Clara stepped inside, stamping snow off her boots. She smelled like cinnamon and something else—clove, maybe, or the kind of confidence Abby had forgotten she could borrow.

For the next hour, they moved around each other in the warm, fragrant kitchen like dancers learning a new step. Clara slid her pie onto the middle rack. Abby stirred her sauce and tried not to stare at the way Clara hummed while she washed her hands, or the way she leaned against the oak island like it had always belonged to her, too.

The timer dinged. Clara pulled out a pie that was golden and imperfect, its lattice crust slightly lopsided but proud. She set it on the island to cool.