Ms. Sullivan had been a friend to Holly’s mother. She wouldn’t want any sort of payment or thanks for all she’d done, but Holly would find some way. Either that, or she would pay it forward by doing something extra-nice for someone else.

She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket to keep, taking only enough time to start a small fire in the hearth before she headed back outside. She still needed to unload her personal things, groceries and supplies from the car. She’d bought the fixings for a very traditional holiday meal. And all the decorations she’d brought along. She had a ton of lights to string before dark. The long night ahead would give her plenty of time to reminisce and explore her childhood home.

THE “FOR SALE” SIGN IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE WHERE HE’D stopped to ask for directions should have given him a clue, but Matthew had brushed it off as meaningless. The house he’d come to look over was unoccupied and had been owned by the bank for a dozen years. Its asking price had just been reduced by a bundle. That one had a Beetle-driving hippie type in residence. Tree hugger. He could spot them a mile away. Even leggy, blond tree huggers with eyes so blue you could spot them from twenty yards away.

Her looks had floored him. Her attitude had irritated him. He’d asked for directions, not a seminar on enjoying the journey. The nerve. And she’d capped it by tossing that useless, meaningless phrase “Merry Christmas” onto her farewell.

At any rate, he checked into the Best Western, which he’d been assured was the best hotel in the area—not that there were many. He was in a hurry, and starved to boot, so he didn’t even look at the room. Just checked in, got the key, and asked the desk clerk the best place to get a decent meal that wouldn’t take half the damn night.