A tapping caught her attention; curious, she followed the sound to Emmi’s carriage house, letting her gaze travel higher to the second-floor window. It was tall and in the Moorish style, more a door than a window. Linnea’s heart stopped and she froze at the sight of a tall young man standing at the window. There was an awkward pause as she stood, limp-armed, staring up at him.

Seeing that he’d caught her attention, he waved.

On automatic pilot, she raised her hand in halfhearted acknowledgment—then spun on her heel and walked directly to the front trunk of the VW, her head bent with purpose.

The small trunk was crammed with brown paper bags filled with groceries. She loaded each arm with a bag and headed straight to the side door into the kitchen, not looking back at the carriage house window. She plopped the bags on the kitchen counter, then returned to the car for the second load, eyes to the ground. Once again came the insistent tapping at the window, but this time she pretended she didn’t hear it. When she reached the car, however, she heard a sharp whistle and looked up, startled.

John had pushed open the large windows. They divided in half vertically, giving her a full view from hip to head. His dark auburn hair was longer than she remembered and fell over the collar of his open chambray shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes from this distance, but she knew that devilish spark in the green would be there. John gestured for her to come closer.

Linnea pointed to the grocery bags, then shook her head.

John darted his hand out, lifting a finger to indicate she should wait a minute. He disappeared from the window.

Linnea’s lips tightened in impatience. What was she doing, standing here waiting on him? Him? No, she wouldn’t, she decided. She ducked in to grab hold of the remaining grocery bags when another whistle pierced the air. She straightened and looked over her shoulder. John was back at the window; he lifted his hand and, to her surprise, released a paper airplane. Linnea watched the pointed missile catch a breeze and fly gracefully across the lawn, over the shrubs, to crash-land on her driveway pebbles a few feet away. He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

Linnea did not smile. She stared at the little white paper plane in the driveway. One of the wings was bent from the landing. With a frustrated sigh, she walked toward it, under his watchful gaze, and picked it up. The plane was made from white computer paper, tightly folded. She lifted it in the air to show John she had it, then walked back to the car. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reading it in front of him. She tossed the paper plane into a bag, then hoisted the two remaining bags, using her elbow to close the trunk. It fell into place with a loud, rusty squeak. She heard him shout her name, but she pretended she didn’t, striding at a determined pace into the house without a backward glance.