Rosemary Lillywhite scowled and flung yet another dress into a rapidly growing discard pile, noting with frustration that her wardrobe was nearly as empty as her suitcase. In a weak moment, she had allowed her dearest friend, Vera, to clear out anything she considered too somber. Since then, she’d deftly avoided Vera’s rabid attempts to drag her into the dress shops. However, faced with the task of packing for a holiday in Cyprus, Rosemary’s sense of victory had evaporated.

With a sigh, she flipped the lid of the case closed and paced the breadth of her bedroom. Since she would not be embarking on this trip alone, she knew she could rely upon Vera to rally to the occasion and bring along more than enough clothing for them both.

With that settled, her thoughts wandered back in the direction they had been taking ever since her brother, Frederick, had announced his choice of traveling companion. It wasn’t as though Frederick had intended to make Rosemary uncomfortable by inviting Desmond Cooper along; after all, young girls tended not to share their secrets with their older brothers, particularly when those secrets involved a case of heart-wrenching, unrequited puppy love.

Of course, Rosemary was no longer an awkward twelve-year-old girl, and she hadn’t given her brother’s childhood pal a second thought since the moment she’d met Andrew Lillywhite—the man who would become her husband and the love of her life.

Except, Andrew had passed away almost a year before, and just the idea of spending time with someone about whom she’d once enjoyed romantic daydreams made her feel as though she were betraying his memory.

You’re not betraying anyone, and Andrew would want you to be happy. Rosemary could hear Vera’s voice in her head as clearly as if her friend had been whispering in her ear, and she sighed.

It didn’t matter anyway because Rosemary had no intention of finding herself still attracted to Desmond Cooper. She hoped he’d grown some sort of hump or that he had begun to go prematurely bald—anything to put a nail in the coffin of her childhood crush. What Rosemary wanted was a healthy dose of sun, sand, and seawater—and a chance to forget her troubles, even if only for a couple of weeks.

The main attraction of the holiday rested in Rosemary’s desire to get away from the city of London—and not for a quick jaunt in the countryside, but somewhere even further where nobody knew her as a poor, lonely widow. It was more than just an indulgent whim; it was something she needed to do for the sake of her own sanity.

Aside from the fact that she’d lost her husband, Rosemary was haunted by other ghosts she’d prefer to leave at home. Just a few weeks prior, she’d been involved in a murder investigation after finding a dead body at a party she’d attended near her parents’ country house in the village of Pardington. Since then, she’d been in a sort of limbo state, wondering what to do with her life and whether her calling was art, as she’d always believed, or if she was meant for something different—something entirely unprecedented for a woman.

While Rosemary’s mind wandered to and fro, she tuned out all the noise around her. Gertrude, the cook, prepared for supper by pounding a piece of veal into submission with all the tenderness of a workman swinging a sledgehammer. The housekeeper’s broom swished back and forth across the corridor floor, its swipes punctuated by the heavy thump of her footsteps. Rosemary’s maid, Anna, kept a running commentary with the butler, Wadsworth, as he did whatever it was that butlers did, discussing the details of the forthcoming holiday. All these sounds of the household below her moving in its undulating rhythm turned to a background too indistinct to pierce her thoughts.

All of this Rosemary missed, and she might have also missed the sound of angry voices if she hadn’t tripped over one of the hangers she’d haphazardly thrown aside and found herself nearly kissing the floor.

One wall of her bedroom butted up against the parlor of the adjacent townhouse, and the most Rosemary had ever heard were the muted notes of soft jazz that occasionally lulled her to sleep. Until recently, anyway, when other rumblings had become more frequent.

Pushing herself up from the floor, Rosemary leaned a little closer to the wall because, well, nobody was around to chide her for eavesdropping, and she was as curious as any other person in the world. It mattered little because all she heard was the sound of raised voices, both male and female, followed by the distant slamming of a door and then a short, muffled spate of crying.

Soft of heart, Rosemary wished for a way to offer comfort without intruding on her neighbor’s privacy or, worse, without seeming like a busybody. What did one say in those circumstances? Rosemary couldn’t think of the proper etiquette for knocking on the door of an acquaintance to pry into her affairs.

Still, being merely neighbors hadn’t stopped Abigail from bringing round a platter of cakes or a plate of supper every evening for a fortnight after Andrew passed away. Realizing now that she’d not taken the time to thank the woman for her kindness, Rosemary felt a debt was owed and that the time to repay it had come.

Knowing she ought to return to the task at hand but accepting that her curious mind wouldn’t be content if she didn’t at least attempt to find out what was going on next door, Rosemary sighed. With a wry expression on her heart-shaped face, she descended the stairs and made her way onto the front doorstep.

Number 8 Park Road, where Rosemary lived above her late husband’s private investigative office, was situated one house down from the corner lot where Dr. and Mrs. Redberry resided. Their doorstep stood just beside Rosemary’s, but unlike Number 8, the neighboring townhouse bordered two streets and featured an entirely separate entrance to the ground-floor office where Dr. Redberry tended his dental patients.

As fate would have it, Mrs. Redberry sat on the steps with her head in her hands, partially hidden by an enormous hydrangea bush. Steeling herself, Rosemary prepared to overstep the boundaries of neighborly decorum by poking her nose into business that was none of her concern.

How could she simply walk away from someone in obvious pain, though? Especially when the woman had been nothing but kind to her during the years they’d shared a wall.

“Abigail, are you quite well?” Rosemary asked, poking her head around the wrought-iron handrail and casting a sympathetic look in the woman’s direction.

Startled, Abigail turned wide, red-rimmed eyes Rosemary’s way and attempted to collect herself. “I’m fine, thank you.” She replied with a sniffle and a forced smile.

Like hell you are, Rosemary thought to herself, but said gently, “You don’t look fine to me. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone, and I have found that the most receptive audiences are often people you wouldn’t have expected.”

Perhaps, in her preoccupation with her own troubles, she’d overlooked a possible friend. Abigail Redberry wasn’t much older than Rosemary herself, and judging by her simple sunflower-colored dress and makeup-free face, they might actually have a lot in common.

“I just … I don’t know … I’m at a loss, to be perfectly honest,” Abigail finally said with a sigh. Her face began to scrunch up again, and it took a visible effort for her to regain her composure. “Martin and I have never argued like this before. I thought we had the perfect marriage. I’ve known the man since we were children, but lately, I’m never certain where we stand. The smallest things set off his temper, and he has been—” Abigail paused as though catching herself before revealing too much and then continued. “He is not the gentle man I once knew.”

Rosemary sat down on the step beside Abigail and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “What seems to be the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Abigail shook her head. “I find myself somewhat embarrassed to say, but I bought a rather expensive dress for the theater tonight—at Martin’s request, mind you—but when the check came, he was furious.” Her almond-shaped eyes widened again, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have told you that. He’d kill me if he knew I had discussed our finances with a virtual stranger.”

“I assure you, Abigail, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. And we’re not exactly strangers. We’re neighbors, and by all rights, we should have become friends long ago,” Rosemary declared. Furthermore, she felt a sense of conviction, as the words were leaving her lips, that they were true.

Face brightening, Abigail nodded once and put on a stiff upper lip. “It will all come right. I’m overreacting, of course. Martin is under a great deal of strain with his work. There’s a dentist over on the high street who has been trying to steal his patients right out from under him. I believe he’s worried about our livelihood, though I expect it’s just a minor storm, and everything will come right in the end.” She repeated the statement as if saying it over and over might make it true.

Laying a gentle hand on Abigail’s arm, Rosemary said, “I’m sure it will, and you let me know if you need anything. I have a willing ear and a dry shoulder to cry on.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “Though I’m sorry to say I’ll be on holiday for the next few weeks. When I get back, why don’t we have lunch?”

“Thank you, Rosemary. Really. It means a lot, and I feel better already. I should go prepare Martin’s tea tray. He’ll be ready for it soon.” Abigail bade her goodbye and retreated into her home with a bit more spring in her step than Rosemary imagined she’d walked outdoors with.

The conversation with Abigail reminded Rosemary of her own husband, and the memory brought both pain and gratitude. Andrew had rarely ever raised a voice to his wife, and he certainly wouldn’t have begrudged her the right to speak to her friends about any marital issue they might have had. She thought Dr. Redberry sounded like a cad but wouldn’t have dared express her opinion aloud, at least not to his wife.

And that was part of why she feared she would never again find a man to love. Andrew had been a diamond in the rough, and it was unlikely any other man would ever compare. Rosemary let the thought slide right back out of her head. She had no intention of allowing anyone to try anytime soon, regardless, and ignored the voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering Desmond’s name in her ear.