HILO, DON’T BE AFRAID. It’s just Al,” Posey said, trying to woo her dog from underneath the statue of Arpad the Archer, patron saint of Hungary, that currently graced the front yard of Irreplaceable Artifacts. “We love UPS! Don’t be scared.” Shilo whined, his tail wagging, but the truth was, the dog was a coward.

“I have a cookie,” Al said, kneeling down. Shilo whimpered and backed up, ramming his massive haunches against an old birdbath.

“He’s already eaten three donuts,” Posey said. “You have to up the ante, Al. Maybe a filet mignon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Al said, getting back into the giant brown truck. “Have a good day, Posey.”

“You’re such a baby,” Posey told her dog. “Some watchdog you’d make. You’d hide and watch the killers hack me to pieces, wouldn’t you?” With the UPS truck safely gone, Shilo gave a fond woof and licked Posey’s wrist with his massive tongue.

Last year, Posey had made the mistake of going to the pound. Being adopted herself, she’d taken one look into Shilo’s red-rimmed eyes and just couldn’t say no. Bad enough that she’d inherited three cats with the church she’d bought, now she owned a 150-pound black-and-white Great Dane whose talents seemed to be sleeping, baying and cowering from deliverymen. He was, however, deeply devoted to Posey during his waking hours and didn’t quite realize that he outweighed her by a third; he often tried to sit on her lap (and succeeded more often than not).

Now that he was safe from Big Brown, Shilo went to sniff the pair of giant concrete lions from the old library up in Maine. Though her parents often frowned over why Posey had devoted her career to things that had outlived their purpose, Posey felt just the opposite. Salvage was practically a religion to her. Someone would want these things—the barbershop pole all the way from the Bronx, the wheel from an old tugboat, the stained-glass windows from an old Victorian, the chipped gargoyle from a church in Winooski—and they’d be cherished and enjoyed once more, and Posey’s job would be done.

But now it was donut time. Today was Thursday, the day when her two closest pals came over for goodies after school. Jon, her brother’s longtime partner, and Kate, Posey’s friend from grammar school, were both teachers at Bellsford High. Jon taught home-ec and was quite adored by the students… Kate, as phys-ed teacher, was not. Each year without fail, the seniors would dedicate the yearbook to their beloved Mr. White, something Jon enjoyed lording over the other teachers.

“Hi, guys!” Posey called, holding the door for her dog, who trotted happily inside, licking his chops. Three cream-filled pastries had apparently not been enough.

“Hi, Posey! How are you?” Elise Wooding, one of Posey’s two employees, beamed at her as if it had been years since they’d seen each other, not two hours. “How was Vivian today?”

“Well, she was Vivian,” Posey answered. “She didn’t love my haircut. And she didn’t sign anything, of course. Down East Salvage is taking her to dinner on Friday, as she told me three times. She showed me the date on her BlackBerry, just in case I was getting cocky.” Though a hundred and one years old, Viv was quite current when it came to the latest tech.

Vivian Appleton was the owner of The Meadows, a glorious old Victorian home on ten acres of land. The house was stunning—a three-story Victorian with ornate fireplaces and a butler’s kitchen, curved staircases and window seats. Every corner seemed to offer a treasure, whether it was an iron heating grate or a slipper tub as pretty as a calla lily. Viv didn’t live there anymore, having moved to a swanky elderly housing complex in Portsmouth. For more than two years, Vivian had been dangling the rights to The Meadows in front of every salvage operation in New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont.

Vivian’s heirs, four grand-nieces and-nephews, planned to tear down the beautiful old house, the caretaker’s cottage and the barn and sell the land, with its orchards and stream, to a developer. It was a tragedy, Posey thought. But the heirs—or the Vultures, as Viv called them—would get more for the land than they could for the house and property, and Vivian was determined to let them do as they wished—some sense of Yankee familial duty or something. But if the house was going to be torn down, Posey wanted to be the one who did it. It would be like giving last rites to a much-loved friend, and she and Mac, her pathologically shy carpenter, would take the time to do it right, with care and respect, and yes, even love.

Despite being something of a diva, Viv recognized Posey’s love for the place and had given her the code to the alarm system. About once a week, sometimes more, Posey went out to The Meadows, just to walk around the empty house and still-lovely grounds, check the roof in the winter, make sure the place was untouched by vandals or kids.

“She’ll sign with us? Right? I just know it.” Elise had the habit of making all her comments into questions, but she was a sweet girl—only six years younger than Posey, but seeming much more. “Oh, right? I forgot? Brianna’s here already. With Mac?” Elise blushed from her cleavage on up—she’d had a crush on Mac since the day she started here two years ago.

Posey went to the back of the barn, where Mac, balding, stoic and solid, did restoration work on pieces that needed repair or refinishing. He was talking (a rare occurrence), his voice low, telling Brianna how to see the difference between oak and maple. Brie looked up in relief.

“There you are. You’re late. I’m reporting you.” Brianna folded her chubby arms across her chest and glared, then relented when Shilo trotted up to her and licked her elbow.

“Hi, Mac,” Posey said. Her right-hand man nodded at her. A man of few words, Mac, but the reason Posey could run Irreplaceable. “You guys hungry? I brought donuts.”

“Duh. Yes. Aren’t you? Aren’t you always hungry?” Brie said.

“Drop the attitude, twerp.” Brianna had been her little sister through Big Brothers/Big Sisters for two years now, and despite the fact that the girl was thirteen, Posey loved her. “Mac, you want a break?”

“I’m good,” he said, glancing up to the front desk with what could only be described as fear. Elise waved. Mac looked away.

“How was school today?” Posey asked Brie.

“It sucked. As usual. The teachers all think I’m dumb.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She reached out and touched the girl’s shoulder, which Brie tolerated. Brianna came over after school at least a few days a week—the kid’s home life was crap. Her mom was only twenty-nine and had an endless parade of boyfriends living with her, so Posey was more than happy to have the girl with her.

“So when does coffee hour start?” Brianna asked.

As if on cue, the barn door opened, and in came Jon and Kate, bickering amiably. Posey’s two best friends were as opposite as could be—Jon was sleek, graceful and charming and made everyone around him feel like his favorite person on earth; Kate tended to view her whistle as a primary form of communication, was built like a Brahma bull and had no issues with, ah, personal boundaries.

Kate’s fourteen-year-old son, James, was also there, as Kate tended to drag him wherever she went. Like Posey, James had been adopted, though at the ripe old age of seven, whereas Posey had been only hours old when Stacia and Max had taken custody. The lad seemed to be developing a crush on Brie, which Posey thought was wicked cute.

“Hey, guys,” Posey said, feeling a warm flush of pride. It never failed to thrill her, having her friends drop in. Made her finally feel like a cool kid after all these years. Not that she could blame them—Irreplaceable was a great place to hang out. Shilo woofed happily at the sight of Jon, then collapsed on his back, jowls flapping to reveal his enormous teeth, just in case Jon was in the mood to rub his tummy.

“Hi, Jon, hi, Kate!” Elise sang. “How are you?”

“I’m a little yeasty,” Kate answered thoughtfully. James winced.

“Elise, sweetheart, please don’t put our names together,” Jon said. “People will think we have eight children and hate each other. Bad enough that we work together, right, Kate? Hello, Brie, you beautiful thing.”

“Hey, Mr. White,” Brianna said, blushing. Most straight females had a crush on Jon, and Brie was no exception. Jon poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the counter, which was from a diner, and spun around on the stool.

“Oh, donuts!” Kate lunged for a cream-filled pastry. “I’m starving. James, want a bite?”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“Take a bite. You’ll love it.” Kate waved the donut in front of her son’s eyes as Shilo watched, hypnotized and drooling.

“I’m fine.”

“James! A bite!”

“Okay!” James gave Posey a dark look—see what I have to put up with?—then took a bite of his mother’s donut. “I love it. My reason for living has been revealed. Hi, Brianna.” Brianna didn’t deign to answer, simply looked at James until his face went from pink to nearly purple. “Okay. I’ll go do homework. Oh, hey, Posey, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot, kid.” She chose a chocolate-covered donut and took a huge bite.

“Did you ever look for your birth parents? I have this workbook…?. Did you ever do anything like this?” He pulled a book out of his backpack. Before You Find Them.

“No, I never did,” Posey answered, glancing at Kate, whose concentration was still on the donut. She flipped through the book. “But this is cool. How’s it going?”

“Well, I haven’t really started yet,” James said. “This is just stuff to think about. Some wicked cool horror stories in here. Some nice ones, too.”

“What are the horror stories?” Brie asked.

“Um…come on, I’ll show you the worst ones.” He gestured toward a Victorian sofa, and after a long stare, Brie sighed and got up.

“Very smooth,” Jon murmured as the two teenagers walked away.

“A few more decades, and she might like him back,” Posey said, a trifle proudly.

“So, Kate, how do you feel about that?”

“What? Oh, the birth parents thing? Go for it, I say,” Kate answered blithely. “If he wants to know, I’m all for it.” She licked some cream off her pinky finger.

“So, like, Posey?” Elise said, dragging her eyes off Mac, who continued to work silently in the back. “I heard your cousin’s coming back? The Barefoot Fraulein? Seriously? Because I’m a huge fan. She’s so pretty, right?”

Posey exchanged a look with Kate and Jon. “Yeah, she’s very pretty,” Posey said.

“Also, a bitch,” Jon said.

“Seriously?” Elise breathed. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yeah,” Kate confirmed.

“Gretchen hates Posey,” Jon said.

“How could anyone hate you?” Elise looked like Jon had just bitten the head off a kitten. “No way!”

“Way,” Jon said. “They’re rivals.”

“She’s not my rival,” Posey corrected. “But she always seems to be gunning for me, it’s kind of true.”

“I blame Gretchen’s mother,” Jon said.

“Well, she’s dead, so that’s not very nice,” Posey murmured, reaching for another donut.

But it was true. Ever since Posey could remember, Gretchen had been doing her best to make Posey feel inferior. Why, Posey had no idea, because Gretchen sure seemed to have it all. Stacia and Gretchen’s mother, Ruth, were identical twins. The Heidelbergs also had a German restaurant, but in New York City, which they considered vastly superior to Bellsford. Both Stacia and Ruth had had trouble getting pregnant. The same year Max and Stacia adopted Posey, Ruth and Ralphie had had Gretchen, and the comparisons began. Ruth would call Stacia, detailing Gretchen’s list of many triumphs, from losing her first tooth to baking her first batch of pfeffernuesse, often remarking on Gretchen’s great beauty and strong resemblance to their mother. And Gretchen was beautiful. Posey was not. Gretchen was tall and confident, with long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a generous, curving figure she’d been showcasing since she’d bought her first bra at age nine.

As a kid, Gretchen had always been full of advice when the families got together—“Posey, you should let your hair grow so people can tell you’re a girl. Posey, if you eat more cheese, you might get boobs.” As they got older, she’d simply ignore Posey—unless the adults were watching, when she’d be saccharine-sweet and utterly fake.

Then, horribly, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ralphie had died in a car accident. Gretchen and Posey had been seventeen, and Gretchen came to live with the Osterhagens. All through senior year, Posey had tried to be kind, trying to include Gretchen in her own meager social life, telling her she looked pretty in a certain shirt or sweater. But Gretchen had been too good for all that. She loved Stacia—her mother’s twin, after all—and Max, and was pleasant toward Henry on the rare weekends he came home from medical school, but as for Posey, she had nothing but veiled insults and fake affection.

“Should I, like…hate her now?” Elise asked.

“Yes,” Jon and Kate answered.

“No!” Posey said. “She’s…you know. She’s fine. It’ll be nice for my parents to have the help. And who knows? Business might pick up a little.”

“Why is she leaving her show?” Elise asked. “No offense to your parents, right? But it’s kind of a step down? Was that rude to say?”

“Probably ratings,” Kate said. “Up against Rachael Ray? Please.” Kate was a veteran of food and cooking shows, owned literally hundreds of cookbooks and knew every celebrity chef out there. Not that she cooked—another thing Posey and she had in common.

“Not according to her,” Jon said. At Posey’s questioning look, he added, “She sent Henry an email last week. Oh, is that the new model you’re working on?” He got up and went over to Posey’s work area, where a half-constructed model of a Colonial home was underway.

“Yep,” Posey answered. “That’s the Austin house. Mac and I took it apart last fall, remember?”

“Right, right,” Jon murmured. “We should have you come into class sometime. Well, maybe the art department should have you. This is gorgeous, Pose.”

Before Posey had gotten into salvage, she’d been a model-maker for an architect. The tiny details, the precision of the work, the lovely, warm idea that she could condense something so big…it was addicting. When she opened Irreplaceable Artifacts, she’d kept it up. Now, instead of creating a replica of a building that would someday be built, she made models of buildings that would soon be demolished…her gift to the owners, and a way of preserving the past.

“James!” Kate called. “Hey, bud, can you run out to the car and see if I have any tampons?”

“Mom, no. I have boundaries. I’m fourteen. Get your own tampons.”

Jon snorted. “Kate. Be kind to your boy.”

“What? We’re very close, that’s all. Right, James?”

“Not that close.”

Brianna was wheezing with laughter, and James gave her a look, then smiled.

“So, guys, guess what?” Posey said, lowering her voice. “I’m having a talk with Dante tonight.”

This brought Jon back to the counter. “And what are we saying?”

“Are you gonna propose? Because that would so romantic? Oh, my gosh. Wow,” Elise said.

“No, no. No proposals. Just…you know. Time to take things to the next level.”

Jon and Kate exchanged a look. “Best of luck with that,” her brother-in-law said.

“What? You don’t like him?”

“How could I say? I’ve never met him, except when I ate there, and if you tell Stacia that Henry and I went, I’ll murder you in your sleep. No, Posey, it’s just…I think he’s using you, that’s all.”

“For sex. He’s using you for sex,” Kate clarified.

Posey glanced over at the kids, who were fortunately immersed in birth-family horror stories, snorting with laughter. “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s just early days, that’s all.”

“Well, if he only calls you after 9:00 p.m. and only wants you to come to his house for a shag, has never introduced you to his friends or family, has no interest in meeting yours, I’d say Kate’s spot on,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow.

“We have a date tonight,” Posey protested.

“What time and where?” Jon asked.

She hesitated. “Nine-thirty. His place.”

“Call me after,” Jon said. “I have to go. Believe it or not, home-ec teachers have papers to grade. Ciao, bellissimas! Oh, and Posey, just in case things don’t work out with Dante, I’m teaching a singles cooking class for the adult-ed program. You’re welcome, too, Kate.”

When she closed up shop later that day, Posey came upon James’s book about finding birth parents in the cushion of the sofa. She’d never looked for her birth family. Max and Stacia were her parents, the end. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Of course she’d wondered. Conjured the typical fantasies as a child. To say that Max and Stacia—especially Stacia—were overprotective was an understatement. Every time Posey wasn’t allowed to go to the public pool with her friends (“The pool? The pool? That’s where people get kidnapped!”) or was whisked to the E.R. to rule out concussion (“But she bumped her head, Doctor! She has a lump! You think it might be a tumor?”), she’d imagine more mellow parents, parents who didn’t view sauerkraut as a daily necessity for a healthy diet, parents who were—forgive her—cooler, younger, more hip.

But aside from that, no. Max and Stacia were wonderful, and she’d never been inspired to find her roots. She tucked the book in her backpack to make sure she got it back to James, then went home to get ready for her date. If it was a date. Jon and Kate had a point.

In eight weeks, she’d seen Dante six times. That seemed like dating…sort of. The truth was, Posey’s record with men was a little sporadic. Ron the Gay had been pretty great, the whole “we both like boys” thing aside. You’d think a woman with a gay brother would sense a tremor in the Force, but no. One night, as they were curled up in front of CNN, Posey had admitted to wanting just one hour alone and naked with Anderson Cooper. “Who wouldn’t?” Ron had murmured appreciatively. Then they’d looked at each other, realization dawning for both of them. Ron later wrote an article for GQ magazine: “How Anderson Cooper Helped Me Out of the Closet.” He still sent Posey Christmas cards.

Then there’d been Jake—perfectly nice, a carpenter she’d hired as a subcontractor for a job in Maine. It was his suggestion that she get breast implants that ended their thing. Kind of hard to overlook that. A few first dates here and there, sometimes a second or third date, once in a great while a fourth…but no. Posey hadn’t been in a real relationship for quite a while.

So Dante needed to pony up, Posey thought as she held the truck door for Shilo, who gazed at her beseechingly until she hefted him in. She wanted a real boyfriend. Even if she had a great dog and three cats. And especially—this was a little hard to admit—but especially because Liam Murphy was back in town. Having a boyfriend would just put him to rest, that was all. Make her feel a little safer.

To be honest, Dante Bellini’s interest had been a surprise. He was suave and urbane—not words she’d have pinned to herself, that was for sure. Extremely good-looking in that Mediterranean way. Extremely well off, too, which certainly didn’t hurt his appeal. He lived in Midnight Cove, a complex of gorgeous condos on the water. The ocean, not the river, which offered a much more working-class view. It might be a case of opposites attract, but clearly there was something there.

Yep. Time to shore up the defenses. Dante liked her. They’d slept together six times. She’d head home, put on pretty underwear and girl clothes, tell Dante how she felt, and he’d say yes. He probably wanted the same thing.

“YOU DON’T?”

“It’s not that, Posey. I just don’t have the time right now. The restaurant. You understand, I’m sure.” Dante smiled, his white teeth glinting like a pirate’s against his swarthy skin. “But I really do enjoy spending the time with you, even though it’s not enough time.” He handed her a glass of wine and reached out to touch her neck.

“Um, right.” The fire crackled in the fireplace, and across the cove, the lights of other houses gleamed discreetly. Posey shifted on the leather couch. She kept sliding down, and it was irritating. “It’s just that we can’t stay at this level forever. I mean, I’m not asking for a ring and a date, Dante. But don’t you want to…move things forward a little? Do stuff together? Meet my parents?”

“God, no,” he said, then seemed to realize what he’d said. “I mean, I’m sure they’re nice people. It’s just that they hate me.”

“Well, they don’t hate you per se,” Posey murmured. “It’s more your restaurant.”

“Right. Even so.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Look. We’ve been, um, together for what…a few weeks?” Eight weeks, Dante. Six times. “But I’d like to go out to dinner once in a while. Catch a movie. Be able to…be seen with you, Dante. I like you. You’re fun. This isn’t really enough for me.”

“And you’re fun, too,” he said, smiling.

“So…it’s not like I’m naming our babies, I promise,” Posey said.

“I know. But Inferno needs every spare moment. This, though…this is perfect.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.

“Huh,” Posey said, slumping back against the couch and sliding down yet again. Dante took this as an invitation to kiss her neck. He smelled awfully good… Whatever shampoo he used, she was sure she couldn’t afford it. She sighed…not in rapture, either. Dante’s hand moved under her shirt. She grabbed it. “Okay, wait a sec.”

He raised his head, giving her that sleepy, sexy look that had first gotten her attention as she lugged in the statue of the martyred virgin St. Agnes of Rome. “Shall we move to the bedroom?”

Men. “No, Dante. You just told me this is as good as it gets for the foreseeable future. It’s not good enough for me.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well…” Time to take a stand, Posey, or be a booty call forever. “Maybe we should put things on hold. For a while. See how we feel then.”

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it. “Well, fine. If that’s what you want.”

“No, I just told you what I want. More than coming over once a week. Because that feels like a booty call, and I’d like to be more than that.”

“Fine.” His voice was sharp. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. I thought you, as a successful business owner, would understand that.”

“I do. I just… I’m sorry. But you know, why don’t we kind of reassess things in a month or so? Maybe a little time apart will…clarify things.”

“Fine.”

“Great.” Posey folded her arms across her chest. To think she’d put on a lace bra for this. It itched.

Dante stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to say, Posey, I’m a little surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The settling-down type. I thought you were… Well, I thought you were different.”

“Apparently not,” she muttered.

“It’s just that you seem very…untraditional.”

“Because I don’t wear skirts and high heels? Does that mean I don’t want a normal relationship somehow?”

“Well, in some ways, yes. It sends a message.” He looked her up and down. Her jaw clamped shut. Lace bra. For this. And this was her girly outfit. Jeans (made for a woman and everything). Flowered shirt. Flowers! On the shirt! A peachy-colored, itchy lace bra and matching panties, come on! What kind of message was that? A traditional one, that was what!

“Okay, I’ll be going now,” she said, standing up.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Dante said, cocking his head and giving her a sorrowful look.

“It’s fine.” She sighed. “So…a break? We’ll talk again?” A small spark of hope flared in her chest. Maybe this was what they needed. Or what he needed—time to see how great she was.

“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. “Want to stay for a while?” he murmured, moving to her neck.

“No. Gotta go. Thanks, Dante.”

All the way home, she alternated between mild fuming and healthy insecurity. A message, huh? Just because she wasn’t built like J-Lo, just because she lacked the feminine skills that so many of her gender expressed without effort—the flirting, the hair and makeup, the softness—it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to settle down. Of course she did. How could she look at her parents and not want what they had, that effortless, seamless togetherness? Or Jon and Henry, together since college? Of course she wanted that.

She pulled into her driveway and went inside her home, seeing it through fresh eyes. She lived in a restored—well, a half-restored—church rich in cobwebs, creaky floors and character. Someday—about a hundred thousand dollars from now—this place would be on the tour of homes. For now, though, the roof needed to be replaced. The belfry might be a little dangerous, given that the mechanism that held the 800-pound iron bell was not only broken, but rusting, and rusting fast. Furnishings-wise, the place was a little cluttered with the things she couldn’t bear to part with, things that hadn’t sold at Irreplaceable. The Victorian birdcage. The statue of the elephant. The bishop’s chair.

Shilo, sensing his mistress needed some love, gave a bay of joy at the sight of her, and Jellybean, the largest of her triumvirate of cats, trotted over as well, as he seemed to be half dog. “Who are my good boys?” she said as Shilo head-butted her in the stomach and Jellybean pricked her with his claws (lovingly, of course). “You hungry? Want some Stouffers? Huh? Want some delicious French bread pizza? You do? So do I, pal.”

But even as she cranked the Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline,” because, come on, what else would you play in a bad mood?), the thought came to her that maybe ending her arrangement with Dante, flimsy though it was, might not have been the smartest move. Not because it was meaningful and special (not yet, though she’d thought they had potential), but because she’d just lost even a small barrier between her heart and Liam Murphy. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Guten Tag’s kitchen, not an hour had passed without Liam crossing her mind.

And that was not good.