She climbed the stairs. She always kept the doors to her parents’ old room and her father’s office closed. It made it easier to pretend she was just here for the weekend and that any second now she would have to get in her car and drive back to her real life.

Since she had moved back in early January, she had not gone in her father’s study. Her father had prepaid his housekeeper, Lou Ann, to clean the house every two weeks, and she could tell by the sharp scent of lemon polish that Lou Ann dutifully cleaned without exception.

So when she opened the door to her father’s office, she was not surprised to see the polished, clean surface of her father’s desk.

Stepping into the room, she could not miss the freshly painted walls.

“Dad, why are you having the inside of the house painted?” It had been one of a dozen visits she had made to his hospital bedside during the last eight weeks of his life. If she was not shooting or editing, she was with her dad.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t leave you a mess. The house is going to be in tip-top shape and ready to sell whenever you’re ready.”

“Dad, we shouldn’t talk about selling.” This was Libby’s denial stage regarding her father’s illness. She and denial had met up a few times before, so when it strolled in, it sadly felt like an old friend.

“I want you to take the money and do something nice for yourself.”

“Like what, a cruise?” Mention of a cruise sent her mind gathering fresh concerns such as rogue waves, pirates, and shipboard illnesses that debilitated passengers and crew with nausea.

“You could set up a studio.”

“I don’t need a studio.”

“Don’t just sit on that house, Libby.” His pale hand gripped hers with surprising strength. “I want you to move on with your life and be happy.”

“I’m happy.”

He shook his head and said nothing.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I always figure out a way to make things right.”

He had stared at her a long moment with clear, bright eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’ve never worried about you, kiddo. You are the strongest McKenzie there ever was.”

Libby hurried down the stairs, grabbed her phone off the couch, and dialed Sierra’s number.

She picked up on the third ring. “Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

Water from the tap ran in the background. “I’m washing out my mixing bowl so I can bake a lemon cake.”

Knowing her friend, she asked, “How many have you already made?”

“Five.”

She headed back up the stairs to her father’s office. “And why do you need six? Do you have an order?”

“Law of attraction. I’m willing my business to come to me.”

Libby glanced up at the fresh pale-gray walls and the white trim. “What say we use my dad’s house as collateral for your loan?”

The water shut off. “What? No way. That’s your house.”

“It’s not my house,” Libby said. “It was Dad’s.”

“You can sell it and make good money.”

“Yeah, and then I guess I could loan you the money for the sandwich shop renovation, but why not just use it as collateral? It’ll save me from having to get a real estate agent.”

Silence vibrated over the line.

“Still there?” Libby asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“If we do this, and I mean if, I’ll pay you back every cent.”

“Technically, you won’t owe me any money. You’ll owe the bank. As long as you don’t default, we’re golden.” She could have scribbled down several worst-case scenarios. Sandwich shop doesn’t earn a dime, and Sierra defaults on the loan. The sandwich shop burns. Sierra runs off with the money and moves to Mexico with a guy named Manny.

But Libby did not feel like jotting that list down.

“Is this a yes or a no?”

“It’s a yes,” Sierra said softly.

“Say it like you mean it,” Libby said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Set up a meeting with the bank. Knowing my dad, the title to the house is in his desk. I’ll go through it tonight.”

“Okay. Then yes!”

“Good.” She looked around the room and for the first time was glad her father had left it to her.

“You’ve got that thing at Elaine’s tonight. I forgot, what kind of party is it again?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Hey, you want to take a lemon cake?”

It was nearly six o’clock as Libby drove up Woodmont’s long driveway toward the house. Sitting on the seat beside her was a large cake box filled with lemon cake number three, which Sierra believed was the best of the six.

She spotted Colton’s truck parked beside a Mercedes and a Land Rover and was grateful he would be here among the landed gentry. The ping of anticipation was unexpected but kind of nice. It was what she had felt once for Jeremy, what she had seen in Ginger’s eyes, and what she had heard in Sierra’s voice as she had screamed, “This is going to be so great!”

She gathered up the lemon cake and followed the sound of laughter and music to the east garden. As she stepped through the gate, she was transported back to an issue of Martha Stewart Living. It was all that anyone would expect in a slick, glossy lifestyle magazine. A long rustic farmhouse table dressed with white earthenware plates, cobalt-blue Depression-era glasses, white linen napkins, mismatched chairs that should not go together but somehow did, and a long garland table runner festooned with small vases filled with white roses.

Elaine stood at the head of the table. Her coloring was better today, and she was laughing, surrounded by her husband and daughter, who was a carbon copy of her mother.

Libby did not look like her adoptive parents, and it had always sparked questions about whom she did resemble. She had asked her mother a few times about her birth mother, but the question had always put her mother in such a dark mood she had stopped asking.

As she approached Elaine, her stomach tightened with nerves. As if sensing her, Elaine looked up and smiled. “Libby, you made it.”

Libby held up the cake. “Thank you for having me.”

Elaine took the cake. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“My neighbor Sierra Mancuso is opening a sandwich shop soon. She’s very good, and she wanted us to enjoy it.”

“It smells amazing.”

“It is.”

Ted came up beside Elaine. “Welcome back. I know I’ll be having at least two pieces. I know Margaret won’t mind an unplanned dessert.”

“Ted is grilling, and Margaret is just finishing up a couple of side dishes in the kitchen. I did set the table,” Elaine said, laughing. “It’s the extent of my culinary talents.” She turned toward her daughter. “I would like you to meet Lofton.”

Ted took the cake from Elaine, and as he set it in the center of the farmhouse table, Elaine clasped her daughter’s hand and tugged her forward. “This is Lofton. I think I told you she just graduated from the University of Virginia law school.”