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she remembered her grandmother’s warm hug earlier. “Getting feisty again, puttering around with her baking, even looking for a volunteer job. But now she’s applied here at the hospital, so I’ve got to jump in and stop that.”
    “Why? I think it would be great if she came back here. I still can’t get over her old photo in the lobby, with that button-front nurse’s uniform and the white stockings. She looks just like you.”
    “So I’ve heard,” Erin said, tempted to glare in Scott McKenna’s direction. She picked up her coffee. “But as for Nana’s volunteering here, I’m afraid it would be too hard on her. Fighting my grandfather’s cancer took so much out of her. Physically, emotionally—” she felt the familiar snarl of anger twist in her stomach—“and financially. I still can’t close my eyes without seeing that bank-owned sign pounded into her lawn. Those heartless vultures. But then we all kept thinking the expense of the experimental drugs and all those alternative therapies would be more than worth the cost.”
    Leigh reached across the table and touched Erin’s hand. “Of course you did. And I know Iris appreciates your moving here with her. Uprooting yourself, putting your life on hold to live here for two years. You’re amazing.”
    “I’d do anything for her,” Erin said, uncomfortable with the praise . . . and the reminder that her family wasn’t happy with her plan. “And if Nana occupies that house, she’ll get the tax break when she sells. But I also think living here could help her recover, you know? That’s my real goal. And letting her volunteer goes completely counter to that. This place is full of everything she’s trying to forget—tragedy, sickness, and death. There’s no protective gear against that kind of exposure.
    Chapter Three
    Erin turned the letter over in her hands, frowning at the name on the front . Erin Anne Calloway. Ten years and he still didn’t get it. It wasn’t her name anymore. She looked over to where her grandmother washed dinner dishes at the sink. “Why didn’t you just throw this away? I won’t read Dad’s letters. You know that.”
    “No,” Nana said slowly, drying the inside of a stoneware chowder bowl, “but I do know you.” She gave Erin her famous I-have-faith-in-you look. The exact same expression she’d employed when, at age seven, Erin stubbornly refused to include the class bully on her list for homemade valentines. She’d pointed out all his nasty flaws, then politely listened to her grandmother’s reminder about loving your enemies and turning the other cheek, all the while biting her tongue so she wouldn’t say she’d rather punch his ugly nose. She’d grudgingly pasted his valentine. Last. With no glitter. Then picked through all the candy conversation hearts until she found a green one inscribed Back Off , spit on it, and sealed it in the envelope.
    “Besides, mail tampering is a federal offense. My rap sheet is long enough already.” Nana set her dish towel on the vintage Formica counter and reached for her cardigan draped over the back of a chair. “Let’s take our tea outside. I need to check my hollyhocks. And after all the hubbub at the hospital today, I think you could use some fresh air.”
    “Amen.” Shower mold, pesticide scare, letter from Dad—ocean air was a great idea. Erin set the letter down on the glass-topped driftwood coffee table, telling herself she’d toss it when Nana wasn’t looking. Just because Mom was weak enough to let Dad back into her life didn’t mean Erin had to. Some things were too toxic to risk. She’d legally changed her name to sever the connection. And right now a change of subject would help keep that distance. She didn’t even want to talk about Frank Calloway.
    Erin grabbed the mug of herbal tea and followed Nana outside, thinking this might also be the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of volunteering at the hospital. She couldn’t let her