She shrugged into an air-dried tank top and drank in the scent no dryer sheet could replicate. Her entire life, Green Ridge had always been home. Could she really move far away—somewhere mountains dwarfed her familiar ridges, or oceans swallowed the lazy river on whose banks her town had grown? Somewhere buildings scraped the clouds?

Faded cutoffs slid over her thighs like they remembered the shape of her body. But to stay in the Ridge? Staying sent a message she couldn’t cut it outside her hometown. She’d feel like a failure. Then again, no one would call Richard Bruce a failure. Yet, he was back home and weighing the possibility of putting down roots. She kicked her sandals into the closet and yanked on a pair of long socks. So where were her ruby red slippers? Those magic shoes that, when she clicked her heels, would show her the way home.

The dresser top mirror offered a backward glimpse of her childhood domain. Reversed book titles lined the shelves with through the looking glass versions of Little Women and Misty of Chincoteague. Were the stories the same in that world of opposites? If she could see out the window, would her van be replaced by a horse-drawn carriage or a piper cub plane? Would Green Ridge be a bustling city? Would Tessa Meadows be a blonde? Leaving behind the imaginary world of reflection, she sank onto her squishy mattress. According to needlepoint pillows and folksy wall hangings, home was a person, not a place. She was enough on board with that sentiment to buy one of those pillows and put it on her bed…if only it could tell her just which person was home.

****

“You know I can’t have lunch with you.” Late the next morning, Tessa met Richard at the entrance to the volunteer office. Broad shoulders spanning the width of the door, he clung to the doorframe, effectively blocking her exit. She willed a patient smile. “But thank you for asking.”

“Tell me why again?”

“You know very well why.” She took a final gurgling sip of iced coffee and tossed the cup into the trash.

“Because you have to meet an Amish guy at your house—”

“Pick him up, yes.”

Richard took the stethoscope from around his neck and stuck it in his ears. “Because you have to pick up said Amish guy—”

“Right.”

“—and take him to your house.”

“Yup. As it turns out, the Amish don’t drive.” His teasing was an obvious effort to stall her departure. Kind of cute. Kind of annoying. Mostly cute.

He cocked his head. “Tell me again why this is a good idea?”

“Because I have no clue how to build a gazebo. Do you?” Swinging the end of his stethoscope like a cowboy with his lasso, he shook his head.

“I’m still thinking I should be there. I mean, what do you really know about this guy?”