Then Dexter Ostrander walked into my bookshop with an artisan coffee in one hand and an umbrella shielding him from the autumn rain.

He was thirty-four, heir to Ostrander Freight, a regional shipping empire.

He had the specific charm that comes only from generational money — an effortless confidence that made him seem invincible.

More dangerously, he had a gift for making a chronically lonely person feel like the center of the world.

He remembered my offhand comments about obscure authors.

He brought me imported orchids.