Wrenching the gearshift into Park, she peered at thick, dark clouds scudding over the line of Amish buggies nearby. With any luck that gusty west wind would banish the humidity with the afternoon storm. She caught a glimpse of crazy red curls in the rearview mirror, stuck out her bottom lip, and blew the hair from her eyes. Ugh. She was a giant fuzzball.

Grabbing her trusty shopping bag, she slid from the van and landed ankle-deep in a puddle. Water seeped under her arches, and she wiggled her toes. The pothole was hardly a swimming pool, but this stifling June afternoon, she’d take any refreshment she could get. Three cheers for waterproof shoes! The inventor of women’s sport sandals deserved a humanitarian award.

Shaking her feet, she scanned the parking lot for familiar faces. She so wasn’t up for getting ambushed by her high school math teacher. Or her parents’ coworkers. Or anyone really. Maybe she’d get lucky, and no one would recognize her. Get in. Get whoopie pies. Get out. Oh, and maybe french fries. She slipped on her chic, new sunglasses.

A little too hip for central Pennsylvania…but perfect for New York City.

She had visions of donning sleek shades as a strapping young man helped her into a horse-drawn carriage.

“How you doin’?” he’d say like Joey on Friends.

Iced coffee in hand, she’d settle into a romantic ride through Central Park, catching the eyes of handsome joggers galore. Granted, she hadn’t set foot in New York in over ten years. But soon…very soon.

Squaring her shoulders, she threw open the door to the Farmers’ Market. The odor of fried onions bowled into her with suffocating sweetness. She chuckled. The sprawling indoor market smelled exactly the same as when she was a little girl. Sacrificing anonymity for clear vision, she slid the sunglasses into her hair and blinked into the dimly lit hall. Heck, it even looked exactly the same.

The town butcher and the stinky cheese man hadn’t aged a day. Maybe sausage and Gorgonzola held the secrets to eternal youth. She peered through swarms of shoppers and breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother’s favorite plant vendor, an ancient little Amish lady, was still hawking tomatoes. Of course, when Tessa was young, her mother insisted on arriving at seven a.m. to get the cream of the crop. Not today. She was flying solo and so not a morning person. Then again, maybe her afternoon arrival was why she had to park in the pucker brush by the creek. And why the place was an absolute madhouse. She dodged a double jogging stroller. What were the odds she could avoid running into someone she knew?

“Why bless my heart, it’s Tessa Meadows!”

Zero, apparently. The piercing voice emanated from behind. She searched for an escape route. None presented itself.

“Over here, Tessa dear.”