“Hello! You must be Heathcliffe?” He turned as the high-pitched voice pierced the drone of rain hitting his car, looking for its source. She was standing on the porch, her bright red hair blowing in curly tangles around her small, freckled face. She held her hands out in front of her. They were covered in a white substance that looked like flour. The petite woman smiled as he walked toward her. “I’d offer you my hand but you probably don’t want to wear this flour.” Her giggle was even more highly pitched than her voice. Heathcliffe found it strangely charming. He stepped gratefully onto the porch, glad to get out of the building rain. “Hello.” “I’m Nita Harley. Peyton told me you were coming down today.” Her bright green eyes widened as she looked at him. “My goodness! You’re soaked.” Jerking her head toward the house she said, “Let’s get you inside. You can sit in front of the fire while I finish making my bread.” She turned and entered the house without waiting for his response, leaving flour in her wake on every surface she touched. Following the softly rounded sway of her heart-shaped butt through a comfortably appointed room with a blazing fireplace on one long wall, Heathcliffe found himself grinning for the second time in only minutes. He decided coming south might have been a good idea. In fact, as Nita Harley turned at the door, giving him a flour-covered finger wave and grinning widely, he decided it just might have been a very good idea.