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looked brand-new in a fresh coat of black polish. The woodbox needed to be filled, and so did the kindlingbucket. In her mind, Kate began a list of things to do before Leona’s homecoming, then realized again that her own life was in the bottom of San Miguel Canyon, burnt to a crisp and mired in mud. The trembling in her middle rose like an ocean swell but mercifully receded without cresting. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. She had things to do—like call her car insurance company.
    Once again she used the old plug-in on the desk next to a bookshelf. Her grandmother kept the phone specifically for power outages, a wise decision considering the number of times a year Meadows lost electricity. The mountain climate took a toll on houses and cars, but with a year-round population of four thousand, Meadows had most of the conveniences of a big city—cable, a cell tower, a branch of the county library, even its own small school district. It was also in the middle of the Los Padres National Forest and one of the prettiest spots in Southern California, a pleasure that outweighed the inconveniences.
    With that positive thought in mind, Kate called 4-1-1. A fake voice connected her to CalUSA Insurance. She pressed a few prompts, and another fake voice, male this time, assured her that her call was important to them and someone would be with her in—pause—Twenty. Eight. Minutes.
    “I can’t believe it,” she muttered.
    Tethered to the wall by the phone cord, she sat at the desk and wrote out a “to do” list—a task that took less than a minute. Between the peppy music and the periodic interruption of the mechanical man telling her that he cared about her, Kate was ready to pull her hair out. Instead, she popped to her feet and perused a bookcase holding an assortment of novels, mysteries, celebrity biographies, and local history.
    She skimmed the titles until her eyes locked on California for Real Men. The “Real Men” books had become a culturalphenomenon, and the publisher had launched a series that included New York, Florida, and Hawaii. The California book had made the rounds at Sutton about a year ago, but Kate didn’t pay much attention, in part because Joel mocked the “I came, I saw, I conquered” tone as retro and unsophisticated.
    This wasn’t the kind of book she expected to find on her grandmother’s shelf, so she opened it. A handwritten inscription read To Leona, Don’t read Chapter Fifteen— All the best, Nick Sheridan
    The same Nick who had just saved her life?
    She glanced again at the cover, reread his name and flipped to the back, where the author’s photograph left no doubt of the connection. His hair was shorter now, but the daring grin was unmistakable. Mouth agape, she leafed through the pages. The book covered every inch of California from Eureka to San Diego, from the Sierra Nevada mountains to the Channel Islands. In a chapter called “For Daredevils Only,” he sang the praises of hang gliding at Big Sur and bull riding in Kern County. Other chapters were tamer, particularly “Golf Isn’t Just for Geezers” and “Bowling Alleys a Guy Hates to Love.”
    The more Kate read, the more she smiled. Nick had a wicked sense of humor, and she shared his “seize the day” view of life, if not his interest in bull riding. Happily amused, she skimmed through the chapters on beach activities, roller-coaster rankings, and motorcycle hangouts until she reached Chapter Fifteen, the one he said to skip. The heading read “Hot Women, Hotter Nights.” She laughed at the cheesy pickup line and wondered if the inscription to Leona was in deference to her age, or if he was a little embarrassed by the no-commitment attitude. Lots of people enjoyed that kind of social life. Kate didn’t, but she went out with her friends from work because . . . well, because they were her friends.
    The music on the phone stopped midnote. The connection clicked and a rep came on the line. “Thank you