somewhere, always on payday, and then peek into the upscale women’s shops. On the last Friday in September, Lara stopped at Leary’s Book Store on 9th Street, below Market Street. Her mother was a self-taught watercolorist and Lara wanted to buy her a present. A book about her favorite creatures – butterflies – would be just the thing. There were thousands of varieties of butterflies and their colors ran the spectrum. She hoped that Leary’s would have some interesting books on the shelf so she wouldn’t have to order something sight unseen. Someone had told her not to go to Leary’s at midday because it was usually crowded. Really! Lara thought, I only have middays. There were only ten or so browsers on the first floor when Lara arrived. She asked an older man whom she took to be a salesman where the books for insects and butterflies were. He seemed nonplussed but a younger man directed her to follow him. Lara didn’t see his face. She followed him up two stories and back to a small room. While they navigated the store, the man didn’t speak to her but gave crisp hand signals. When they arrived at the little room, with books of all sizes everywhere but the ceiling, he turned and said to her, “scientific or artistic?” He was just a little taller than her with light brown short hair. He had a kind face with quite blue eyes and thin lips. Lara didn’t respond to his question. She guessed he was maybe twenty-five or so. He wore no wedding ring. He held his hands out in front of him in a questioning gesture. “Perhaps it’s a butterfly cookbook you are seeking?” Lara began to laugh, but bite her tongue instead and blushed as well. Recovering, Lara noticed his nametag and said, “Mr. Wyn, do you really have a butterfly cookbook?” “I’m Wyn Colebs and, no, I’ve never seen one.” Lara realized that he was looking a her intently, not staring, but she felt his glance was piercing. “My mother paints watercolors so I need a book that would give her clear photos of various types of butterflies, close-ups showing structural details and colors,” said Lara. Lara judged his face to be quite expressive. “May I call you Carol?,” said Wyn. “My name is Lara, not Carol,” said Lara. “May I call you…Lara?” he said. Lara heard something in his intonation beyond what the words alone meant. Smiling at his ruse, Lara said “Yes, Lara Van Duara.” “Thank you,” he said. Without further ado, Wyn took a step toward Lara and removed a book from a shelf near her left shoulder. She noticed that he had an aftershave that smelled spicy. Lara also saw that Wyn had a noticeable scar on the left side of his neck just above the collar. “Please look at this book, Lara,” said Wyn handing a large book to her. Though he passed it to her easily with one hand, Lara had to strain to hold it in her outstretched hands. Wyn placed a tubular book stand, like a music stand but with a flat top, in front of her. As he placed the book on the stand, their hands brushed. Lara stiffened as if he had stolen a kiss. Lara realized she was holding her breath and she exhaled slowly and intentionally. She stole a glance at Wyn and she saw he had a slight blush. Wyn explained the book’s pluses and minuses. His descriptions and explanations were so smooth it was hard to believe he wasn’t reading from cue cards. He said that this book would help Lara’s mother for years to come. He also said he would like to ...