Kathy Mackson had joined Patty at the front window of the market. They reminded me of two cats sitting in a window watching a bird play in the grass. All they needed were two slender tails flicking in excited unison. But the focus of their curiosity was no bird, that was for damn sure.

Kathy had walked in wearing one of her usual scowls. She'd immediately jumped into a rant about the rowdy looking man hanging out across the street at the park. Kathy and Jordy Mackson were considered the rich people in town. Although in Butterfield, rich meant their house was four bedroom instead of three and they had an entire acre of land with an above ground swimming pool. In Butterfield, that was nothing short of palatial. Jordy owned a gas station out on the highway, a good twenty miles east of Butterfield and Kathy was the bookkeeper for the local church. Even though my mom chided me for it, I always thought of them as self-righteous big shots, with their acre of land and plastic swimming pool. Kathy rarely smiled and she was perpetually cranky, but I never paid attention to her sour mood. I could never fault her for that because like Patty, Kathy had lost an angel too.

Butterfield Angel #11 Vincent Mackson, thirteen years old. Son to Jordan and Kathy Mackson and brother to Brent. He loved riding his bicycle, family barbecues and playing pranks on friends. I remembered the last detail well. Once as we walked home from school, Vincent threw a lizard at me and laughed as he called himself the King of Pranks. But I had to explain to him that if it had been a prank the lizard would have been rubber. Instead, all he did was 'throw a darn lizard at me'. Vincent was never the smartest. Some people thought he was a bully, but they were wrong and I had proof. One day, Shelia Harrold walked into our third grade class with a three story carousel of crayons. It was the most impressive crayon caddy any one of us had ever seen. For days, we all just stared in envy at the thing. Then, one morning, just as we were about to head out to recess, Sheila accidently knocked the carousel of crayons off her desk. It was as if someone had lit a stick of dynamite under a rainbow. Colors went flying everywhere. Sunset Orange landed on the teacher's chalk tray. Shamrock Green torpedoed across the room and landed in the fishbowl. Cornflower Blue jammed itself neatly into the teacher's reading manual. An urban legend was even born out of the great crayon fiasco. Royal Purple was never seen again, so it was unanimously decided that the crayon was sucked into another dimension. We all scrambled to retrieve the scattered crayons, but when the bell for recess rang, we all ran for the playground. But Vincent stayed behind to help Sheila. Prankster or not, Vincent was a good guy. And Vincent was the reason that I never minded that Kathy Mackson was a grouch.

I was in the back unpacking soup cans when I heard the cowbell ring. Fran Carson's nasal voice reverberated through the store. Fran was the mayor of Butterfield, but even with her lofty position, she still never acted self-important like the Mackson's. Even though it seemed like she had every right to. She was mayor, after all.

I returned to the store front. Fran was wearing her big straw hat and the polka dot blouse she always wore when she was about to head into the mayor's office to do mayorish things. Fran was what I called a third degree person. She wasn't directly attached to a Butterfield angel, but she had certainly known them all well, and Fran, like other third degree neighbors, had suffered the despair right along with the rest of us.

Fran joined Patty and Kathy at the front window and was quickly pulled into the entertainment.

Patty heard my footsteps and yanked her attention from the window just long enough to make an announcement. "He's taking off his shirt," she blurted and turned back to the window.

"It's shameful," Kathy sneered as she kept her nose pressed against the glass.

"Oh my," Fran chirped. "Well, he is something, isn't he? I don't think I've ever seen so many tattoos on one man. No, I guess that's not true. When I was little my dad took me to a carnival and there was this scary looking guy who had tattoos everywhere, even on his face. I had nightmares about him for weeks."

Patty pressed her face closer to the window to get a better view. "Well, I'm sure not going to have nightmares about this man."

I walked up behind them and peered over Kathy's shoulder. She was so engaged in pretending to be disgusted by the chest and shoulder display across the street, she didn't hear me walk up.

I squinted through the glass that was now being slightly clouded by the hot, short breaths of the three women glued to the window. I was sure he would eat his sandwich and leave. Why the hell would anyone stay in Butterfield?

His dog had curled up under the shade of the slide as the man stood in the fountain.

The thick muscles of his arms flexed as he yanked free the well rooted weeds that, deciding no one would ever disturb them there, had taken safe harbor in the Butterfield fountain.

Patty looked at me. "What do you think he's doing?"

"It looks like he's cleaning the fountain."

"Why?"

"Maybe he likes fountains. It's hot outside. He might need a drink." I headed toward the refrigerator aisle and returned to the window with a bottle of water.

Patty's attention was back on the scene across the street. I touched her arm with the cold wet bottle and she startled. She glanced down at the water.

"Why don't you take it to him?"

"Me?" Patty reached up and smoothed down her hair. "No way. I couldn't. No. Not me. You do it, Ella."

I held the bottle out to her. "Last chance."

Patty shook her head.

"Fine." I walked out the door and headed across the street. I glanced back to see the three wide-eyed faces staring out the store window and had to push down a laugh.

Our tattooed stranger was crouched down in the fountain. I could only see the muscular curve of his broad back. Beads of sweat added a new, slick dimension to the skull tattoo between his shoulder blades. He straightened with a wad of dead weeds in each fist.

He turned and saw me standing beneath the fountain, holding up a bottle of water. His smile was blindingly white in his tanned face. "Hey, Twinks, is that water for me?"

"Guess it's a good thing I wasn't stacking Ding Dongs."

"Nah, you're much more of a Twinks than a Ding Dong." He dropped the weeds over the side of the fountain and rubbed his hands on his rippling stomach, a gesture that made a breath catch in my throat. His callused fingers touched mine as he took hold of the bottle. The few seconds that followed, with him twisting off the cap, pressing the bottle to his mouth and swallowing the water, were nearly as breathtaking as watching him wipe his hands on his rock hard abs. No wonder Kathy, Patty and Fran had been glued to the window. The man was a piece of art. And we were a town that lacked masterpieces, big time.

I reached up for the empty bottle. "I'll bring you another and something for Boone too. Are you sure you want to bother with this? The fountain is long past its glory days."

He walked to the center of the fountain and stuck his fingers under the thin trickle of green water. "This proves it still has a heartbeat. Just needs a little resuscitation."

"I'd say a lot of resuscitation. It used to be the crowned jewel of Butterfield. When I was little, when the sun was burning a hole in the sky like today, we would play in it. And there was this funny tradition for the senior class to fill it with soap after graduation night. The whole town would wake the next morning to the world's biggest triple layer bubble bath."

"Gotta love a small town." He laughed as he climbed down from the fountain. "I'm Fynn, by the way."

"Ella, and Butterfield is definitely a small town. Eight hundred, fifteen people, if you count the Breyers who spend summer here but live on the coast the rest of the year. Everyone is somehow connected like we're all part of the same memory quilt." I never brought up the Butterfield Angels to strangers, but it was true. We were all connected to each other and to an angel, whether by family or friend.

Fynn reached back and rested his hands on the fountain, inadvertently accentuating the muscles in his shoulders and chest. A thin layer of dirt clung to the sweat on his skin. Sweat and dirt was not a look all men could pull off well, but he managed it just fine. I could only imagine the conversation and shocked gasps happening inside the market.

"At least this place isn't too remote," Fynn said in a voice that matched him perfectly, deep and smooth. "I spent a good portion of my life on my grandpa's farm, and sometimes at night, when we were bringing the cows in under a starry sky, it felt like we were the only people left on the planet. After awhile you start talking to the animals. By the way, sheep are huge gossips and pigs have no sense of humor. Yeah, people like to say, 'but hey buddy, pigs are the comics of the barnyard'. But it's all hype put out there by the pigs themselves."

"I guess they'd call that pig propaganda. So, who are the true comics of the barnyard?"

"Goats," he answered emphatically as if he'd given it a lot of thought. "Natural born comedians and they're humble about it too."

I laughed. "Learn something new every day. I've always wanted to live on a farm. I have horses categorized as the most magical creatures on earth."

Fynn spread out his arms, incredible arms, arms that could squeeze the breath out of you and you wouldn't mind a bit. "There's a big world out there, and it's full of farms looking for a pretty blue eyed farmer to run things."

I smiled but had no response. Sometimes it was just easier to pretend that there was no world past the borders of Butterfield. That way I didn't spend too much time worrying about what I was missing.

Fynn stared with admiration up at the fountain. He had just been passing through town, but he noticed, even beneath the wig of ugly weeds and algae, the incredible beauty of the fountain. Most people would have walked past and even avoided looking at it in its state of decay.

"I think I can get it running again, unless you think I shouldn't." His pale gold eyes caught me off guard for a second.

"No. I mean, I don't know. No one has touched the thing for . . . for a while." Since that day, I thought but didn't say.

"Let me see what I can do. It might have been on the edge of the world, but I learned a lot of handy stuff on that farm." He climbed back into the fountain and gazed down at me with those ethereal eyes. "Ella, huh? It fits."

I pointed back toward the market. "I'll go see about another water."