Next to her Trudy cleared her throat until the boy looked at her. Trudy tipped her head toward Violet.

“Oh, right.” The boy glanced at Maya. “I have birdseed. It’s for—”

“Tyler, you’re a lifesaver,” Violet called from the opposite side of the shop. “You can just leave it behind the counter. You’ve saved me a trip out to the store and I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” With one last lingering look at Maya, he walked toward the register and set the bag on the floor behind the counter. “I’ll just . . .” He glanced back at Maya just as she felt a poke on her arm. Trudy held out a note. That’s Tyler. He works at the feedstore and does odd jobs for us. A nice boy.

Maya swallowed hard and willed her cheeks not to flame with heat. It was a telltale sign of any agitation or embarrassment—her cheeks flared so red they almost turned purple.

“I have to go,” Maya said to the air around her. At the door she paused and looked back over her shoulder. Tyler was slim but tall, with shoulders that strained the seams of his T-shirt. His hair was thick and blond and fell carelessly over his forehead. Dark, straight eyebrows sat over dark blue eyes, and he was watching her with the same intent stare as the other day. Then he flashed a smile so brilliant, it was like a sharp ray of sun on her chest. When the door to the shop closed behind her, she pulled her lips in between her teeth, but she couldn’t keep the edges from turning up.

That night, lying in bed with a sliver of pale moonlight peeking between the yellowed lace curtains, she pondered the memory that had filled her mind when she saw the sign for Sugar Bend at the gas station over a month ago. The pull in the center of her being. That magical, comforting sense of belonging. She hadn’t felt anything close to that in years, no matter how many homes she’d been shuffled into and out of.

But today, walking into Two Sisters, seeing that empty chair at the table, then feeling the shells and wood and glass under her fingers, she’d felt that pull again. Like a big magnet was hidden somewhere in the room, maybe in the pale blue paint on the walls or the smooth tile floor under her feet, and it was coaxing her in. She didn’t understand it but she felt it. It was everywhere in this small, strange town, like arms outstretched in welcome.

* * *

Before the age of sixty Frank Roby never once dealt with insomnia. He’d spent most of his life falling asleep in three minutes flat and sleeping soundly without waking for eight solid hours. But lately, at least a couple nights a week, he lay awake in the dark thinking about life and his history and the future and every other intangible thing running through his mind.