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She was here.
He could feel her, he could smell her. Walking into the small bookshop with the old-fashioned bell over the door, the man now known as Jack Prescott knew he’d found her. He was exhausted, having traveled for forty-eight hours straight, on a pirogue from Obuja to Freetown, via Air Afrique from Lungi Airport to Paris, Air France from Paris to Atlanta, Delta from Atlanta to Seattle, then a rickety puddle jumper he could have flown better himself to Summerville. Even through his exhaustion, though, his senses were keen. Twelve years later, he could still recognize her touches. The candles on the windowsill, the gentle harp music playing faintly in the background, a smell of cinnamon, vanilla, roses and her. Unmistakable, unforgettable. Coming in from the airport, the news that she was still in Summerville and, astonishingly, still single had blown him away. He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been expecting anything but difficulty and frustration in tracking her down.
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