As he stepped inside the common living room, he was hit by welcome heat, the scent of a wood-burning fireplace and the sound of Dolly Parton singing “With Bells On.” His upstairs neighbor, Dena, he thought she’d said, was on a stepladder, reaching up to dust the big mirror above the fireplace.

She wore her long brown hair in a braid that came halfway down her back. She had a Washington State Cougars sweatshirt on over jeans. When she saw him in the mirror, she moved down the two steps before hurrying to the wall and pushing a couple of buttons. Dolly instantly went silent.

“Sorry,” she said with a grin. “I checked to make sure all the guests were gone before cranking up the sound system. Not everyone appreciates my taste in music.”

“Dolly Parton is iconic.”

“She is, but you’d be surprised the number of people who don’t like country music. Especially the old stuff. They think it’s too twangy.”

“But you like it?”

“I do, a fact that humiliated my baby sister, so there’s an advantage. Did you walk around town?”

“Yes. It’s a bustling place.”

She had freckles, he thought in surprise. And large eyes. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry and obviously hadn’t dressed to impress.

“I’m not sure bustling could ever be used to describe Wishing Tree, but people do enjoy getting out on a Saturday morning.” She paused. “You look cold. Can I get you some coffee? We have scones, as well.”

“That’s what I came looking for.”

“Oh, good.” The smile returned. “Maybe I’ll take a break from my chores. The scones were awfully good this morning.”

He followed her into the large dining room. About a dozen tables were scattered around—some seating two, others seating six or eight. The room had big windows, several sideboards and hutches, and wainscoting painted creamy white.

Dena stepped into the kitchen and washed her hands, then returned with a plate of scones. She set them on one of the larger tables before walking over to a carafe and pouring him a mug of coffee.

“How do you take it?” she asked.

“Black is fine.”

She put that down, filled a second mug with hot water and added a tea bag, then took one of the chairs. Micah did the same, sitting at an angle to her.

She seemed far more intent on his cup of coffee than him, he noted. Confusing, but okay. He had the thought that she had no idea who he was, something that happened occasionally.

“Ursula makes a superior cup of coffee,” she said, sounding wistful.

“You don’t drink coffee?”