After another hour at his desk, Manfred became aware he was hungry. His mouth started to water when he wondered what was on the restaurant menu this evening. He’d checked the Home Cookin sign, so he knew the place was open on Sundays. Yep, time to eat out. He locked up the house as he left. As he did so, he wondered if he was the only one in Midnight who locked doors.

Before he could give himself the treat of a dinner he hadn’t cooked, he had to perform his social duty. He looked both ways on Witch Light (nothing coming, as usual) and crossed to Fiji’s house. He’d been eyeing her pink-flowered china plate and her clear plastic pitcher in a guilty way since he’d washed them. He’d enjoyed the cookies and lemonade, and the least he could do was walk across the street to return Fiji’s dishes.

The previous Thursday evening, he’d taken a break from work to watch the small group of women who came to Fiji’s “self-discovery” evening. Manfred had recognized the type from his own clientele: women dissatisfied with their humdrum lives, women seeking some power, some distinction. There was nothing wrong with such a search—in fact, people searching for something above and beyond the humdrum world were his bread and butter—but he doubted any of them had the talent he’d seen lurking in Fiji when he’d opened the door to find her standing there in jeans and a peasant blouse, a plate in her left hand and a pitcher in her right.

Fiji was not what he thought of as his “type.” It didn’t bother him at all that she was older than he was; he found that suited him just fine, as a rule. But Fiji was too curvy and fluffy. Manfred tended to like hard, lean women—tough chicks. However, he had to appreciate the home Fiji had made for herself. The closer you got to the stone cottage with its patterned-brick trim, the more charming it was. He admired the flowers that were still burgeoning in the pots and barrels in Fiji’s yard, despite the fact that it was late September. The striped marmalade cat known as Mr. Snuggly displayed himself elegantly under a photinia. Even the irregular paving stones leading to the porch were laid in an attractive pattern.

He knocked, since Fiji’s place wasn’t open on Sunday.

“Come in!” she called. “Door’s open.”

A bell over the door tinkled delicately as he went in, and he saw Fiji’s unruly head suddenly appear over the top of the counter.