Shivering, she pulled her softest joggers and hoodie and a fresh towel from the dryer. She ducked into the powder room and slipped on the warm clothing, then scurried to the front entryway. The mirror offered a fleeting glimpse of damp curls and ruddy cheeks. With a deep breath, she opened the door.

Hands spread, he leaned on the railing, watching the coming storm. His shirt clung to wide shoulders and tapered in sodden wrinkles to a narrow waist. She hugged the towel to her chest.

The door latched with a heavy thump.

He turned, and a smile flickered across his face.

She extended the towel.

“Thank you.” He took it and laid it over the porch rail. Lowering his suspenders, he unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it from his shoulders.

The cloth was the color of a September sky. Her heart hammered, and she spun. Who told her the Amish didn’t use buttons on their clothing, only hooks and eyes? Apparently, that person was misinformed. She flicked back her gaze. Also, turned out Amish men do indeed wear undershirts. Was she disappointed or relieved he didn’t stand before her shirtless? Even so, his sopping undershirt clung to his chest, leaving no secrets as to what lay beneath.

He toweled his head with vigor.

The wind gusted, and the leaves on the gnarled crabapple trees flipped upside down.

She pulled the hoodie tight and tugged the strings at her neck. “You must be freezing. Can I get you a jacket or something?”

He returned the wet towel with a nod.

Jogging into the entryway, she tossed the towel over the banister and yanked open the closet. Her grandfather’s checked, flannel shirt hung on a hook. On chilly mornings, she wore it to garden, but she hadn’t touched it since May. Burying her nose in soft fabric, she inhaled. Fortunately, the shirt smelled more like detergent than shoes. Back outside, she handed it to him and crossed to the porch swing. Even through her sweatpants, the wooden slats were damp and cold.

He pulled on the shirt and lowered himself next to her. “Thanks.”

The chains creaked, and the old garment’s seams strained tight over his shoulders, but both held. Good construction mattered.

Fiery, forked streaks in shades of blue and gold crawled from cloud to cloud. When she was a child, she always ran to the swing at the first, distant rumble of thunder and waited, hands clasped and feet dangling, for the storm to arrive. Even now, her breath quickened as the seconds between lightning and thunder dwindled to none. She leaned against his shoulder and shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No.” She twisted her hair into a bun and let it fall just to feel the tickling caress of her curls. “I like it out here.”

Thunder vibrated the chains until they buzzed.

He tilted his face to the sky. “You remind me so much of her.”