“Sure thing.” He told her, “Sarah Randall runs the place. If you decide to go up there, tell her Colin and Tallulah say hey.”

“I will. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Back in the Subaru, she drove slowly through the town. It looked well kept, with a main street filled with charming shops painted different colors and several side streets that held more utilitarian buildings such as a post office and a courthouse.

The road wound up an incline that lifted her over the rooftops of the town she had just passed through. She could see the Pacific. Sunlight sparkled off the calm surface of the water. The approaching sunset would be a kaleidoscope of fiery color.

Clusters of houses in cul-de-sacs spun off either side of the road like fractals, interspersed with clumps of redwood forest. When she reached Muir Road, she turned left. The road took her along the curve to the top of a hill where a large Victorian house with a widow’s walk sprawled, limned with the gold of the setting sun.

Even to her cranky, tired gaze, it was beautiful. Signaling, she turned into the short drive and pulled up to the house. The grounds were attractively landscaped with areas of bright green lawn bordered by lilac bushes and flower beds and large pots filled with lemon trees.

A man walked around the corner of the house. She summed him up in a glance. He was either a gardener or a handyman, maybe thirty, with broad shoulders, shaggy blond hair, sun-bronzed skin, and strong features. He wore faded, dirty jeans and an equally dirty white shirt. As he strode toward the Subaru, he stripped heavy-duty gloves off large-boned hands.

“Evening,” he said as she climbed out of the car. He had a great face, intelligent and friendly. Flecks of dirt dusted the bronzed skin at his throat. “Can I help you?”

“A man suggested I come up here,” she told him, shading her eyes from the brilliant westering sun. “Is this Sarah Randall’s place? He told me to watch for the house with the widow’s walk. He said it was a bed-and-breakfast.”

“This is Sarah’s place.” The man held out a big, callused hand. “I’m Sam, her great-nephew. I keep the weeds beaten back for her.”

Forgetting her recent aversion to touching anyone, Molly took his hand. His long fingers closed around hers gently, then he let her go.

“Love the lemon trees.”

His hazel eyes smiled as he looked around the property. “Thanks. I don’t know if Sarah’s still taking guests, but you can always ask.”

He didn’t mean the bed-and-breakfast was full, did he? She looked around. The parking lot was empty, and that view was really spectacular. “I think I will. The worst she can do is tell me no.”

“That’s what I figure.” He smiled into her eyes. “Good luck.”