Ella nodded and walked over to the glass coffeemaker. The white drugstore uniform was cinched tight around her waist, it clung to her hips and outlined her figure far better than street clothes ever did. She knew this and made a point of walking lightly, putting her weight on her toes.

She placed the coffee cup on the counter and asked if he wanted cream; almost no one ever used it in Caxton. He answered, “Please,” and she returned with a small wax carton.

“I hope you’re not going to ask me if I’m a salesman,” the young man said, finally.

Ella said, “Huh?”

“I must look like one, because that’s what everybody has asked since I got into town. ‘You a salesman, fella?’ ”

“Well, we get quite a few of them in Caxton. They lay over here.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. They just do.”

The young man sipped his coffee. They were silent for another moment. Then he said, “You live here in town, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go to the high school?”

She hesitated a second, aware that she was doing exactly the thing her father had warned her about: talking to a strange man.

“Yes. I’m a junior. Or, I mean, I will be when school starts.”

“Great,” the young man said, and paused. “You know, I’ve heard a lot about Southern hospitality. I’m just wondering if it exists, actually. Does it?”

“I guess so; sure.”

“No, I mean really. See, here’s the way it is: I just moved here, I’m going to stay for quite a while, but I don’t know a darn thing about the town—and I don’t know a soul.”

Ella’s heart beat a little faster as the stranger continued. He was handsome, in a peculiar kind of way, she thought. And anyone could see that he was a gentleman.

“Look,” he said, “let me ask you a few questions, would you? You don’t even have to answer them if you don’t want to. Okay?”

She shrugged noncommittally.

“Now you’re probably thinking that we ought to be introduced, though, aren’t you? All right. My name is Adam Cramer. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m nice to dogs and cats and other animals and I help old people across streets. Who are you?”

Ella grinned, though she hadn’t planned to. “I don’t think I’d better—”

“Oh, come on, now. Southern hospitality. You don’t want a Yankee to get a bad impression, do you? I might go home hating everybody in the South, just because of this. And I know you wouldn’t want that to happen.” His eyes, Ella thought, are certainly blue; and he has a wonderful smile.

“Well, no, I guess I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“Fine!”

“But I don’t see why you have to know my name.”