A Creed in Stone Creek. Linda Miller Lael

that—Ashley married, and a mother. Sometimes, it seemed incredible.

      “You must be one of the current guests,” she replied, smiling, extending a hand across the picket fence. “Melissa O’Ballivan,” she said.

      “I’m John P. Winthrop IV,” the man replied, with a nod and a very wide—and very white—smile. “But you can call me John.”

      “How’s it going, John?” Melissa asked, thinking she might be able to wrap up this interview quickly and dash off an honest email to Ashley when she got home, assuring her that the B&B was still standing. “Is there anything you or any of the other guests need?”

      He beamed. “Well, we can always use another croquet player,” he said, making a grand gesture toward the nearby side gate, which led into Ashley’s beautifully kept garden of specially cultivated wildflowers.

      A teenage boy from the neighborhood did the watering and mowed the lawn, so the flowers, a profusion of reds and blues and pinks and oranges, looked good, if a little weedy here and there.

      “I wouldn’t be an asset to any self-respecting croquet team,” Melissa smiled. She ran two miles every morning, but that was the extent of her athletic efforts. “But I would like to meet your friends.”

      John P. Winthrop IV rushed to work the latch and swing the gate open. “You look like you could use an ice-cold glass of lemonade,” he said.

      Try a shot of whiskey, Melissa thought wryly, recalling the Velda debacle. She hoped Byron Cahill had been waiting when his mother got home. If he’d taken off for parts unknown, he was in all sorts of trouble.

      “Thanks,” she said aloud, bringing herself back to the moment. “Lemonade sounds good.”

      Mr. Winthrop closed the gate and sprinted to catch up to Melissa on the flagstone walk. He seemed pretty agile for a man of advancing years.

      Maybe it was the croquet playing.

      “There is one thing,” he said hastily.

      Something in his tone, a sort of mild urgency, made Melissa stop and look up into his kindly and somewhat abashed face.

      “We’re a little—different, my friends and I,” Mr. Winthrop said.

      “Different?” Melissa asked, while inside her head, a voice warned, Here we go.

      Mr. Winthrop cleared his throat. “Mabel should have told your sister in advance, when we booked the rooms,” he said. “But we were all counting so on this little getaway and when it turned out we were going to have the whole place to ourselves, well, it all just seemed meant to be—”

      Melissa squinted, still several beats behind. “Mabel?”

      “Mabel Elliott,” Mr. Winthrop said helpfully. “We’re all retired, living in the same community, and relatively comfortable financially, and we take a lot of these little jaunts. Mabel knows how to use the internet, so she’s in charge of arranging accommodations.”

      “I see,” Melissa said, still mystified, and beginning to wish she hadn’t agreed to that glass of lemonade. She could be home in a couple of minutes, taking a cool shower, donning shorts and a tank top and sandals, puttering around in her struggling vegetable garden and generally minding her own business.

      Mr. Winthrop took her elbow, in a courtly way. “And with all the foliage surrounding the backyard,” he added, dropping his voice, “there’s really no harm done anyway, now is there?”

      He still sounded nervous, though. And Melissa could relate, because she was feeling downright jittery by now. What could possibly be going on?

      They rounded the back corner of the house, and Melissa froze, her mouth open.

      Five people, three women and two men, all having a grand old time, were playing croquet in the green, well-shaded grass.

      And every last one of them was stark naked.

      THE PICTURE OF JILLIE AND ZACK, taken on their honeymoon, showed them parachuting in tandem, somewhere in Mexico, their faces alight with celebration as they mugged for the skydiving photographer jumping with them.

      There were lots of photos of the St. Johns, but this one was Matt’s favorite.

      “Tell me again about when this picture was taken,” Matt said, snuggling down into his sleeping bag, while Steven perched on the edge of the lower bunk and Zeke made himself comfortable on an improvised dog bed nearby.

      Holding the framed photograph in his hands, Steven smiled, taking in those familiar faces. Even now, it seemed impossible that two people with so much life in them could be gone.

      “Well,” Steven began, as he had a hundred times before, since he’d become Matt’s legal guardian and then his adoptive father, “we all went to school together, your mom, your dad and me, and right from the first, they were a real pair—”

      “Tell me about the wedding,” Matt prompted, with a yawn. It was all part of the pattern—he would fight sleep for a while, then lose the battle. “You were the best man, right?”

      “I was the best man,” Steven confirmed huskily.

      “And you and my daddy had to wear penguin suits.”

      Steven chuckled, wondering if the kid was picturing him and Zack dressed up like short, squat birds from the Frozen North.

      But, no—he knew what a tuxedo looked like. Matt had seen the wedding pictures a million times—usually, he asked why he wasn’t in them.

      The answer—you weren’t born yet—never seemed to sink in.

      “Yeah,” Steven said belatedly. “We had to wear penguin suits.”

      “Mommy had on a pretty white dress, though,” Matt chimed in.

      “Yep.”

      “And out of all three of you, she was the best-looking.”

      “A rose between two thorns,” Steven said, playing the game.

      “A petunia in an onion patch,” Matt responded, on cue.

      They laughed, the man and the boy. There was a ragged quality to the sound.

      “Tell me more about my mommy and daddy,” Matt said.

      Steven talked, his heart in his throat much of the time, until the boy finally nodded off. When he was sure Matt was asleep, he left the room, stepping carefully around the dog.

      Out in the living room/kitchen area, Steven opened his laptop, booted it up and logged on. He hadn’t checked his email in a few days.

      Once he’d weeded out the junk, and the stuff he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment, he opened a recent message from his stepmother, Kim. It was dated that afternoon.

      “Are you there yet?” she’d written. “Let us know when you get settled in Stone Creek, and your dad and I will come for a visit.”

      Smiling, Steven tapped out a brief reply. Kim had always treated him with warmth and good humor during those growing-up summers, never trying to take his mother’s place. “We’re here,” he wrote, “and living the high life in a country-music star’s tour bus. There are bunk beds in Matt’s room, so you and Dad could sleep there.”

      The thought of that made his grin widen.

      He added a description of Zeke, the sheepdog, recounting the pet-adoption saga, assured Kim that he and Matt were both fine, and signed off with love.

      A second message came from Conner. “I’ll be in Stone Creek for the rodeo next month,” it read. “Save me a bed.”

      And that was the whole thing.

      Steven chuckled. His cousin was definitely a man of few words.

      He hit Reply and told Conner he was always welcome and there would be a bed waiting when