On Wings Of Love. Ashley Summers

      One

      Katy Lawrence parked her car in the shade of an ancient apple tree and slowly got out. Oblivious to the gravel under her bare feet, she stared at the place that would be her home for the next five weeks. A chill of wonder went up her spine. The Victorian house, all sparkling white paint and lacy gingerbread trim, drowsed in the mists like a sweet, vague memory from the distant past. It was a most bewitchingly haunting feeling.

      Keeping her gaze on the house, Katy found her sandals and slipped them on with only a quick downward glance. The mossy brick walkway leading to the front door was a perfect touch, she thought. She felt another feathery chill.

      “For heaven’s sake, it’s just an old house, Katy,” she chided herself. She was not usually given to whimsy.

      She quickened her pace and mounted the steps, then crossed the veranda. Above the old-fashioned door knocker hung a hand-written sign that read, “Come on in, I’m around somewhere.”

      Hesitantly she opened the door and stepped into the cool, shadowed entryway. “Hello?” she called. “Hello, anyone home?”

      No answer. She waited for a moment, then walked on. When she reached the living room, her peculiar sense of déjà vu deepened to tiny shocks of recognition.

      Katy nibbled her lip as she gazed around the airy room. She had never seen this house before, yet each object her eyes encountered evoked the same puzzling sense of familiarity. The words Of course! sang through her mind. Of course there were lace curtains at the windows. Of course there were gleaming wooden floors, and the sensuous curves of wicker furniture stained the exact hue of sweet-clover honey. Even the fresh flowers were a given, as was the basket of green apples on the coffee table.

      Three perfectly round, black-and-white stones lay beside them, luring her fingers to caress their water-smoothed surfaces. Resisting the urge to touch, she made another appraisal of the room with a travel writer’s critical gaze. Since it was a bed and breakfast, not a hotel, she’d give the place three stars on first impression alone, Katy decided. Whoever lived here had a good eye for the small touches that made a house so welcoming to a traveler.

      Who lived here? she wondered. This was a professional establishment, surely accustomed to the arrival of guests at some point during the afternoon. So where were the hosts?

      Silence. The soft heat of an island summer drifted through the open windows, fragrant with the enticing scent of new-mown grass and the faint seawater tang of Puget Sound. Catching back the golden strands of hair tickling her cheeks, Katy eyed the tray sitting on a wicker table. It contained a pitcher of iced lemonade. For guests? Deciding it was, she poured a glass and drank it with hearty enjoyment.

      Cold lemonade on a hot summer day. With a poignant sense of loss, Katy suddenly realized why this warm, elegantly time-worn room tugged at her heartstrings.