Tess’s mother had spent her childhood in the fairytale house, her room overlooking the crescent-shaped sprawl of Carnelian Cove. The building’s fanciful bays and jutting windows, its wide porches and shadowed niches had filled Tess’s imagination with romantic scenes during the holidays and summers she’d spent here as a girl, and she wondered-as she so often did lately-whether this grand old place was the source of her fascination with architecture.

She slowed as she passed through the gap in an imposing black iron gate, admiring the stone steps that marched from the leaded-glass entry to meet the dramatic sweep of pristine lawn. Pale green ferns spilled from wicker stands, and the porch swing sported bright new pillows striped in sherbet shades. One of Grandmère’s fussy, yappy little terriers dashed to the top of the steps and sounded the alarm.

Though she’d have preferred to continue to the rear service area and enter through the modest kitchen door, Tess pulled beneath the stately porte cochere shading the side entrance. She was a grown woman now-and gathering every one of her thirty-one years about her like a shield. She didn’t need the additional fortification of a cookie stolen from Julia’s fat jar to help her face her formidable grandmother. But she did take a moment to run a comb through her hair and freshen her lipstick before she stepped from her car. Geneva Chandler wasn’t simply Grandmère this afternoon-she was a business associate.

The heavy oak door opened and two more yipping, beribboned dogs escaped to circle Tess’s car. Geneva stood in the doorway, a tall woman whose regal stance was softened by pink cashmere, pearls and a welcoming smile. “Right on time,” she said.

“I can manage when it matters.” Tess grinned and waded through the pack of terriers sniffing at her ankles. “And I was hoping you might reward me with lunch.”