The stairs, ironically enough, were carpeted in red. Dreema jiggled the door key. Lemon Pledge hosed over us entering. Mismatched ginger jar lamps emitted a sensuous glow. A dovelike hand deflected me to the red velvet couch before she hung our coats on dowel pegs by the door.

Three rooms: den, kitchen, bedroom, plus a closet bath. Not posh digs but it rang out with possibility. Orphan furnishings looked like J.C. Penny and Pier 1. Dreema's match lit a pheromone candle. A black lacquer ashtray read, "Compliments of Blackburn's Auto Court, Luray, Virginia, 1970," the same souvenir stand as my mom's Elvis plate. Dreema moved a Tess Gerritsen medical thriller from the couch to the end table.

"Do you like retro soul?" she asked me. "Marvin Gaye, Al Green, The Chi-Lites. I have almost any performer on vinyl."

"The Temptations?" My tone was hopeful.

"The Temptations, why absolutely. Primo choice." She slipped their 1971 LP "Sky's the Limit" from its dust jacket, tilted the black platter between her palms, and blew away any dust. That ritual I'd last witnessed five, maybe seven, no better make that ten years ago.

"You collect vinyl? Please, pinch me."

Dreema caressed the LP to the stereo's turntable. The RPM was 33-1/3.

"Not exactly," she said. Her movement to sit down accentuated a scalloped hip. "They were my mom's. She died, you see, last January. Ovarian cancer. Taxol couldn't fight hard enough for her. I inherited the records. Well, sort of. Dad came perilously close to packing them off to my aunt's church raffle. Shame on you, I scolded him. Shame."

My sympathy was reflexive. "Apologies for bringing it up."

Dreema smiled. "It's okay. Really. No problem."

At a sweeping glance, I saw the entire Dreema. She wore slip-on red clogs, black hose, a dirt brown skirt a tasteful inch above the knees, and a green Oxford shirt. It was a mix of sedate and girlish I found intoxicating.

A sly crooning segued into the silken ballad. No artist dovetailed tighter harmonies or polished better expressive solos than did the Temptations. I swallowed.

The White Zinfandel was fridge-chilled for our libation.

"Caramel?" She passed the brass finger bowl to me.

I untwisted the waxy wrapper. "Are you from Abbot?"

"Born and bred. I moved in here last January after Mom passed. Dad and my three brothers — Lars, Mac, and Rusty — needed their space and I definitely needed mine. Their big dairy operation is up the valley. My eldest brother Nick is the family cane-raiser. He's served two sentences in the brig, one for larceny and the other for sexual assault. Sad to say, he'll never toe the line. I teach a youth group at my church and bag groceries part-time at Martin's. The exciting stuff of legend, huh? What's your life story, Cartwright?"

The wine and candy tasted funky. I made a wry face. "Nothing nearly so ambitious. I bought Stubbs' cabin up by the old fire tower after moving here from Rapidan in Virginia which was getting too congested with people."

" . . . just my imagination . . ."

"You're also divorced," said Dreema.

"Guess how I could tell? You wiped your boots on my doormat. It's a domestic ritual that wives teach their husbands."

I laughed a little. "Divorced, you're for real there, but I was never henpecked. Foot wiping I come by honestly."

" . . . running away with me . . . "