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for a hostess gift.”
    Hobart only half heard the shopkeeper. His gaze was arrested by a set of defensive dark eyes – brown? hazel? – which had discovered his open admiration. On a subconscious level, Hobart knew that he was being rude. But on the physical level, he discovered that he couldn’t – wouldn’t – look away. Her appearance in Sovereign was so unexpected and sweet, much like the first bright crocus blossom that thrusts up through the deep, white snow in March. The young woman dropped her eyes first. Hobart exhaled, and only then realized that he had been holding his breath.
    Who WAS she and where did she come from? More importantly, where was she going and when could he see her again!
    “T’other one said they was goin’ to spend the weekend with a friend up on Russell Hill,” Ralph Gilpin continued. “Maybe I better go see if they found what they was lookin’ for.”
    “Stop,” said Hobart, putting out his arm and catching the skinny shopkeeper by the chest. “Let me go. It might be something heavy.”
    “I kin still throw a bag of grain, Mike,” said Gilpin, slightly offended. “I might be feelin’ poorly but I ain’t dead yet.”
    “Listen, put the drill bits on my tab, Ralph, and shut up already. I’ll see you and Maude tomorrow night.”
    Hobart felt a strong magnetic pull toward the girl, much like the undertow of a full-moon tide. He practically floated into the aisle where two women – the mysterious girl and an older female companion with shoulder-length brown curls – were openly admiring the general store’s line of vintage kitchen utensils.  Hobart watched the waif examine a wooden rolling pin that was crafted by a local woodworker. She rolled and twisted the polished honey-colored wood from one slender hand to the other, and he knew he would never think of a rolling pin as ordinary ever again.
    “Can I help you?” Hobart offered, putting himself forward.
    The young woman looked at Hobart’s ball cap and denim jacket, and then regarded him with suspicion. “You work here?” she challenged, a slight flush spreading across her cheeks. She lightly placed the rolling pin back on the shelf and turned to face him.
    “Lila,” her companion whispered. “The man is offering to help!”
    Lila!  Hobart whispered the name to himself. Was there ever a more perfect name than Lila ?
    “I worked here when I was at Unity College,” Hobart answered, ingeniously. “Sometimes I still help out when Ralph is busy.”
    The girl glanced around the empty store. “Right. Busy, like … tonight?”
    Hobart blinked.
    An impish look appeared in the girl’s hazel-gray eyes. “Hey, maybe you COULD help us,” she said. “Maybe you could help us find a BRASSIERE for my friend?”
    “Lila!” exclaimed the motherly brunette, blushing. “Pay no attention to her,” the woman continued, hastily, taking Lila’s arm and pulling her close. “It’s a private joke.  We’re looking for a hostess gift. For a friend.”
    Unabashed, Hobart tried to recollect what special item from Gilpin’s would make an appropriate “hostess gift.” He pushed his baseball cap back a bit and scratched his head. Hobart surveyed the nearby shelves helplessly to see if he could find a suitable suggestion. A bachelor who lived alone, Hobart’s familiarity with household accessories was limited.
    “Uh, sure, give me a minute,” he said.
    The young woman, Lila, regarded him with growing impatience. “He’s clueless,” she said. “Let’s go, Becca.”
    “Wait!” It occurred to Hobart that if he knew to whom the gift was to be given, he would have a better shot at finding a suitable item. “Who’re you visiting?”
    The motherly woman spoke up. “We’re spending the weekend with Jan – well, perhaps you know her? – Jan, uh, Jan – Lila, what’s Jan’s last name again?”
    “Miss Hastings?!” exclaimed Hobart, relieved. “Oh, everybody knows Miss Hastings. You’re … friends?”
    “She’s