to you.”

Elaine sipped her ginger ale. “I shouldn’t have been surprised by it. The cancer. My mother had it but recovered. She’d still be alive if not for the car accident. And my grandmother also died from it.”

Libby paused and then said, “My mother never had a physically sick day in her life. She struggled with mental illness. Of course, neither of those things really mean much to me in terms of genetics. I’m adopted.”

“Have you always known about your adoption?” she asked.

“No. I found out when I was twelve. A cousin told me at a family reunion. Looking back, I always wondered how my parents could have thought they could keep it a secret in a small town.”

“Do you know anything about your birth family?”

“I know I was born in New Jersey and that my mother was single. My original birth certificate is sealed, so I don’t have much beyond some nonidentifying information provided to me by the state.” She swirled her coffee cup. “If I can work up the courage to go through Dad’s desk, I might find something about my past.”

“You haven’t looked yet?”

“Lots of changes in the last year. I’m not quite ready for another one.”

“You might be one day.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Discovering your roots is important.”

“I want medical information more than anything. I’ve had three miscarriages. It would be nice to know if that kind of thing runs in the family. Peace of mind, I guess. A heads-up would be welcome.”

“I’m sorry about your miscarriages.”

Her words carried a deep empathy that was touching. Personal suffering had a way of helping to bond with another’s misery. “Thanks.”

“When did they happen?”

“The last was nearly two years ago. I made it to fourteen weeks.” She resisted the urge to skim her hand across her belly and search for the faint flutters.

“I had no trouble carrying Lofton. My grandmother Olivia had several miscarriages in the 1940s.”

“The greenhouse was built for her, right?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“She met my grandfather, who had been studying at Oxford. Apparently one of their first dates was in her parents’ solarium. They fell in love. Her parents wanted her away from the bombings in London, so they encouraged the two to marry quickly in London so Olivia could come to the United States.”

“She must have led an interesting life.”

“She did. Very independent woman. She was an artist and an avid gardener. She kept detailed notes and made lovely drawings of the flowers she planted.”

“She was your paternal grandmother?”

“Yes, my dad was born in 1943.”

“And the miscarriages?”

“They came before he was born. She only had my dad.”

“Only?” An unexpected bitterness had seeped out.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”