“The morning mail came to the gatehouse, Mrs.

Varela,” Marcus said, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I put the registered delivery receipts in the main hall.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” I said, resting my brush on the edge of the palette.

“The grounds look immaculate today.”

“The rose beds along the north wall were pruned yesterday afternoon,” he replied.

“We’re keeping everything exactly the way your father wanted.”

I looked at him for a moment, feeling the steady loyalty that had held this property together through the five years I was gone.