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done!”
    The simple cottage, on the other hand, was perfect. It was a true beach cottage—a place to crash when you weren’t at the beach or out exploring the Cape. It had hardwood floors throughout and a sunny deck with an outdoor shower, and in addition to the two bedrooms, it had a cozy living area that opened into a small kitchen, and although the bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in, she’d manage.
    Sailor picked up a cardboard box marked BOOKS and put it down in front of a small oak bookcase she’d set up next to her drawing table. She pulled open the flaps, lifted out a pile of children’s books, and stood them up on the shelves. A lifetime of work, she thought, and it fits on two shelves! What would happen to her career now? Frank had always been her editor. He’d been the one who called her that snowy afternoon in early December all those years ago, when she didn’t know how she was ever going to pay for Christmas gifts. He’d been the one to tell her he loved Don’t Put the Cart before the Horse —a silly children’s book she’d written and illustrated her senior year at RISD—and ever since that day, they’d been a team—in more ways than one. Any idea she’d had for a book always breezed right through the publisher’s meetings. What about now, though? Would Frank make things difficult for her? Would he try to have her blacklisted? She would definitely need to find a new editor . . . maybe even a new publisher. With her library of work, though, and her connections, she shouldn’t have too much trouble . . . or would she? Her connections were getting older—some were even retiring—and she was getting older, too. The publishing world was changing. Nothing was certain anymore.
    Sailor sighed, stood up stiffly, and made her way through the boxes to the kitchen. The electricity had been turned on that morning, so she’d picked up some basics for the fridge—cheese, butter, eggs, and then she’d stopped at the package store and picked up a couple of bottles of chardonnay. She looked at her phone. It was 4:45 . . . and five o’clock somewhere just off the coast. She opened a bottle, rummaged around in one of the boxes for a glass, and carried both outside to sit on the steps. Whatever happens happens, she thought resignedly. I can’t worry about it. Besides, I’m sitting on the steps of my new beach cottage with a bottle of wine, the smell of the ocean, and a new life—it doesn’t get any better than this!

C HAPTER 5
    P iper sat on the mudroom bench, trying to tie her running shoes while Chloe’s tail banged against her head. “Hey! You’re silly, you know that?” Piper said, pulling her into a hug and making her wiggle even more. “I love you, too,” she whispered, holding her head in her hands and looking into her sweet brown eyes. “Are you ready to go for a run?” Chloe danced around and pushed the screen door open with her nose, making it bang against the house . . . and making Piper wince. “Remind me to fix that later.”
    As soon as Chloe got outside, she picked up a stuffed animal that was lying on the porch, gave it an affectionate shake, and began prancing around with it. “I’m sorry, Chlo, but you have to leave Zoe here,” Piper said, eyeing the big floppy toy. Zoe—once a soft, cream-colored stuffed dog with squeakers in her nose and tail—was Chloe’s prize possession. When Nat first brought her home, Chloe had immediately fallen in love with her, and ever since then, whenever someone stopped by, Chloe always hurried off to find her beloved stuffed animal and then paraded through the house with her in her mouth, wagging her whole hind end. Unfortunately, Zoe had spent a couple of nights out in the rain and her creamy color had turned a dingy shade of gray. She’d also started to smell a little funky, and in