Free Anywhere You Are by Elisabeth Barrett

yourself at home,” Grace said, making a beeline for a crockpot sitting on the countertop. “I think it’s done.” She lifted the lid and the enticing aroma of browned meat and savory vegetables wafted from the pot. “Mmm, perfect. I figured we’d eat first and then I could give you the tour later.”
    “A tour? Of the house?” He couldn’t hide his eagerness.
    She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Sound okay?”
    “Of course. Call it professional interest, but I do like looking at the bones of a place, especially classic New England farmhouses. Though most of the time it’s the way a house is decorated that tells me the most about its inhabitants.” Pointedly, he stared at the ceiling, where a light fixture in the shape of a pineapple hung above the wooden kitchen table.
    “The pineapple is a symbol of welcome,” she said, deadpan, but she couldn’t help her lips from twitching.
    “I see.” He kept his gaze studiously neutral. “Your handiwork?”
    She shook her head. “The last owners put it in. Apparently, it’s Italian. I don’t mind the kitsch so much. Besides,” she said with a grin, “it’s a real conversation starter.”
    “Or stopper.”
    Grace laughed at that. “It
is
horrible. But somehow, I can’t bear to get rid of it. When I moved in, the electricians told me I should ditch the old fixtures and have the whole house rewired, but I never got around to doing it.”
    “You should. It could be dangerous.”
    Grace shrugged. “Eh. It’s been here a long time—forty years, I think.” She rummaged around underneath a cabinet and pulled out two big plastic bowls. “It’ll probably last another forty.”
    She filled one of the bowls with water, then put it outside. Then she ladled some of whatever was in the crockpot into the other bowl and set that outside, too. Putting two fingers between her lips, she let out an ear-splitting whistle.
    Before Marc had a chance to ask her where she learned to do that, he heard Big Blue’s answering bark.
    “Good dog,” Grace said, rubbing his head when he came over.
    The dog didn’t even pause, but immediately went to the bowl and started wolfing down the fragrant stew, as if Marc hadn’t just fed him two hours ago, pausing only to lick his lips before he dove right back in.
    “I think he likes it,” Grace said with some satisfaction before turning back to Marc. “It’s beef stew. The perfect one-bowl meal. Protein, vegetables, and carbs. Tidy. Neat.” She looked over at the dog, who had stew all over his muzzle. “Well, maybe not so neat,” she said with a laugh. “You hungry?”
    Cheeky woman, mocking him like that. But instead of being annoyed, he simply was bemused. Grace Davingham was becoming more intriguing by the moment.
    He pushed aside any lingering doubts…at least for the time being.
    “If it’s good enough for the dog,” he told her in all seriousness, “it’s good enough for me.”
    —
    After lunch, Grace gave him a tour of her studio, the old barn she’d converted into an art space.
    Excluding the empty hayloft, it wasn’t that big—about twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Art lined the floors and the walls. Canvases in various states of completion were stacked on the tables or on easels. The works were mostly depictions of the natural world, indescribably detailed, realistic, and above all, passionate.
    Propped up against one table leg was an illustration of a trout, its skin shimmering, its eyes practically flickering with life. And hanging up on a paint-splattered wall was a great blue heron, its head at a jaunty angle, looking as if it were about to fly off the canvas.
    In the middle of the chaos sat a canvas on an easel, with hues of black, brown, and blue.
    He took a step forward. “May I?”
    “See? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Please.” She motioned for him to go over and he did, stepping carefully around piles of paintings on the ground.
    It was a depiction of some kind of bird—a seabird from the looks of its