She hung an array of power drills, handsaws and screwdrivers on hooks, and sorted hardware into plastic containers. After scrubbing a thick layer of grime from the bench, she rubbed in conditioning oil until it glowed. She ran a hand over the surface, tracing the grain. The wood was warm to the touch—like a living thing. Decades-old cobwebs and desiccated bugs went to their final repose via the dustpan. With a little elbow grease, the dingy windows let in a bit of natural light which she supplemented with an electric torch, hanging from metal shelves over the bench. She hauled out the stepladder and replaced bulbs in the ceiling until the whole workspace was cheerfully illuminated. Tired and filthy, she sank onto the cooler and reviewed her work. Though it may not rise to Amish standards, the place didn’t look half bad.

Satisfied, she made a beeline for the claw-foot tub. Wrapped in a towel, she was steps from the bathroom when she spotted the blinking, red light on the answering machine. Guess she hadn’t heard the landline from the garage. Mrs. Diefenderfer maybe? She pressed the button.

“Hello?”

A deep male voice filled the hallway, and her towel slipped a few inches.

“Please tell Miss Tessa Meadows that Mr. Jonas Rishel is ready to build the gazebo for her parents. She—no, Rebecca, not right now—ah, she—Rebecca, go sit by the buggy—she, uh, sorry…she will need the pop-top to carry the wood. I will begin construction Thursday at noon if the time suits. Thank you.”

A full body flush, ends of hair to tips of toes, flared like an instant sunburn—but a nice sunburn, making her skin warm and tingly all at the same time. The nubby towel scratched tender flesh below her armpits. She yanked it up a few inches and replayed the message just to hear his voice again. How the heck did Jonas Rishel get her phone number? She hovered a finger over the replay button a second time. Instead, she advanced to the next message.

“How are you, Tessa Bear?”

Her father favored the landline as well.

“Just wondering when you’re heading to New York? Mom and I had a few more ideas for house sitters, and I have a lead on a job teaching writing in New Jersey. Who was it, Margaret? For the house?”

Pots and pans clanged, and her mother’s voice rang in the background.

“Oh yes, Marybeth Folkers and Jeremy Rice from up at school. Let us know what you figure out, and I’ll email that job listing. Bye now.”

Ever reluctant to meddle in his daughter’s affairs, her father always seemed to sense the precise moment she needed help. But another teaching job? In New Jersey? She shivered again and pressed the button, saving both messages.