As she paid, she reflected on her earlier feelings about Stuart. When he’d called, she’d eventually been willing to let bygones be bygones. He was, or had been, her oldest and dearest friend. Now, as she climbed out of the cab and into the frigid morning air, she wondered if she shouldn’t have simply turned him down. She would have shown up for the wedding, of course. She didn’t hate him, after all, but she didn’t need to be here, of all places, for two weeks. It was asking too much of her. The fact that he didn’t realize that this was the last place she would ever stay spoke volumes about how distant they’d become.

The cabbie gave her a little toot of his horn, and she jumped, her nerves frayed nearly to breaking. She waved at him, squared her shoulders once more, and marched into the Love Inn.

The scent that greeted her upon opening the door sent a wave of nostalgic longing crashing through her. She couldn’t immediately identify the scent, but she was suddenly reminded of getaways to New Hampshire when she was a kid, skiing and sledding and spending more family time together than they did the rest of the year. Between her parents’ busy schedules and her brother’s boarding school, those annual trips had been their only extended moments together as a family.

Some sleigh bells had jangled as she entered, and a small, graying woman appeared from the back, waving her inside.

“Come in, come in! You must be absolutely frozen to death!”

The woman was wearing a long-sleeved white cotton shirt decorated with pink and red hearts; an apron made of two felt hearts lined with frilly, white lace; and bright-red penny loafers. Her hair had been set, blue-rinsed a little too brightly to a near-platinum, and her blush and lipstick were almost garish. Still, her smile was wide and warm, and she looked invitingly friendly.

Ryann, still shaken by her childhood memories, didn’t immediately respond. She stood, still motionless, frozen in fact, in the doorway, the cold wind blowing her from behind.

The woman blanched and rushed over, grabbing her hand and pulling her inside.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman said. “It’s going to be okay. Let me get you something warm to drink.”

The woman led her into a small dining room and directed her into a heart-backed chair festooned with white lace. The seat was also heart-shaped, and this, alone, was enough to finally break through Ryann’s strange fugue. As she came back to herself, tears were coursing down her cheeks, and she wiped them away hurriedly, shocked and embarrassed.

The woman returned a moment later, a steaming red mug in her hands, and handed it to her. The scent that had struck her immobile was coming from the mug—hot chocolate with vanilla. Her mother made it this way.