Page 73 of The Magic We Made

But not just any honey.

“West Harbor honey?” Mom cries, genuinely delighted. She’s beaming at Ash like he’s just presented her with the key to New York City. “But I love West Harbor honey, and I can never find it because they’re always sold out! How did you know?”

Ash shrugs modestly. “It’s a gift.”

Except... he isn’t joking. I genuinely have no idea how he knew about the honey.

I didn’t even know he’d bought it. From the second we arrived at the farmers market, Ash was swarmed with vendors who recognized him from previous visits. They all waved goods in his face while volunteering the information that they had not heard anything new about Emma Bridle.

But they were all eager to tell him other things, like how annoying the influx of leaf peepers from the city are, now that fall is finally here, because all they want to do is pull over to the side of the road—in the middle of traffic!—and take selfies by the one or two trees whose leaves have turned, but none of them ever buy anything.

Or about the discovery of Meg Boucher, not realizing that Ash was the one who’d rescued her.

Still, he thanked every last one of them as earnestly as if he had never heard any of this information before. Then he asked after the health of their families. He knew the names of all their dogs and kids, and accepted every free sample that was offered to him—which were many.

“So I guess you come here a lot,” I’d said after we walked away from the Cottage Witch Cheese Shoppe (just a table with a canopy over it owned by two very friendly women who insisted Ash couldn’t leave without trying their new sheep’s milk gouda).

“I love it.” He’d reached out and grabbed my hand. “We’reoutside in the sunshine and crisp autumn air, surrounded by people who love good food and good conversation. What could be better?”

What could be better indeed? Except, apparently, using one’s special ability to find “lost things” to pick out the perfect hostess gift for my mother, who expresses her gratitude for the gesture by thrusting grilled prosciutto and arugula pizzettas, along withtagliere di salumi, into our hands.

“Mrs. Giovanni, these are unbelievable,” Ash is saying as he downs approximately half his daily net allowance of carbs in one bite.

“I’m so glad you like them!” Mom is beaming. “But please, call me Mama. Wait until you see what we’re having for dinner!”

My mother is an inveterate flirt, but that’s okay, because so is Ash. “Really? What is it?”

“I said you’ll have to wait and see!”

Mom is in her element, even if two of her children are missing. Cat has some kind of deadline—the same one that kept her from last night’s engagement party—and Angie is off on a mysterious hair-related emergency, though she phoned to say she’ll be arriving soon.

“They work too hard, your sisters,” Mom confides to me. “They always have.”

I’ve never noticed this about Cat, but I let the statement pass since it’s definitely true in Angie’s case.

“Here,” I say to my mom. “I got you a little something from the farmers market, too.”

Then I hand my mother what I purchased: a hand-carved refrigerator magnet featuring the Three Little Kittens—the ones who lost their mittens in the nursery rhyme, only instead of mittens,these particular kittens are wearing witch hats because they were made by a local artist right here in West Harbor.

“These are your new grandchildren,” I joke with Mom. She collects kitschy refrigerator magnets as well as aprons (like theDon’t Get Upsettione she gifted to me). “I finally caught the stray cat that’s been hanging around my house all summer, and she had kittens last night.”

“Congratulazioni!” Mom cries and kisses my cheek as she takes the magnet. “I’m a nonna again!”

“Kittens!” scream my nieces, who, along with Mark, have followed us inside. “Can we have one, Zia Frankie?Please?”

“I don’t know.” I wink at their father, who has just walked into the dining room with a bottle of beer in one hand and a plate of stuffed mushrooms in the other. “First you’ll have to complete an adoption application, listing all the ways in which you would care for a kitten—”

“But Zia Frankie,” Bianca cries, urgently pulling on my cardigan. “I can’tread!”

“Well, hopefully your sister will help you, then. You’ll both also need to come over for supervised visitation so I can observe your kitten etiquette. And I’ll need a written statement from both your parents saying it’s okay.”

Both girls turn immediately toward their father. “It’s okay with you, isn’t it, Dad?” Portia asks.

“Please,Dad,” Bianca lisps. “I’ve wanted a kitten mywhole life.”

Ash is grinning down at the two girls. “Your whole life? How old are you?”

Bianca holds up five pudgy fingers.