Maybe we should have listened to the news, she thought. When she was at home, after a long day with people, Etta was glad to spend quiet time with her father. They read or gardened and cooked. They both disliked network TV so if they watched something, it was some old movie. Thomas loved Westerns, and Etta liked black and whites from the forties.

Since Etta had been off work for weeks, they hadn’t heard of the fear generated by the virus.

Again, Etta stopped and looked around. To her left was a pretty little street with mature trees and old houses. Maybe she could knock on a door and ask for directions. Maybe someone would give her a glass of water. She was hungry and thirsty and starting to get worried.

She passed four well-groomed residences, then she halted. Before her was the prettiest house she’d ever seen. Some people gushed over Victorians with their turrets and eyebrow windows, but Etta liked plainer, more simple. She knew this house was Italianate. It was two story, with a flat roof, and three tall, narrow windows on the second floor. The ground floor had a porch that went around two sides, with thin columns with pretty headers. The front door was double wide and painted a deep marine blue.

Etta stood there looking at the house and admiring it. It was so simple yet so beautiful.

The front door opened and out came a man carrying a tray with a frosty pitcher. He was older, seventies, maybe more, but he had a face that was unlined, and he had a wonderful mustache. It was mostly gray but still had some dark in it.

It was a full minute before Etta realized he was watching her and she was staring. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She turned away to keep rolling her case down the sidewalk. “Will you join me?” he asked. He had a nice voice.

Etta hesitated. From birth, females were indoctrinated about Stranger Danger.

He seemed to understand. “I’m here alone.” He put the tray down on a table between two chairs. “The babysitter my son hired to look after me didn’t show up. Do you know how to work a washing machine? I can’t figure out where the wringer is. And the clothesline seems to be missing.”

Etta laughed. What is more bonding than laughter? “You wouldn’t know where a hotel is, would you?”

“I could look in the phone book.”

This second anachronism made her laugh more.

He smiled. “I have chocolate chip cookies that I just took out of the oven and cold lemonade. I squeezed the lemons myself.” He made a gesture of using one of those tall, old-fashioned presses.

Etta had one at home. He was a man of her own heart.

He held up a big fat cookie and took a bite out of it.