She continued to look through the various shapes and sizes of the multicolored bulbs. Fiery red and orange combinations in the essence of flames adorned one shelf and she moved closer, not trusting her eyes. The vibrant mix of colors tricked the mind into believing the flames were actually moving.

“Amazing,” she breathed out. Whitney would love one of those for her birthday in March—a fiery Aries, it would suit her personality perfectly.

Along the next row of shelves, there was an assortment of red and green and gold combinations. A Holiday Sale sign announced 50 percent off the seasonal collection.

Immediately, Sarah envisioned a twenty-foot Christmas tree in the B&B foyer that year, decorated in these blown-glass bulbs. Classy, modern, elegant.

Christmas. Would she still own the inn by then? Whitney was being optimistic that Dove’s Nest would sell quickly once it was on the market, but maybe it would take a while to find the right buyer.

She reluctantly moved away from the holiday selection. She could always come back for them if she was in town for the holidays. Right now, she was on the hunt for green and blue mixes. She’d buy them to hang in the guest rooms at the B&B. A parting gift of sorts. Something she could leave behind.

She found what she was looking for along the far end of the tiny shop. A Seashore collection sat on the top shelf.

“Hello, miss,” a man said as she reached to pick up one that was perfectly round and a little bigger than her palm.

“Oh, hi…” she said, turning. “Do you work here?” The man had to be in his nineties, dressed in a pair of board shorts and a bright orange T-shirt, his skin dark, wrinkled from years in the sun. He wore an old baseball hat and an apron covered in multicolored paint around his waist.

“This is my place.” He stared at her as he wiped orange paint from his hands onto an old rag.

Sarah’s gaze drifted to a curtain behind the cash counter. “You make these back there?” she asked. His hands shook slightly, and it was hard to imagine them being capable of such delicate artistry.

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been making them for more than forty years. Right here in this tiny shop.” His old eyes studied her, and she shifted from one foot to the other.

He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint where she’d seen him before. “I’m Sarah Lewis…I own Dove’s Nest B&B… Well, I just inherited it, anyway. I may be selling it, but right now, it’s mine.”