Chapter One, continued

Striding to the back room, Lily chuckled as she filled an enameled watering can. The hanging ferns needed watered and she might as well put her time to good use. If Sam were married with kids, it would be nice to hear children's laughter ringing out. Residents on Vine Street were mostly older folks, like the owner of Lily's house, Jenny Oates.

Lily had nothing against elderly people, and she visited Jenny regularly since she'd gone into a nursing home with a broken hip, but it was so quiet in the neighborhood, she could almost feel herself growing old, alone.

She mounted a stepstool, watering can in hand. If Sam was a handsome, eligible bachelor who was instantly attracted to her, life would be perfect. Like that was going to happen. Ha. The townspeople's sons, and daughters, moved away after high school, and most never returned except to visit. She'd left too but she'd come back, and the only time she'd questioned her decision was now, when twenty years after receiving a "Dear Lily letter" from Nick Noland, it looked as if she'd be attending their twentieth class reunion, single and alone.

* * *

Heat stuck Sam's white polo shirt to his back, and perspiration wet the waistband of his khaki pants. The van's air-conditioning and tinted windows made his cross-country drive bearable, but once he stepped out on the sidewalks of Browning, humidity wilted his clothes and spirit.

Standing before the glass door of Inner Radiance, Sam pulled himself up to his full height of six feet. This didn't look like a man's store. Running a hand across his new short haircut, he stepped inside the cool interior where a mélange of scents and an array of glass bottles shining under bright lights dazzled him. The door's closing fanned wisps of colored silk and tinkled wind chimes hung from the ceiling. The flow of air fluttered green fronds across the back of the shop, drawing his gaze. But it was a pair of legs that caught his eye, propelling him across plush blue carpeting.

Shapely tanned legs went up and up, from yellow-sandaled feet atop a waist-high stool to a brief yellow skirt. Sam's eyes skimmed over a white blouse and finally reached a flow of dark red hair. "Ahem."

The woman gasped and dropped her watering can. She teetered on the step stool. "Careful." He rushed forward.

She grasped one of the hanging ferns to steady herself, and it fell. She flailed the air. He rounded the counter, arms extended, ready to catch her. She clutched at a shelf. A bottle teetered, fell, and hit him in the head. He staggered backward, eyes and teeth clenched in pain.

"I'm so sorry."

He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn't work. He could hear her scrambling down, feel her pushing him into a sitting position on the stool where she'd stood, smell a mixture of ... lavender ... and ... citrus? "Are you okay?" she asked.

Sam touched his head cautiously, hoping not to find blood. Her breath was warm on his forehead. He opened his eyes and gasped. Clear green eyes locked into his, just inches away. Luscious lips puckered into a frown. She pushed back his hair, tunneling through it with gentle hands. Had he died and gone to heaven? Or was she an apparition brought about by the blow?

The red-haired beauty leaned closer to examine his head more closely. "Speak to me." Grasping a handful of hair, she tipped his head back and he saw worry in her emerald eyes, but she must have seen lust in his because she let go abruptly.

His head bobbed. He groaned. Water trickled across the floor toward the fallen fern, and he watched it, still stunned. "I'm glad you didn't come unpotted," she said.

Sam thought she was talking to him and wondered what the expression meant, until he saw her patting moist black dirt into place. Realizing her concern was for the plant and not him, he used all the air left in his lungs to clear his throat.

"I know you're here, and don't start that again. Your ahem started this whole disaster." She stood in front of him and folded her arms. "Lucky for you, it was a plastic lotion bottle."

"A full one," he reminded her, standing gingerly while still nursing his head. "As jumpy as you are, you should have a chime put on your front door."

"You should see the bottles in the front display case, if you think that one was heavy." Her eyes twinkled, hinting at a sense of humor, if somewhat perverted.

"It isn't funny to drop bottles on your customers."

"I'm truly sorry." She touched his head.

An occasional silver strand had begun to appear, standing out sharply among the black, so he'd had his hair cut short. Thirty-eight was young, he'd thought, but the gray appeared seemingly overnight, reminding him life was fleeting. Was Nurse Nightingale, who was tentatively probing his hair and scalp, near his age or younger? She acted too flaky to be over twenty, but faint lines fanning out from her made him think she was past thirty. Laugh lines, he realized, seeing that twinkle again, but her touch was so soothing, he didn't care how old she was or if she was amused. "Keep doing that and I'll believe you."

She stepped back. "I have insurance if you'd like to see a doctor."

Sam sighed. One thing he didn't need was another delay. He'd forgotten his mission, and it came back to him now that he needed his key. "I'd rather see an attorney or the mayor."

"You're going to sue?" Her luscious mouth dropped open.

"Not unless I discover I've been permanently brain-damaged, but I've been getting the run-around ever since I hit town. My attorney left a key at the mayor's office. He left me a note to come here. And you bopped me."

"Welcome to Browning." The woman's eyes danced. Sam bit back a sharp retort. She cocked her head and studied him. "So you're the one who's supposed to pick up the key?"

"You have it then?" He couldn't hide his relief. All he wanted was to find his house and sit down to a decent meal. Wine would be nice with dinner, and coffee afterward was a must. He'd eaten fast food in the van all the way, hoping the grease odor wouldn't permeate the seats.

The shop owner walked away, through a door to a room in the back, and Sam watched those long lovely legs in motion until they disappeared from view. He wished they'd met under pleasanter circumstances.

He leaned against the counter and took a long look around Inner Radiance. Candles--short, tall, fat, slim, and every color--adorned the front counter. He picked up a squat, unlit candle set between a fragrant rose in a bud vase and a glass of fake lemonade with a lemon slice on the edge. He turned the candle over and saw it was labeled "rose and lemon." Made sense, but why would anyone combine those scents? Sam held it close to his nose and inhaled. Not bad.

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