A sudden lump filled my throat. I was going to miss her. Lily was due out in a little more than a month. The countdown on my time with Poe had begun, and the summer, which had seemed so long at first, was slipping past like a fast-moving stream.

But Poe was older now, and now that she knew me, she’d keep in touch.

At least, I hoped she would.

“Okay,” I said, clearing my throat. “Here we go.” I clicked on the dating website and went to the profile I’d set up for my mom. I’d called her SuperMainah in her profile.

“‘Divorced woman,’” Poe said, reading out loud, “‘sixties, enjoys animals’—well, she used to, until you killed hers—‘reading, the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. I’m a no-nonsense kind of person, honest and straightforward. Attractive and fit. Great sense of humor.’” Poe looked at me. “Sense of humor? Gran?”

“You pretty much have to say that,” I said.

“So who took the bait?” she asked.

“Let’s see! Three people. Wicked pissah.” I clicked on the first guy—Servus.

“‘Hello, Supermainah!’” I read. “‘You sound very in control of life and you could be in control of me.’ Oh, God, here we go. ‘I am a very submisive betta male—’ look at this spelling, Poe ‘—seeking a strong, dominent alpha female. I acsept my inferiorty and know my place. I live with my mother, who is 103 years old and instilled my love of obediance. If you don’t mind helping with her diapers and baths, let’s hook up!”

“He sounds perfect,” Poe said.

“She does like to boss people around,” I murmured. “Moving on.” I clicked on GotLove2Offer.

“My turn to read,” Poe said, turning the laptop toward her. “‘Hello, SuperMainah, I’m glad you are so capable. I’m going to be blunt, I’m poor. I don’t have a car, my financial situation is horrible, and I still live at home with my five sisters, who are nasty bitches, all of them. I’m not the greatest-looking guy, either. I am looking for someone to give me financial support, likes to cook (for my sisters, too) and enjoys long walks but doesn’t necessarily want sex.’” She started snickering. “‘I will make your heart full again. My interests include pro wrestling, military-grade guns and...and...and cuddling.’” She shrieked with laughter.

“Oh, God,” I said. “See what you have to look forward to? Okay, next one.” I clicked on MusicalFisherman. “‘Hello there! You sound very nice and uncomplicated.’” I looked at Poe. “I’d give her uncomplicated, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“‘I’m a widower, a retired music teacher, no kids. I enjoy fishing and watching documentaries on the History Channel. I moved to Maine from Florida four years ago and really love it here. If you’d like to meet for coffee, I can come to your neck of the woods. I live in Kennebunkport and don’t mind driving.’”

We looked at each other, a little surprised at his normalcy. “Let’s set it up,” I said.

“You gonna pretend to be Gran?” Poe asked.

“No, I’ll come clean. Here.” I read aloud as I typed. “‘Dear Fisherman, this is actually SuperMainah’s daughter. I’ve been helping my mom with online dating. You sound really nice. Anything else we should know about you before we set up a date to meet?’”

“Oh, you’re good.”

“Once I get his name, I’ll do a background check.”

“See? This is why you’re the adult.”

Speaking of background checks... “How’s Luke Fletcher been toward you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He’s okay. He doesn’t talk to me much. He works on engines, and I do grunt work, so I don’t really see him.”

That’s what Sullivan had told me, too, when I texted him two days ago.

The computer beeped. “It’s our suitor!” I said. “He likes us.”

“Poor Gran,” Poe said. “You know she won’t be happy about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “But maybe once she meets him, she’ll get swept off her feet.”

“Can you really picture that happening?”

“No. But let’s pretend.”

* * *

Two days later, Richard Hemmings, aka MusicalFisherman, met me at Jitters, the new coffee shop that had just opened. It was cute inside; whereas Lala’s was a true bakery, this was a coffeehouse, with a tin ceiling and black-and-white-tiled floor and lovely old oak door. There was a bean roaster in the back, and the smell was dark and rich. They sold baked goods (bought from Lala’s so as not to antagonize the locals, a smart business move). They also had tables on the sidewalk where extremely beautiful dogs could recline and drink water (or iced decaf, in Boomer’s case).

Xiaowen arrived about five minutes after Boomer and I did and went to the counter to order a drink. She’d wanted to check out my mother’s possible beau, and we also had some work to do on Go Far, Be Strong, which was turning into a real pain in the ass, great cause aside.

It was full tourist season, and Jitters was filling up.

Xiaowen came over, coffee in hand. “I just got these guys to sponsor us,” she said smugly, taking a pull of her drink, which was topped with a mountain of whipped cream.

“Yay!” I said. “And my practice is kicking in some money, too.”

She pulled her iPad out of her bag and showed me the bottom line.

Just about every business in town was sponsoring Go Far, Be Strong, so in addition to covering the cost of the permit, insurance, public safety and all that, we had plenty of money left over. We ordered T-shirts, and I was working on a brochure that talked about the new food pyramid and how to read nutrition labels, and a website that would link to other websites full of great information regarding health, exercise and nutrition.

The biggest message I wanted to send was our slogan—Healthy Looks Different on Everyone.

I’d gained a little weight this summer. The truth was, I needed to. Maybe it was the stress after the Big Bad Event, maybe it was just trying to be perfect all the time, at work, with Bobby, at the hospital. Here, I’d let my standards loosen a little. I had pie. Sometimes I had pie with ice cream. Not every night, but not never, either. I still ran and rode my bike whenever possible, the Dog of Dogs galloping majestically at my side.

“We should have a different tagline every year,” Xiaowen said. “Next year, it can be something like You’ll Be Amazed What You Can Do.”

“I love that,” I said.

But next year, would I be able to do this? I’d be in Boston. This was a pretty big commitment.

Well. We could get a committee, I supposed.

“Do I actually have to run in this thing?” Xiaowen asked for the forty-sixth time.

“Yes. To inspire the troops.”

“Like Lady Godiva. Should I run naked?”

“No. We don’t want a riot on our hands. Oh, look, he’s here. Hi, Richard!”

He’d sent a picture—he was tall with glasses, a fairly good head of hair, on the rangy side. He’d been quite nice about me running interference. He was a bit younger than Mom, but I thought that was okay.

He wore a polo shirt and khakis, boat shoes. No baseball cap, thank God. What was it about men in baseball caps that halved their sex appeal?