As was the crystal dish of peppermint candies that were for guests but were also a regular element of my daily diet this time of year.

I popped another in my mouth.

The front door opened and in walked Dr. Dean Raymond, the town’s only resident dentist. His gleaming-white teeth were almost as shiny as the top of his hairless head, which was revealed once he slipped off his neon-orange knit hunting cap.

He smiled politely at me. “ ’Lo, Finley.”

I smiled politely in return. “Afternoon, Dr. Raymond.”

Then his glance began dancing around the lobby and I knew who he was looking for.

“Is, ah, your gramma around?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She’s somewhere,” I said, giving away no specifics. I’d learned quickly not to give out any intel on anyone at the inn, especially the owner.

Dr. Raymond scratched his pointy chin. “You, ah, expect her soon?”

“Probably, though I make no guarantees.”

“Well, ah, I’ll mosey over here”—he gestured to the area by the fireplace—“and have a wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Dr. Raymond proceeded to do exactly that, positioning himself on one of the two floral-print sofas that gave him the best vantage point of the comings and goings of the lobby.

Lying in wait for Grandma Jo, like a short, bald, pale-white cheetah.

Ever since his wife left him two years ago for the local male dance teacher who—surprise!—turned out not to be gay after all, Dr. Raymond had had his eye on my grandmother, as did quite a few other area fellas. Because my grandmother was beautiful, and I didn’t mean “for her age.” I mean Grandma Jo had always been a babe. Tall and trim, she sported hazel eyes and movie star cheekbones (that I wish I’d inherited). It was unexpected. If you heard a name like “Grandma Jo,” you would be forgiven when a certain type of image followed: white hair in a bob, glasses, twinkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and a tendency to dress in bulky cardigans with colorful quilt-like patches.

That’s what I would’ve pictured.

But that wasn’t Grandma Jo.