Winning Amelia. Ingrid Weaver

as Amelia had described what Ruth had observed, Jenny had remembered how the man who had bought the painting had wrapped it in a quilt he’d had in his car trunk. She hadn’t noticed what model of car it had been, since she’d had to deal with other customers at the same time, but she did remember glimpsing bright yellow.

      Amelia had relayed the information to Hank immediately, but it had taken him two days to get a response from someone at the car club who had organized the show last weekend, and another two days to learn which members had a fondness for canary-yellow paint. Of the six who owned cars of the right era that came close to the right color, three lived out west and two were in Quebec. Only one, Kemp Forsythe, whose spirea bushes they were currently standing in, lived within an hour’s drive of Port Hope.

      “It’s the car, Hank.”

      “Possibly.”

      Still don’t like to make a commitment, do you? she thought. She swatted at a mosquito that hummed near her ear and turned to study Kemp Forsythe’s house. According to Hank’s research, the man owned a small computer repair business in town, and had lived at this address for twelve years. No one had answered the door when they’d arrived, and the windows were still dark, despite the rapidly deepening dusk. The ranch-style, brick bungalow appeared to be around thirty years old and was set well back from the road. A cornfield stretched out behind it and at least two acres of yellowed grass plus an apple orchard separated it from the nearest neighbor. The road itself was a winding, potholed length of tarred gravel that branched off a county road twenty kilometers north of the highway.

      Hank had driven most of the way under the speed limit. Part of the reason for that might have been due to his choice of vehicle. For a man whose father owned a car dealership, he drove a remarkably unremarkable sedan. It was sensible, gray and at least six years old. She likely could have coaxed more speed out of Will’s old Chevette.

      “We’ll give him another half hour,” Hank said. “If he doesn’t show up, we’ll come back tomorrow or next week. Tuesday evenings are usually good for finding people at home.”

      “Come back? No way. My painting’s here. It has to be. We can’t leave.”

      “Seeing how it’s Saturday, we could have a long wait.” Lightning flickered through the clouds, followed by a rolling grumble of thunder. Hank reached past her to push aside the branches that blocked her path. “Storm’s going to break soon. We can’t stay out here.”

      There wasn’t much space between the bushes and the garage wall. His chest nudged her shoulder, his arm slid against hers, and instantly, warmth tingled across her skin.

      The memory of another summer evening stole into her mind, when Hank had driven her to the lakeshore in the old jalopy he’d been so proud of. They’d left their shoes in the car and had gone to the water’s edge to watch a storm roll in. The breeze had been heavy with the smell of seaweed, wet sand and impending rain. The air had crackled, both from the storm and from their own sense of something about to happen. Their typical teenaged garb of shorts and T-shirts had turned every casual touch into the delicious feel of skin against skin. That had been the night their friendship had entered new territory, one they’d both been enthusiastic to explore. They’d begun the journey by sharing their first kiss....

      Hank eased farther to the side, breaking the contact.

      More thunder, louder than before. Amelia could sense electricity in the air now, too. She exhaled slowly and maneuvered out of the spireas. She brushed herself off more briskly than necessary. It didn’t work. The memories clung like static-charged lint. “We could try phoning him.”

      “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

      “No, of course not. Finding the painting is my number one priority.”