ou still haven’t reserved a date at the lighthouse?” Lexie asked.

It was the last week of March, and Jeremy was walking with Lexie toward the car after work.

“I’ve tried,” Jeremy explained. “But you can’t imagine what it’s like trying to get through to these people. Half of them won’t talk to me unless I fill out forms, the other half always seem to be on vacation. I haven’t even completely figured out what I’m supposed to do.”

She shook her head. “It’ll be June by the time you make the arrangements.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jeremy promised.

“I know you will. But I’d really rather not be showing, and it’s already almost April. I don’t think I can make it until July. My pants are getting tight, and I think my butt is already getting bigger.”

Jeremy hesitated, knowing this was a minefield where he had no desire to tread. In the past few days, it had been coming up with more frequency. Speaking the truth-Well, of course your butt is getting bigger . . . you’re pregnant!-would mean sleeping at Greenleaf every night for a week straight.

“You look exactly the same to me,” he ventured instead.

Lexie nodded, still lost in thought. “Talk to Mayor Gherkin,” she suggested.

He looked at her, keeping his expression serious. “He thinks your butt is getting bigger?”

“No! About the lighthouse! I’m sure he can help.”

“Okay,” he said, stifling his laugh. “I’ll do that.”

They walked a few steps before she nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “And my butt is not getting bigger.”

“No, of course not.”

As usual, their first stop before heading home was to check on how the renovations were proceeding.

Though they wouldn’t officially close on the house until late April, the owner-who’d received the place as an inheritance but lived out of state-was willing to let them begin work on it, and Lexie had attacked the situation with gusto. Because she knew pretty much everyone in town-including carpenters, plumbers, tilers, roofers, painters, and electricians-and could see the finished home in her mind’s eye, she took control of the project. Jeremy’s role was limited to writing the checks, which considering he really hadn’t wanted to be in charge of the project seemed to be more than a fair exchange.

Even though he hadn’t known quite what to expect, it certainly wasn’t this. Entire crews had been working for the past week, and he remembered being amazed at what had been accomplished on the first day. The kitchen had been torn out; shingles were piled on the front lawn, carpeting and a number of windows removed. Huge piles of debris lay scattered from one end of the house to the other, but since then he’d come to believe the only thing the workers did was to shift the debris piles from place to place. Even when he came by during the day to check on the progress, no one ever actually seemed to be working. Standing in circles drinking coffee, maybe, or smoking on the back porch most definitely, but working? As far as he could tell, they always seemed to be waiting for a delivery or for the general contractor to return, or they were taking a “short break.” Needless to say, the majority of the workers were paid by the hour, and Jeremy always felt a tinge of financial panic whenever he headed back to Greenleaf.

Lexie, however, seemed happy enough with the progress and noticed things that he never did. “Did you see they’ve started running the new wiring upstairs?” or, “I see they got the new plumbing routed through the walls, so we’ll be able to put the sink beneath the window.”

Usually, Jeremy would nod in agreement. “Yeah, I noticed that.”

Aside from checks to the contractor, he still wasn’t writing yet, but on the plus side, he was fairly sure he’d figured out the reason. It wasn’t so much a mental block as it was a mental overload. So much was changing, not only the obvious, but little things, too. Like what to wear. For instance, he’d long believed that he had a fairly innate sense of style, albeit one with a distinct New York flair, and his many ex-girlfriends had often complimented him on his appearance. He was a longtime subscriber to GQ magazine, favored Bruno Magli shoes and tailored Italian shirts. But Lexie apparently had a different opinion and seemed to want to change him entirely. Two nights ago, she’d surprised him with a gift-wrapped box, and Jeremy had been touched by her thoughtfulness . . . at least until he’d opened it.

Inside was a plaid shirt. Plaid. Like the kind lumberjacks wore. And Levi’s jeans. “Thanks,” he forced out.

She stared at him. “You don’t like them.”

“No, no . . . I do,” he lied, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “It’s nice.”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I really do.”

“I just figured you might want to have something in your closet that might help you fit in with the guys.”

“What guys?”

“Guys in town. Your friends. In case . . . I don’t know, you want to go play poker or go hunting or fishing or something.”

“I don’t play poker. Or hunt or fish.” Or have any friends, either, he suddenly realized. Amazing that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe one day you’ll want to. It’s what guys do down here with their friends. I know, for instance, that Rodney gets together to play poker once a week, and Jed is probably the most successful hunter in the county.”

“Rodney or Jed?” he asked, trying and failing to fathom spending a few hours with either of them.

“What’s wrong with Rodney and Jed?”

“Jed doesn’t like me. And I don’t think Rodney does, either.”

“That’s ridiculous. How could they not like you? But tell you what, why don’t you talk to Doris tomorrow? She might have some better ideas.”

“Poker with Rodney? Or hunting with Jed? Oh, I’d pay to see that!” Alvin howled into the receiver. Because Alvin had filmed the mysterious lights in the cemetery, he knew exactly whom Jeremy was talking about, and he still remembered them vividly. Rodney had thrown Alvin in jail on trumped-up charges after Alvin had flirted with Rachel at the Lookilu, and Jed frightened Alvin in the same way he frightened Jeremy. “I can just see it . . . sneaking through the forest in your Gucci shoes and lumberjack shirt. . . .”

“Bruno Magli,” Jeremy corrected. At Greenleaf for the night, he was still thinking about the fact that he hadn’t made any friends.

“Whatever.” Alvin laughed again. “Oh, that’s just great . . . city mouse goes country, all because the little woman made him do it. You’ve got to tell me when this happens. I’ll make a special trip down there with my camera to record it for posterity.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll pass.”

“But she has a point, you know. You do need to make some friends down there. Which reminds me . . . do you remember that girl I met?”

“Rachel?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Do you ever see her?”

“Sometimes. Actually, since she’s the maid of honor, you’ll see her, too.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Believe it or not, she’s actually dating Rodney.”

“The muscle-bound deputy? She could do better. But hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you and Lexie could double-date. Lunch at Herbs, maybe a little porch sitting . . .”

Jeremy laughed. “You sound like you’d fit in well here. You know all the exciting things to do.”

“That’s me. Mr. Adaptable. But if you see Rachel, tell her I said hi and that I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

“Will do.”

“How’s the writing going? I’ll bet you’re getting antsy to chase another story, huh?”

Jeremy shifted in his seat. “I wish.”

“You’re not writing?”

“Not a word since I’ve been down here,” he admitted. “Between the wedding and the house and Lexie, I hardly have a spare minute.”

There was a pause. “Let me get this straight. You’re not writing at all? Even for your column?”

“No.”

“You love writing.”

“I know. And I’ll get back to it as soon as things settle down.”

Jeremy could sense his friend’s skepticism at his answer. “Good,” Alvin finally said. “Now, about the bachelor party . . . it’s going to be awesome. Everyone up here is on board, and as I promised, it’s going to be a night you’ll never forget.”

“Just remember . . . no dancing girls. And I don’t want some lady in lingerie jumping out of a cake or anything like that.”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s a tradition!”

“I’m serious, Alvin. I’m in love, remember?”

“Lexie worries about you,” Doris said. “She cares about you.”

Doris and Jeremy were having lunch the following afternoon at Herbs. Most of the lunch crowd had finished eating, and the place was clearing out. As usual, Doris had insisted that they eat; whenever they got together, she claimed Jeremy was “skin and bones,” and today Jeremy was enjoying a chicken pesto sandwich on pumpernickel bread.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he protested. “There’s just a lot going on, that’s all.”

“She knows that. But she also wants you to feel like you belong here. That you’re happy here.”

“I am happy here.”

“You’re happy because you’re with Lexie, and she knows that. But you have to understand, deep down Lexie wants you to feel the same way about Boone Creek that she does. She doesn’t want you here just because of her, she wants you here because this is where your friends are. Because this is where you feel like you belong. She knows it was a sacrifice for you to move from New York, but she doesn’t want you to think of it that way.”

“I don’t. Believe me, I’d be the first to tell her if I felt that way. But . . . c’mon . . . Rodney or Jed?”

“Believe it or not, they’re good guys once you get to know them, and Jed tells the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. But okay, if you don’t relax the way they do, maybe they’re not the right ones.” She brought a finger to her lips, thinking. “What did you do with friends in New York?”

Went to bars with Alvin, flirted with women, Jeremy thought. “Just . . . guy stuff,” he said instead. “Went to ball games, shot pool every now and then. Just hung out, mainly. And I’m sure I’ll make friends, but as I said, I’m busy right now.”

Doris evaluated his answer. “Lexie says you’re not writing.”

“I’m not.”

“Is it because of . . . ?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with feeling out of place or anything like that. Writing isn’t like other jobs. It’s not just about showing up and going through the motions. It’s more about creativity and ideas, and sometimes . . . well, you just don’t feel creative. I wish I knew how to tap into my creative source whenever I wanted, but I don’t. But if I’ve learned anything about writing in the last fifteen years, it’s that I know the inspiration will eventually come.”

“You can’t come up with an idea?”

“Not an original one. I’ve printed up hundreds of pages from the library computer, but every time I come up with something, I realize that I’ve already covered it before. Usually more than once.”

Doris thought about it. “Would you like to use my journal?” she asked. “I know you don’t believe what’s in it, so maybe you could . . . I don’t know, write an article about your investigation into it.”

She was referring to the journal she’d compiled in which she claimed to be able to predict the sex of babies. Hundreds of names and dates were included in the pages, including the entry that had predicted Lexie’s birth and the fact that she was a girl.

To be honest, Jeremy had considered it-Doris had made the offer previously-but although he’d rejected it initially because he knew her abilities couldn’t be real, lately he’d rejected it because he didn’t want his true feelings to cause a rift with Doris. She was going to be family.

“I don’t know. . . .”

“I’ll tell you what. You can make your decision later, after you’ve studied it. And don’t worry-I promise that I’ll be able to handle being famous if you do end up writing about it. You don’t have to worry. I’ll still be the same charming woman I’ve always been. It’s in the office. Wait here.”

Before Jeremy had the chance to object, she was rising from the table and heading for the kitchen. In her absence, the front door opened with a squeak and Jeremy saw Mayor Gherkin enter.

“Jeremy, my boy!” Gherkin exclaimed, approaching the table. He slapped Jeremy on the back. “I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you might be out pulling water samples, searching for clues regarding our latest mystery.”

The catfish.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Mayor. How are you?”

“Good, good. But busy. Town business never stops. There’s always so much to do. Barely sleep at all these days, but don’t bother worryin’ none about my health. Haven’t needed more than a few hours of sleep ever since the dehumidifier almost electrocuted me a dozen years back. Water and electricity don’t mix.”

“I’ve heard that,” Jeremy said. “Hey, listen . . . I’m glad I ran into you. Lexie thought I should talk to you about the wedding.”

Gherkin’s eyebrows shot up. “You reconsidering my offer to make it an event for the whole town and have the governor come?”

“No, it’s not that. Lexie wants to have the ceremony out at Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, and I haven’t been able to get through to anyone at the parks department to get the permits. Do you think you could help with that?”

Mayor Gherkin thought for a few moments, then gave a low whistle. “That’s a tough one,” he said, shaking his head. “Dealing with the state can be mighty tricky business. Mighty tricky. It’s like making your way through a minefield. You have to know someone to navigate the territory.”

“That’s why we need your help.”

“I’d love to help, but I’ve just been so busy trying to straighten things out for the Heron Festival this summer. It’s the big event around here-even bigger than the Historic Homes Tour, if you can believe that. We have carnival rides for the kids, concession booths along Main Street, parades, and all sorts of contests. Anyway, the grand marshal of the parade was supposed to be Myrna Jackson from Savannah, but she just called saying she’s not going to be able to make it on account of her husband. You know Myrna Jackson?”

Jeremy tried to place the name. “I don’t think so.”

“The acclaimed photographer?”

“Sorry,” Jeremy said.

“Famous woman, Myrna,” he said, ignoring Jeremy’s comment. “Probably the most famous southern photographer there is. Wonderful work. She actually spent a summer in Boone Creek when she was a girl, and we were lucky to get her. But just like that, her husband comes down with cancer. A terrible, terrible thing, mind you, and we’ll all be praying for him-but it also puts us in a bind. We’re in quite a spot, and it’s going to take some time to find a new grand marshal. I’m going to have to spend hours on the phone trying to line someone up. Someone famous. . . . It’s just a shame I don’t have any connections in the celebrity world. Well, except you, of course.”

Jeremy stared at the mayor. “Are you asking me to be the grand marshal?”

“No, no, of course not. You’ve already got your key to the city. Someone else . . . someone whose name people will recognize.” He shook his head. “Despite the breathtaking beauty of our town and the wonder of our fine citizens, it’s not easy selling Boone Creek to someone from a major metropolis. Frankly, it’s not a duty I look forward to, not with everything else that needs to be arranged for the festival. And then, having to deal with those folks in state government . . .” He trailed off, as if even considering the request were too much to fathom.

Jeremy knew exactly what the mayor was doing. Gherkin had a way of getting people to do just what he wanted and making them think it was their idea. It was obvious he wanted Jeremy to take care of his grand marshal problem in exchange for getting the permit, and the only question was whether Jeremy wanted to play along. Frankly, he didn’t, but they did need a date. . . .

Jeremy sighed. “Maybe I can help. Who do you want?”

Gherkin brought a hand to his chin, looking as if the fate of the world rested on solving this particular dilemma. “Could be anyone, I suppose. I’m just looking for name recognition, someone who’ll make the town ooh and aah and bring in the crowds.”

“How about if I find someone? In exchange, of course, for helping us with the permit?”

“Well, now there’s an idea. Wonder why I hadn’t thought of it. Let me think about that for a bit.” Gherkin tapped his finger against his jaw. “Well, I suppose that might work. Assuming you get the right sort of person, I mean. What kind of person are you talking about?”

“I’ve interviewed a lot of people over the years. Scientists, professors, Nobel Prize winners . . .”

The mayor was already shaking his head as Jeremy continued.

“Physicists, chemists, mathematicians, explorers, astro- nauts . . .”

Gherkin looked up. “Did you say astronauts?”

Jeremy nodded. “The guys who fly the space shuttle. I did a big story on NASA a couple of years back, and I became friends with a few. I could give them a call. . . .”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Gherkin snapped his fingers. “I can see the billboards now: ‘The Heron Festival: Where Outer Space Is Brought to Your Doorstep.’ We can make use of that theme all weekend. Not just a pie-eating contest, but a Moon-Pie-eating contest; we can make floats that look like rockets and satellites-”

“You bothering Jeremy with that ridiculous catfish story again, Tom?” Doris said as she walked back into the room, the journal nestled beneath her arm.

“Nosiree,” Gherkin answered. “Jeremy here was kind enough to offer to find a grand marshal for the parade this year, and he’s promised us a genuine astronaut. What do you think of outer space, as far as themes go?”

“Inspired,” Doris said. “A stroke of genius.”

The mayor seemed to puff up just a bit. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I like the way you think. Now, Jeremy, what weekend were you thinking about for the wedding? Summer’s mighty tough, what with all the tourists.”

“May?”

“Early or late?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as we get a date, anything will be fine. But if you can, the earlier the better.”

“In a rush, huh? Well, consider it done. And I can’t wait to hear all about that astronaut as soon as you talk to him.”

With a quick turn, Gherkin was gone and Doris was laughing under her breath as she took her seat. “Snookered you again, huh?”

“No, I knew what he was doing, but Lexie’s been getting antsy about that permit.”

“But other than that, the plans are going well?”

“I suppose. We’ve had our differences-she wants something small and intimate, I tell her that even if only my side of the family comes, there won’t be enough hotels out there to accommodate them all. I want my agent, Nate, to come; she says that if we invite one friend, we have to invite them all. Things like that. But it’ll work out. My family will understand no matter what we do, and I’ve already explained the situation to my brothers. They’re not thrilled, but they understand.”

Just as Doris was about to say something, Rachel came bursting through the front door, her eyes red and swollen. She sniffled as she saw Doris and Jeremy, froze for a second, and then headed toward the rear of the building. Jeremy could see the concern on Doris’s face.

“I think she needs someone to talk to,” he observed.

“You don’t mind?”

“No, we’ll catch up on the wedding plans another time.”

“Okay . . . thank you.” Doris slid the journal to Jeremy. “And take this. It’s a great story, I promise. And you won’t find any tricks because there weren’t any.”

Jeremy accepted the journal with a nod, still undecided as to whether or not he would use it.

Ten minutes later, Jeremy was enjoying the afternoon sunshine and heading for his cottage at Greenleaf when he eyed the office. After hesitating, he turned that way and pushed open the door. There was no sign of Jed, which meant he was probably in the shack set on the far edge of the property, the place where he plied his craft as a taxidermist. Jeremy paused once again before thinking, Why not? He might as well try to break the ice, and Lexie swore the man did talk.

He headed down the rutted path toward the shack. The smell of death and decay hit him long before he pushed his way inside.

Centered in the room was a long wooden workbench covered in stains that Jeremy assumed were blood, and strewn about were dozens of knives and other assorted tools: screws, awls, and a few of the scariest pliers and knives he had ever seen. Along the walls, set atop the shelves, and stuffed into corners were countless examples of Jed’s work, everything from bass to opossums to deer, though he had the peculiar habit of making everything he mounted appear as if it were about to attack something. Off to Jeremy’s left was what seemed to be a counter where business was transacted. It, too, was stained, and Jeremy found himself growing queasy.

Jed, wearing a butcher’s apron while working on a wild boar, looked up as Jeremy entered. He froze.

“Hey, Jed, how are you?”

Jed said nothing.

“I just thought I’d come by to see where you actually do your work. I don’t think I’ve mentioned my interest, but I find your work quite amazing.” He waited to see if Jed would speak. Jed merely stared at Jeremy as if he were a bug that had splattered on the windshield.

Jeremy tried again, trying to ignore the fact that Jed was absolutely enormous and furry, was holding a knife, and didn’t seem to be in the best of moods. He went on. “You know, how you make them look like they’re snarling, claws exposed, ready to pounce. I’ve never seen that before. At the Museum of Natural History up in New York, most of the animals look friendly. Yours look like they’re rabid or something.”

Jed scowled. Jeremy had the sense that his conversational gambit wasn’t going well.

“Lexie says you’re quite a hunter, too,” he offered, wondering why it suddenly seemed so hot in there. “I’ve never been, of course. The only thing we hunted in Queens were rats.” He laughed, Jed didn’t, and in the ensuing silence, Jeremy found himself growing nervous. “I mean, it’s not like we had deer running down the block or anything. But even if we did, I probably wouldn’t have shot them. You know, after seeing Bambi and all.”

Staring at the knife in Jed’s hand, Jeremy realized he was beginning to ramble, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

“That’s just me, though. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with hunting, of course . . . NRA, Bill of Rights, Second Amendment. I’m all for that. I mean, hunting is an American tradition, right? Line up the deer in your sights, and bam. Little fella topples over.”

Jed moved the knife from one hand to the other, and Jeremy swallowed, wanting nothing more than to get out of there.

“Well, I just dropped by to say hey. And good luck with . . . well, whatever you’re doing there. Can’t wait to see it. Any messages?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “No? Okay, then. Nice talking to you.”

Jeremy took a seat at the desk in his room and stared at a blank screen, trying to forget what had just happened with Jed. He desperately wished he could think of something to write but gradually came to the conclusion that the well had run dry.

It happened to all writers at various times, he knew, and there was no magic cure, simply because all writers approached their craft in slightly different ways. Some wrote in the morning, others in the afternoon, still others late at night. Some wrote to music, others needed complete silence. He knew of one writer who supposedly worked naked, locking himself in his room and giving strict instructions to his assistant that he was not to receive his clothing until he slid five written pages beneath the door. He knew of others who watched the same movie over and over, still others who couldn’t write without drinking or smoking excessively. Jeremy wasn’t that eccentric; in the past, he’d written whenever and wherever he’d needed to, so it wasn’t as if he could make a simple change and all would be right again.

Though he wasn’t quite panicked yet, he was getting concerned. More than two months had passed since he’d written anything, but because of the magazine’s publishing schedule-it was usually put together six weeks in advance-he’d written enough columns to get him through July. Which meant he still had a bit of breathing room before he’d be in serious trouble with Scientific American. But because freelancing paid most of the bills and he’d practically emptied his brokerage account to buy his car, pay for his living expenses, put the down payment and closing costs in escrow, and continue the ever expanding renovations, he wasn’t sure he had even that much time. Money was being sucked from his accounts as if by a vampire on steroids.

And he was blocked, he was beginning to think. It wasn’t just that he was busy or life had changed, as he’d suggested to Alvin and Doris. After all, he’d been able to write after he’d divorced Maria. In fact, he’d needed to write just to keep from dwelling on it. Writing had been an escape back then, but now? What if he never got over this?

He would lose his job. He would lose his income, and how on earth was he supposed to support Lexie and his daughter? Would he be forced to become “Mr. Mom” while Lexie worked to support the family? The images were disconcerting.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Doris’s journal. He could, he supposed, take her up on the offer. It might be just what he needed to get the juices flowing again-supernatural elements, interesting, original. If, of course, it was true. Could she really predict the sex of babies?

No, he decided again. And that was the thing. It couldn’t be true. It might be one of the greatest coincidences in history, but it wasn’t true. There was simply no way to tell the sex of a baby by placing a hand on a woman’s stomach.

Why, then, was he so willing to believe his own baby would be a girl? Why was he as positive about it as Lexie? When he imagined himself holding the baby in the future, she was always wrapped in a pink blanket. He sat back in his chair, wondering, and then decided that in fact he wasn’t absolutely positive. Lexie was the one who was sure, not him, and he was merely reflecting her opinion. And the fact that she continually referred to the baby as a little girl only reinforced that.

Instead of dwelling on it further-or trying to write-Jeremy decided to scan his favorite news sites on the Internet, hoping that something might click. Without high-speed access, the progress was slow to the point of making him drowsy, but he pushed on. He visited four sites involving UFOs; the official Web site regarding the latest in haunted houses; and the site put up by James Randi, who like him was devoted to exposing hoaxes and frauds. For years, Randi had a standing offer to pay a million dollars to any psychic who could prove his or her ability under rigorous scientific controls. To date, no one-including those better-known psychics who appeared regularly on television or wrote books-had taken him up on his challenge. Once, in one of his columns, Jeremy had made the same offer (on a much smaller scale, of course) with exactly the same results. People who called themselves psychics were experts in self-promotion, not the paranormal. Jeremy recalled his exposé; of Timothy Clausen, a man who claimed to be able to speak to spirits from beyond the grave. It was the last major story he’d worked on before he’d traveled to Boone Creek in search of ghosts and found Lexie instead.

On Randi’s site, there was the usual collection of stories, supposedly magical events peppered with the author’s disbelief, but after a couple of hours, Jeremy logged off, realizing he was no further along with ideas than when he’d started.

Checking his watch, he saw it was almost five, and he wondered whether he should stop by the house to see how the repairs were going. Maybe they’d moved another pile or something, anything to make it appear as if the project could be completed this year. Despite the endless bills, Jeremy was beginning to doubt whether they would ever move in. What once seemed manageable now seemed daunting, and he decided he’d pass on the visit to the house. No reason to make a dismal day even worse.

Instead, he chose to head to the library to see how Lexie was doing. He threw on a clean shirt, ran a brush through his hair, and slapped on some cologne; a few minutes later, he was passing Herbs on his way to the library. The dogwoods and azaleas were starting to look limp and tired, but along the sides of buildings and at the base of trees, tulips and daffodils were beginning to open, their colors even more vivid. The warm southerly breeze made it seem more like early summer than late March, the kind of day that would bring throngs to Central Park.

He wondered whether he should swing by and pick up a bouquet of flowers for Lexie, finally deciding he should. There was only one florist in town, and the store also sold live bait and fishing tackle; despite a sparse selection, he emerged from the store a few minutes later with a spring bouquet he was sure Lexie would love.

He reached the library within minutes but frowned when he realized that Lexie’s car wasn’t in its normal spot. Glancing toward the office window, he noticed her light was off. Thinking that she was at Herbs, he headed back that way, looking for but not seeing her car, then swung past her house, figuring she must have made it an early day. She was probably running an errand or shopping.

He turned the car around and retraced his path through town, cruising slowly. When he spotted Lexie’s car parked near a Dumpster behind the pizza parlor, he slammed on the brakes and pulled his car in beside hers, figuring she must have wanted to walk the boardwalk on such a beautiful day.

He grabbed the flowers and headed between the buildings, thinking he’d surprise her, but as he rounded the corner, he came to an abrupt halt.

Lexie was there, just as he’d expected her to be. She was sitting on the bench that overlooked the river, but what stopped him from moving forward was the fact that she wasn’t alone.

Instead, she was sitting beside Rodney, almost nestled against him. From the back, it was difficult to make out anything more than that. He reminded himself that they were just friends. She’d known him since they’d been kids, and for a moment that was enough.

Until, that is, they shifted on the bench, and he realized they were holding hands.