She did as he instructed and ripped the paper from the package, revealing a whisper-soft pale pink scarf. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, stroking the fabric.

“It’s real cashmere,” he said excitedly. “I had my great-niece pick it out and overnight it to me. I’m not good with colors and things, but my late wife, she loved cashmere. She always said she’d rather have one or two nice things than a whole houseful of just okay.”

Ivy wrapped the scarf around her neck. “I love it. And every time I wear it, I’ll think of you.”

He smiled. “I hope you will. But hadn’t you better run along to your meeting now?” He nodded in the direction of the ornate carved clock on his mantel. It was a quarter till five.

“You’re right. But I’ll be back here to pick you up by seven. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ivy’s pulse was racing as she rushed across the town square, ignoring the amused stares of passersby. She was running late because she’d had to circumnavigate all the side roads downtown, trying to find a parking space.

The clock in the tower was just beginning to chime five as she arrived, breathless, at the grouping of benches around the clock pavilion. A couple of teenage boys lounged on one bench, staring down at their cell phones, and an elderly woman, bundled up in layers of coats and scarves, sat opposite them, feeding pigeons from a small bag of potato chips.

Ivy’s arrival caused a bit of the stir with the teenagers, who nudged and guffawed and pointed their cell phone cameras at her. Ivy nodded and acknowledged them with a finger wave.

Nearby, a gangly redheaded man paced back and forth, looking down at his own phone. He was younger than Ivy, mid- to late twenties, she thought, with the pale, freckled complexion that went with the ginger hair. He wore a puffy black down-filled jacket, the hem of which he kept trying, in vain, to tug downward. As she drew closer, Ivy spied the source of his agitation: a huge damp brown stain covered the front of his stiffly starched khaki pants.

Ivy could sense his discomfort from where she stood, several yards away, searching the vicinity for Phoebe’s fiancé, Cody. People were hurrying by, headed in the direction of the booths being set up for the Christmas Stroll, but nobody else resembled the photos Phoebe had shown her of her Army Ranger stud muffin.

Ivy shrugged and leaned against one of the pavilion’s concrete columns. It was only five after. Maybe Cody was still circling the square, trying to find a parking place. Maybe he’d been delayed by all the traffic choking the downtown streets. Or maybe, like Phoebe, he was experiencing cold feet. Ivy pulled her phone from the pocket of her skirt. No missed calls or texts from Phoebe.

After ten more minutes, Ivy’s own feet were literally getting cold. The teenagers got up and moved on and the pigeon lady finished scattering chips for the birds, but the redhead continued pacing. Ivy moved over to the vacated bench, hunching her shoulders and wrapping the cashmere scarf tighter around her neck. She was studying her own phone, trying to decide if she should alert Phoebe that she’d been stood up, when she felt a slight tap on her shoulder.