He flipped past the half dozen drawings of plans for the Anderson farm and stopped at a sketch of Festus, airborne, about to catch a Frisbee.

“Wow,” he said.

There were more pictures: Sara, wearing an apron and holding a mixing bowl in the curve of one arm, a spoon in her opposite hand; Miranda, in her dated but always immaculate waitress uniform; Cord, J.P. and Eli seated around a table at Bailey’s, deep in conversation; various Painted Pony Creek landmarks, like the courthouse and the library and the peaceful old cemetery on the edge of town.

Bailey’s, à la Edward Hopper, with recognizable faces at the tables, in the booth, perusing the jukebox.

Eli studied that one with something resembling fascination, then looked up and grinned. “Elvis pigging out on a hamburger. Sorry I missed that visit.”

“It isn’t a hamburger,” Brynne said, pleased. “It’s a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. Don’t you know anything about the boy from Tennessee?”

He held the sketch closer to his face and squinted. “Is that the Man in Black, juggling bottles behind the bar?”

“The very same.”

“Damn, Brynne. This is amazing.” He met her eyes again, grinned mischievously. “Think you could re-create this on black velvet? We could make it the focal point of the living room.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Brynne said, feigning indignation. When it came to art, she had to admit, if only to herself, she was something of a snob. To her, paintings on velvet were akin to paint-by-number pieces.

Just no.

Eli laughed again, and Brynne was hoping he would forget about the sketchbook and its contents and hand it back.

He didn’t. He turned more pages.

Saw the first image of himself, lying broken in a hospital bed.

In the next, he was standing beside his official SUV, microphone in hand, issuing a report or calling in a report of some kind.

Finally, there he was in a tux, slightly awkward, but smiling.

Beside him stood Brynne herself, clad in an exquisite wedding gown. She was beaming, about to throw her bouquet into the waiting crowd.

Eli examined that drawing for a very long time.

When he looked up again, Brynne was blushing. He seemed wonderstruck.

“It’s only a drawing,” she said, mildly anxious. She definitely didn’t want Eli to feel cornered. Rushed.

“It’s the future,” he said quietly.

Brynne’s throat constricted and her eyes burned again. “I hope so,” she replied.

Finally, Eli set the sketchbook aside, laying it carefully on the tabletop. Then he took both Brynne’s hands into his and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

She trembled at the resulting sensations. “Eli?”