“GRACIE? Gracie Landon, is that you?”

Trapped, standing in the middle of her mother’s front lawn, a newspaper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, Gracie Landon glanced longingly toward the escape that was the front door.

In theory, she could bolt for freedom, but that would mean being rude to Eunice Baxter, neighbor and octogenarian. And Gracie had been raised better than that.

She pushed her sleep-smashed hair out of her face and shuffled in her younger sister’s Tweetie Bird slippers over to the low wood fence that separated the Landon property from Eunice Baxter’s.

“Morning, Mrs. Baxter,” she said, hoping she sounded cheerful instead of trapped. “Yes, it’s me. Gracie.”

“My stars, so it is. I haven’t seen you in forever, but I swear, I would have recognized you anywhere. How long has it been?”

“Fourteen years.” Half her life. She’d been so hopeful that people would forget her.

“Well, I’ll be. You sure look pretty. When you left, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, you were a dreadfully ugly child. Even your poor mother used to worry that you wouldn’t grow into your looks, but you did. You’re as bright and shiny as a magazine cover model.”

Gracie didn’t exactly want to reminisce about her homely period-the one that had lasted for nearly six years. “Thank you,” she said, inching toward the porch.

Eunice poofed her shellacked helmet of curls, then tapped her chin. “You know, I was just talking about you to my friend Wilma. We were saying that young folks today don’t know how to fall in love. Not like they used to in the movies, or like you did with Riley Whitefield.”