As I climbed the long driveway to the house, I came upon a sign. It had black and white letters that read ‘Welcome to the Silk Stocking Inn’. It took me a few seconds to remember where I’d heard that name before. When it came to me, I stumbled back and fell to my bottom on the grassy front lawn.

Moisture from the grass seeped quickly through the fabric, and I pushed back to my feet. “Subliminal advertising at its finest,” I muttered to myself. The only rational explanation for what was happening. Clearly, I’d seen this house, without actually realizing it. Of course, that still left little explanation for the interactive website with the same picture.

I continued up to the house. From a distance, it had looked worn and uninviting, almost sinister, as if the dormers and crumbling turret were parts of a haunted house. But on closer inspection, there was something welcoming about the shabby facade, almost as if the house was saying come on inside and warm your hands around a cup of coffee. The rich buttery fragrance seeping beneath the front door might have been playing a big part in that perception.

I climbed the rickety steps past the wood columns supporting the shoddy porch roof. Dead vines were clinging to the columns with plants that looked as if they’d lost their will to thrive long ago. Rose vines, it seemed. That conclusion led me back to the website. It had been nearly a week since those unexplained few moments on the computer, but I distinctly remembered a picture of an old house covered with vibrant roses. It must have been an old stock photo of the home. From the looks of it, the house had been there for well over a century.

I knocked and the door pushed open as if it hadn’t been latched shut. I poked my head inside but kept my feet planted firmly on the welcome mat. “Hello,” I called into the cavernous entryway. The richly wallpapered and painted interior was in stark contrast to the sadly neglected exterior. “I just need to borrow a phone if you have one.” My voice echoed back to me. It was followed by a cheery woman’s voice.

“Just down the hall and to your left,” she called back.

Cautiously, I opened the door, almost as if I expected those ghosts I’d considered earlier to come swooping down the staircase. But there were no ghosts, and the inside of the house looked anything but sinister or haunted. I followed the woman’s directions, and my nose, down the hallway and made a left when the scent of brown sugar became so intense I could taste it.

I entered a big, high ceilinged room that had been arranged like a bakery or coffee shop. Small, cloth covered tables were surrounded by quaint antique chairs. The glass counter at the front of the room was brimming with baked goods, including cupcakes overflowing with swirls of buttercream.

A woman, slightly hunched from age and wearing a floppy brown felt hat that shaded her face, came through the doorway holding a tray of cupcakes. She seemed to be struggling with the weight of the tray.

“Let me help you with that.” I took several steps toward her.

“No need.” Her face lifted. Instead of the older face I’d expected, a vibrant young woman with emerald green eyes was smiling out from beneath the wide brim of the hat. The vintage hat, adorned with a boldly printed hat band, looked like something out of the sixties. Something my mom would have worn with pride. In fact, seeing it made me feel a little homesick. I quickly reminded myself that I should call my mom the second I got back home.

The woman lowered the tray of cupcakes onto the counter. The icing was a rich brown color, and each cake was topped with a caramel swirl and sparkling white crystals of salt.

“Salted caramel,” I muttered to myself and then nearly fell back on my bottom again.

“Watch your step.” The baker glanced over the counter at my shoes. For the second time in one night, someone showed an obvious distaste for my fashion selection. I’d apparently landed myself in a judgmental town of fashionistas.

The woman picked up a cupcake and held it out to me. “Salted caramel, Emmie?”

This time, I did fall back, but on my descent, a chair scraped the floor. My butt landed hard on the seat. The complete stranger knowing my name and my cupcake preference wasn’t nearly as perplexing as the movement of a chair, with no person around to push it.

“Oh my, you need some milk too. You look positively white as a sheet.” The woman hurried to a small refrigerator and took out an individual carton of milk. She hurried back, grabbed a cupcake and pulled up a chair at my table. She set the cupcake and milk down in front of me. For a brief second, I was looking at an elderly woman with an array of lines that showed wisdom and the stress of a good, long life. I blinked my eyes shut and opened them. Again, the cupcake baker appeared as a beautiful, young woman, no older than thirty.

“Eat and drink. You’ll feel better. Low blood sugar can come on suddenly. It’s nothing a bite of the perfect confection can’t cure.”

My hands were shaky. Perhaps she was right. I was, after all, hungry, and my head was feeling as if it was filled with helium. I peeled down the paper wrapper and took a bite. It was a symphony of brown sugar and butter and something else, some magical ingredient I couldn’t put my finger on. My eyes watered along with my taste buds as the cake and buttercream melted across my tongue and down my throat.

“Wow, I’ve never tasted anything like this. This is what love would taste like if it were baked into a cupcake wrapper.”

Her laugh was almost like music. “What a wonderful description. Maybe I should use that quote on my bakery advertisement flyers. I’m Coco, by the way. Welcome to the Silk Stocking Inn.”

Feeling slightly revived by the cake and milk, I relaxed back. “I have a lot of questions. So many, I can’t seem to formulate a solid one in my muddled head.”

“Then don’t. Well formulated questions don’t really go with salted caramel cupcakes. They tend to leave a bitter aftertaste.”

“But how did I end up here?”

“I’m not completely sure, but I imagine it has something to do with that car and its sad flat tire across the road. I have a friend who can tow it to the mechanic’s shop for you.”

“Wonderful. I couldn’t get any reception on my phone. That’s why I came here, to make a call.”

“Well then, see. That question has been answered.” The gleam in her sparkling green eyes looked almost ethereal as she smiled at me. “The guest room is ready for you upstairs.”

I nodded as I took another bite of the exquisite cupcake. Then her words took hold in my mind. “Wait, what do you mean? I’m not here to stay at the inn. I just need a new tire.”

“Well, you won’t get one around here. It’s Saturday night, and Mitch, the mechanic, doesn’t open his shop again until Monday. He’s already gone off fishing for the weekend.”

“There must be someplace else I can have it towed to.”

“Not within fifty miles of here.”

“But that’s impossible. I only pulled off a few miles ahead of my usual off ramp. It can’t be. None of this can be real.”

Coco tilted her head and grinned. “Sometimes, Emmie, there’s a fine line between reality and fantasy and all it takes is the right amount of desire to cross that line. Being a librarian, the keeper of stories, you should know that better than anyone.”

“But I can’t stay.” I crumpled the cupcake wrapper and stood up. “I’ll just clean up my mess and pay you for the cupcake.”

“No need. The cupcake is free. I’m a little disappointed though. I pegged you for the adventurous type. I’ll call my friend with the tow truck. But I must warn you, he only takes cash, and if he has to go fifty miles, it will be costly.”

“But I don’t carry that kind of cash. Is there a bank nearby?”

“Yes, but—”

“But it doesn’t open again until Monday.”

“I’m afraid so.”

I blew a puff of frustrated air from my mouth. “I suppose I could stay one night. I’ll call a friend in the morning to pick me up.”

“Wonderful. I’ll show you upstairs to your room.”

I followed her to the stairs. “I am the adventurous type, by the way.” Then I thought about that statement as I climbed behind her in my sensible shoes, shoes that suddenly reminded me of my grandmother’s black church shoes. “Or at least I used to be.”

Coco winked at me over her shoulder. The faintest row of crow’s feet appeared with the gesture. Otherwise, her olive complexion was as smooth and wrinkle free as pressed silk. “Let’s see if a night at the Silk Stocking Inn can help you rekindle that adventurer’s spirit.”

There were only two other doors at the top of the stairs. “I’ve got one other guest staying this weekend, a regular who stays whenever he’s in town. He’ll be out late tonight. If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”