All she had wanted from the weekend was silence. At seventy, Eleanor Bishop had developed an almost philosophical relationship with her own wants, which had simplified considerably since Henry died. She no longer chased invitations she did not actually desire.

She had stopped answering calls from people who remembered her only when they needed a hem adjusted or a casserole delivered or a patient ear to absorb whatever they could not manage alone. She had reached the age at which she felt entitled to want small things: a steady chair, a warm mug, a clean porch, and the Atlantic making its old faithful noise just beyond the dunes. She had discovered that small wants, reliably met, were a truer form of happiness than large ones constantly deferred, and she had organized her life accordingly.

The beach house was the center of that smaller, wiser life. She had bought it seven years after Henry died, using money she had set aside one alteration at a time across forty-two years of working behind a sewing machine. People sometimes expressed surprise at this, at the idea that a seamstress could buy a beach house, and Eleanor never quite understood the surprise because she had never spent money she did not have and had never stopped working.

She had taken in waists and mended split seams and rebuilt torn hems for four decades, and in some quiet way that she did not often examine, she had been helping other people hold themselves together while also, stitch by careful stitch, building something for herself. The house was not large. The porch rail needed repainting every other year.

The guest-room windows stuck in damp weather. The kitchen floor produced a particular creak near the sink that she had given up trying to fix because she had come to think of it as the house identifying itself, the way a familiar voice announces itself before you see the face. Every inch of the place had passed through her hands.