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property seen and rejected—when Alice got to the point. Are you single? she asked. Sam answered yes, not bothering to fill in the sorry details of her marital history. Alice beamed. “I have a son,” she’d said. Don’t they all, Sam thought, barely suppressing an eye-roll.
    His name was Hurley. Hurley Hardwin. That alone told Sam all she needed to know. She pictured a sad sack of a man, stoop-shouldered and doughy, like Alice. Hurley, burley, pudding and pie, she thought. God. She might be thirty-seven and divorced, with no prospects in sight, but she had
standards.
Single but not desperate, that was her motto. She shut out the rest of the Realtor’s ramblings.
    On the third day, when Sam had given up all hope of finding a place, Alice said there was one more property she could show her, a Victorian located three streets west of Front Street in a block zoned for business. Although it was more than she could afford, Sam thought what the heck and agreed to drive by.
    She laughed when she saw it. The house, boasting a fresh coat of lavender,
was
a cake, in the way gingerbread-trimmed Victorians were. Inside, everything was perfect. There was a spacious kitchen running the length of the back that would be large enough for commercial equipment, a paneled dining room that could be transformed into an office, and a sunlit parlor with an oversize bay window where, once she stripped the truly atrocious wallpaper, she could meet with prospective brides. On the second floor were three large bedrooms where she could live. It was too perfect, but what made Sam decide on it, despite the price, were the foundation plantings on both sides of the central entrance. According to Alice, the shrubs were a spirea called bridal wreath. Some signs were too obvious to ignore. Sam made an offer that afternoon and by five, barely time for regrets or second thoughts, it was accepted.
    To celebrate, Alice insisted on having her to dinner. They settled on six thirty, and when it was too late for Sam to back out gracefully, Alice mentioned that Hurley would be joining them. Sandbagged, Sam thought.
    Sam didn’t dress to impress, barely bothered with makeup. The wine she picked out was a cheap Chablis. (Surely Alice stuck to the whites.) Sam would eat, claim exhaustion, make an early escape. She was late arriving and as she headed up the walk, the aroma of brewed coffee and cooked meat wafted toward her. She could picture the entire meal: pot roast, mashed potatoes, canned vegetables, homemade relish. Packaged rolls.
    Alice opened the door before Sam had even raised a hand to knock. “I can’t wait for you two to meet,” she said.
    Save me, Sam thought.
    Hurley was in the kitchen. He stood when she entered, then smiled. He was just shy of six feet, his body compact, muscular. His eyes were brown and calm. She had to catch her breath.
    â€œSamantha,” Alice said, “meet Hurley.”
    â€œLee,” Hurley corrected. “Most everyone calls me Lee.” He took the wine from her. She smelled the citrus scent of his aftershave. He wore a blue work shirt, freshly ironed, and Levi’s, just the right side of snug. She wanted to sink through the floor. She wanted to start over, wanted to take a shower, shampoo and blow-dry her hair, put on her black jeans, the ones that made her look thinner, and her good gray cashmere turtleneck. And earrings. Jazzy dangling ones. And makeup. At the very least, lipstick and eyeliner. She wanted to have chosen a good merlot. Her stomach was heavy with that pulsing heat she hadn’t felt in a long time.
    He smiled again and she actually felt her knees weaken. Not a good sign. Jesus, she thought. A guy says hello and you’re ready to start ordering the monogrammed towels. If she knew what was good for her, she’d get out of there so fast there would be burn marks down the center of the drive. Instead she accepted a glass of wine.
    And that was the