“That does it.” Lily slapped her hands on her legs. “Hugh, I can’t wait another minute.”

Cate reached for a slice of kiwi. “For what?”

“Bring your wine.” Patting her leg, Hugh rose. “We’ll show you your room.”

When Lily led the way back outside, Cate shook her head. “You’re kicking me out of the house before I even unpack?”

“A young woman should have her own space, should have some privacy. She may want to entertain a gentleman caller.”

Now Cate snorted. “Yeah, I’m loaded with gentleman callers.”

“You should be.” Lily wrapped an arm around her waist as they crossed the side terrace, started down. “Hugh, you be careful on these steps.”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

“Bet your Irish ass. If you don’t want the guest cottage, you can pick a room in the main,” Lily continued. “I don’t have to tell you you’re free to come and go as you please. And watch out for the old man,” she added, sotto voce.

“I heard that!”

They took the stone path winding through the gardens where roses bloomed madly, fragrantly, in the November cool. Toward the sea, the pool shined dreamily blue. Ahead, the guesthouse, built as an Irish cottage in a fascinating contrast to the contemporary splendor of the main house.

Deep green shutters framed the garden-facing windows, stood out against the cream-colored walls, the little stone steps. The charm of window boxes offered bursts of color, spills of greenery.

Cate knew the sea-facing walls were glass, to bring in the drama, but the rest spoke of quiet charm, green hills, sheep-dotted fields.

Rolling back through her memory, she decided she’d take the master upstairs, one with that glass wall, and the little fireplace, a square of light and heat built into an interior wall.

It had a good-size closet she could soundproof, and her clothes could go in the bedroom across the hall. Four bedrooms, she recalled. No, five including the one on the first floor they’d used more as a playroom/dormitory when the whole family came to stay.

Hugh took a key out of his pocket, offered it to Cate with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

“This is pretty exciting.”

She unlocked the door, stepped in.

Fresh flowers, autumn blooms in milk bottles and mason jars—she’d expected flowers. She hadn’t expected to see the few pieces of furniture she’d put in storage—unable to part with—mixed in with the rest.

“That’s my coffee table, and my lamp! My hunt table, too, and my chair.”

“A woman wants to have her own things.”

She turned to Lily. “They were in storage.”

“And wouldn’t have been if they didn’t matter to you.”

“But how did you get them out of storage? How did you get them here?”

Hugh mimed brushing lint off his shirt. “We have our ways.”

“Well, I love your ways. This is just so damn sweet, and everything looks great. And oh God, that view.”

Breathtaking, she thought, with no obstructions to the hard blue of the sky, the wide, wide sea, the scatter of trees twisted by the wind into magical shapes.

“I’ll never get anything done,” she murmured. “I’ll be drunk on the view night and day.”

“The kitchen’s been redone—it needed it,” Lily added. “And you actually like to cook from time to time.”

Soda bread for the Coopers, Cate thought, still dreaming.

“Pantry’s stocked for when you don’t want to come to the house for meals. Which we hope isn’t often.” Hugh walked over to join her.

She tipped her head to his shoulder. “You may have to come check on me, shake me out of my happy coma. I want to see the kitchen, and the . . .”

She turned, blinked. “I was so distracted I didn’t see. You opened up some walls.”

And the open floor plan brought the kitchen into view, separating it from the living space with a wide granite counter in myriad shades of gray and silver and hints of blue.

“It’s fabulous. When did you do all this? I love it.”

She walked over, skimmed her fingers over the granite. White cabinets—not sleek and modern but slatted and cottagey, a little distressed—hit just the right note against pale, pale gray walls. They’d gone with white, vintage-style appliances, added glass fronts on a section that held colorful glassware. Gleaming butcher block topped a small work island.

She admired the deep farm sink, opened the slatted door to a walk-in pantry. Stocked, she thought, to hold her through a zombie apocalypse.

She could eat on the rush-topped stools at the counter facing the breathtaking view, or snuggle into the nook with its benches as colorful as the glassware.

“What do you think?”

“G-Lil, I think I win the prize for grandparents.”

“Combo laundry and mudroom through there.” Lily pointed. “And I’m going to warn you, Consuela’s going to come in twice a week to clean and do laundry. No point arguing,” she added. “She’s very adamant. Very.”

“Okay, but I’ll talk her down to once a week.”

“Good luck with that,” Hugh muttered.

“Either way, this is the sweetest kitchen I’ve ever seen. I’d have been happy in the main house, and I’d have felt at home. But this? Well, it’s already home and I haven’t even seen my bedroom.”

“There’s just one more little change down here, before we go up.” Hugh hooked his arm with Cate’s. “You’ve still got the half bath and reading room over there. And over here—”

“We called it the playroom, the older kids called it the dorm.”

“We didn’t think you’d need either of those,” he said as he opened the door.

If she’d been dazzled by the changes so far, this knocked her speechless.

They’d given her a studio, fully equipped, soundproofed, complete with booth. Noise-blocking shades, up now to let in the light and the garden view, the rise of hills beyond, could be rolled down to give her complete silence during recording.

As with her furniture, the equipment she’d packed up, shipped out, wove in with new.

The mics, the stands, even the pop filters, her work comp, the headphones, the works. They’d put in a small, glass-fronted cabinet, stocked it with the water she needed to keep her throat, her tongue lubricated.

They hadn’t missed a trick.

“I’ve got nothing,” she managed. “I’ve got nothing.”

“A professional needs a professional space to work.”

She could only nod at her grandfather’s statement. “And boy, is this one of those. It’s got it all and then some. You even thought of the mirror.”

“You said you practice expressions in character to help find the voice,” Lily reminded her.

“I do.” Stunned, she stepped into the little recording booth, looked at the equipment.

“And if you’re doing a song, or an audiobook, especially, you like more isolation and control.”

She nodded. “Yeah, a little quirk of mine, I guess.”

“An artist isn’t an artist without quirks.”

She turned back to them. “This is the most amazing, most thoughtful, most absolutely loving gift from the best grandparents in the history of grandparents. I need to cry a little.”