I turned the corner into the library. My gaze circled the entire room, taking in the polished cherry wood floor to ceiling shelves, the oil paintings framed with antique gold frames and the ornate, ivory-colored ceiling tiles. Even the furniture looked like perfectly preserved pieces from the past. It seemed my hostess took accurate and authentic restoration to a whole new level. There was even a large painting of Coco, masterfully done. She was dressed in a Victorian style dress complete with high collar and black velvet choker. Even her hair was done up with a mass of loose curls. I stepped closer to the painting. The style, the furnishings, even the pink blush and rouge on her lips made it seem as if she sat for some early nineteenth century portrait artist, which was, of course, impossible. No details had been missed. There was even a crackled look to the thickly painted colors.

I walked along the shelves. Most of the books were old classics like Wuthering Heights and Moby Dick. Astonishingly, they all looked like first editions, bound with leather and titles embossed in gold. I wondered if Coco collected the rare books or if she'd inherited them from a relative.

I ran my fingers along books and stopped at a title that I hadn't seen before. "The Matchmaker's Handbook." I pulled the book from the shelf. It, too, was bound in leather, but the letters were embossed in pink. Unlike the rest of the collection, this book was worn and faded as if it had been read many times. The top edges of the cover were frayed, and a thin purple ribbon was pulled down the middle holding a spot like a bookmark.

I carried the book to the green velvet chair, which was indeed comfy. During the short walk to the chair, I could have sworn I breathed in a sweet fragrance like brown sugar or possibly molasses. It made perfect sense if it was a book that Coco had read often. She always had some delicious scent circling about her. But then with all the amazing, award winning books in the library, why would she spend so much time browsing one that had obviously been written as a tongue and cheek how-to book?

I opened the pages and soon discovered the book had been written in some foreign language. Which language, I had no clue. It wasn't anything I'd ever seen before and some of the characters were not the usual alphabet letters. I continued on, hoping to find something, a note or pictures, to help me understand the book's contents but I found nothing. It was like looking at manual written for another time and place.

I brought the book closer to my nose. Mixed in with the sweet smells was the pungent odor of ink. It had been handwritten. Maybe it was some type of code or maybe it truly was meant to be just gibberish, a joke book.

I was about to close the book when I remembered the ribbon. I pushed my finger between the two pages that were separated by the bookmark. A picture fell out and landed in my lap. Before I'd even picked it up to look at it, I could tell by the paper and worn corners that it was a very old picture. I turned it over. My guess was verified by the faded brown and white picture on the front. It was three people, a couple dressed in the hats and clothing of the nineteenth century and another woman standing next to them in front of a house.

I brought the picture closer and gasped in surprise. It was the Silk Stocking Inn, looking much more pristine. The pink rose vines were so heavy with buds they nearly obliterated the porch. But there were no pine trees surrounding it. The landscape around it looked more like farmland, flat and treeless. Was it possible the surrounding forest was only a century old? But the tree I'd clung to for warmth had to have been well over a hundred years old. It was just too big to be less than that. It was almost as if the inn had been moved from its first location to the one here in the forest.

As I pondered all the explanations, my eyes drifted to the other woman in the photo. This time my shock caused me to drop the picture. It floated to the ground and beneath the chair. I got down on my knees, stuck my hand under the chair and reached around for it.

"Did you lose something?" Coco's voice came from behind.

I sat up fast. "Uh yes, I mean no." I rubbed my hand over the tufted rug on the floor. "Just admiring the craftsmanship of this rug." I got to my feet.

Coco lowered the steaming tea cup onto the small reading table next to the chair. Her gaze caught the book that I'd left on the chair. "Oh, that book won't do you any good. It belonged to an old aunt. Not even sure what language it’s written in." She picked it up and returned it to the shelf.

"Yes, I noticed." I was flustered and feeling a bit guilty, like the kid who just got caught reading the 'no-no' book from her dad's bookshelf, the one with the bad words and grown-up content.

Coco walked over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. In the distance, I could see a cloud of snow as if someone was racing through it on a snowmobile.

"Looks like Holt will be back soon. See, I knew he wouldn't be kept away long. I'm going up to get dressed and then I'll be on my way."

"The tea smells wonderful," I said as she walked out.

Coco stopped in the doorway and glanced back. "I think the picture is near the back leg."

I knew my chin was on the floor as she left, but it took me a second to draw my mouth shut.

I dropped back down to my knees and reached to the back legs. My fingers plucked out the picture. I looked back to make certain Coco hadn't returned. I was alone.

I walked the picture to the window for better light. It was her. It was Coco, dressed like the couple in nineteenth century fashion. It wasn't a costume party. It wasn't a staged photo from an amusement park or photo studio. It was genuine.

The buzz of snowmobiles drew my attention from the picture to the scene outside. Two riders were racing over the icy landscape, kicking up snow and jumping over dips and hills as they went. It was easy to recognize Holt from the funky Mohawk helmet.

As they drew closer, the other rider waved and turned right to head another direction. Holt headed back toward the inn. He took off on a big jump. Defying physics, the heavy, unwieldy machine flew through the air. But the landing wasn't quite so smooth. Holt hit hard. I covered my mouth in alarm as I watched him fly over the handlebars, eventually coming to a jarring stop in a mound of snow.

I hurried to the bookshelf and pushed the picture back into the book. There was no time to grapple with the inexplicable photo now. I raced out of the library, out the front door. I had to push roses out of my way as I flew down the front steps.

The crash had happened just a block away, but I was hardly dressed for a jog in the snow. My feet were wet and my hands were frozen by the time I reached the giant mound of snow and man.

I released the breath I'd been holding when I saw him sit up and take off his helmet. "Fucking hell," he said to himself. His face shot my direction when he heard me approach.

I stopped and shoved my hands in my pockets, as if worn denim was going to be any kind of protection out on the ice. "That was pretty. Are you all right?"

"Got some bumps and bruises but I'll live." He grinned up at me. "Of course, I might need some tending once I get back to the inn. I'll bet those lips of yours will cure anything that ails me."

"Yep, you're all right." The same illogical thought process that let me think the jean pockets would provide warmth, prompted me to stick out my hand and give him a hand up. He laughed at my gesture but then took hold of my hand. Instead of me helping him up, I went down, right into his lap."

"Now this is what I call first aid." He kissed me on the lips.

"I would say that was a great kiss only I'm not sure because I can't feel my mouth or any other parts, for that matter."

"Guess it is kind of cold out here." He helped me up, and with a groan of pain, pushed to his feet. He squinted back at the mound of snow that he'd used for his ill-fated jump. "That was all your fault."

"My fault?" I asked. "How the heck was that crazy stunt my fault?"

"It wasn't a crazy stunt. I fly over that mound every time I ride back to the inn. I've never screwed up the landing. But, there I was, sailing through the air, then without warning, an extremely hot woman appeared in the window of the inn. I lost my focus and boom. Next thing I knew, I was in the snow."

We walked back to his snowmobile which had landed right side up and was still running. "Well, since you used the phrase extremely hot woman, I won't be angry about becoming your excuse for a spectacularly bad jump."

He rested his helmet in his lap and climbed on. I straddled the seat behind him. My plans to cuddle against him for warmth were scrapped by the realization that his clothes were wet with snow.

We chugged back to the inn. Coco was just packing up her car. "I've left the timer on for the chicken pot pies. There's vanilla bean ice cream in the freezer to go with the fudge sauce I left on the stove," she called as she climbed into her car.

"Did she just say fudge sauce?" I asked.

"She did."

"God, I love that woman."

"She's a magical lady, that's for damn sure."

As he said it, my mind went back to the picture, the picture of long ago where Coco looked the same age she looked right now. Maybe she had a great aunt or great grandmother that looked exactly like her. That wasn't unheard of at all. That was it, I decided firmly. It could be the only explanation. Now everything else that had happened—no friggin' clue. I couldn't explain any of it. And frankly, I didn't want to waste a second thinking about it. I had a magnificent man who needed some 'tending' and there were chicken pot pies and fudge sauce. Fudge sauce. Naturally.