She smiled as if she’d seen this look before—lost in the art store. She was tiny; a sandpiper was what came to mind. She had deep brown hair like feathers brushing the wind, a small mouth chirping her greeting. She held her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Leona Riordan. Can I help you with choosing any supplies?”

I shook her hand. “Hi, I’m Ellie. I think I’ve got it all. Guess I just need to check out.”

Leona, who appeared to be my age, talked quickly but with that southern accent that made it seem as if she were talking slower than she was. “Well, you must be an artist.”

“Or an artist wannabe,” I said.

“No, no.” She grabbed some of my supplies and headed toward the checkout counter, talking over her shoulder. “Like a writer—if you’re writing, you’re a writer. If you’re painting or drawing or … whatever … you’re an artist.”

“Are you?” I grabbed a handful of charcoals and followed her.

“An artist? No. A writer. I try.”

I followed her.

“Research?” She pointed to the books.

Only, I thought, in the South is such nosiness considered polite, and even I wasn’t used to people asking so many questions. “Yes, that sweet girl Ashley helped me find these.”

“Our best employee by a million miles,” Leona said.

“I knew her dad in college.” I reached for my wallet.

“So, you’re visiting Bayside?”

“Yes, I’m staying at Birdie Worthington’s for a while.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard you were there. Vance Hillman told me.”

“Who?”

“A local. The pharmacist.” She pointed out the window, as if I should know exactly where the pharmacy was and who Vance Hillman was.

I shrugged.

“Oh, he doesn’t know you. He heard it from Bitsy, who is friends with Birdie’s caretaker.”

I laughed out loud.

“I know, I know,” Leona said. “Small towns.”

“It’s great, I guess. In a way.”

“Well, welcome from Atlanta. Glad you’re here.”

“This is an amazing store. It’s brilliant to combine art and books. They’re so simpatico.”

“Exactly.” She smiled at me in such a way that I believed I’d said the right thing to make us friends forever. “That is exactly what I meant to do,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked. “You own the store?”

She pushed buttons on the cash register, entering my purchase into the computer, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. “Yep. Own it. Worry about it. Pay for it. Run it. If only all our employees were like Ashley.” She clicked a key on the computer. “Okay, your damage is two hundred twenty-five dollars and sixty cents. You like the nice paper, don’t you?”

“The thick cotton. Yes. It’s my favorite.” I handed her the American Express card.