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“Chattanooga?” Gracie squinted at Noah’s handwriting. “Why does this say Chattanooga?” Noah never lived in Chattanooga. Did he? She didn’t think so.

“Noah, did you ever live in—oh forget it.” She tossed aside her reading glasses. Two days into this memoir project and it was going nowhere. Fast. On the “Chattanooga Choo Choo”.

She pursed her lips, beginning to whistle the old Glenn Miller classic when a text chimed through on her phone.

Simone: Making good progress?

Gracie stopped whistling. Good progress? Well, let’s see. Yesterday after getting back from breakfast, Noah, with Matt’s help, moved her special writing desk back to the spare bedroom on the second floor, then decided two questions into his memoir that he should take advantage of the nice weather and clean up some of the brush along the property. Then today, after scribbling down some indecipherable notes, Noah decided he should take advantage of the ongoing nice weather to burn the pile of brush, branches, and leaves he’d gathered up yesterday.

So... Yep! Making good progress! Her property looked better than it had in years.

Simone: Glad Noah’s giving you material to work with. He’s got that reputation for never wanting to give interviews, so I was a little worried. Sounds like you two are working well together. Imagine that!

Yeah, imagine that. Gracie glanced to the scrap paper covered in Noah’s scrawl.

After their scant progress yesterday— jeez Louise, Gracie, I feel like I’m getting interrogated on some Dateline special —Gracie thought it might be easier for him to jot down notes about the key moments of his life. Something to help her at least start putting together an outline.

And so far the sum total of that outline was Chattanooga, whatever that meant.

But hey, the yard looked good.

Gracie tipped her head back. Oh, this project was doomed. Her career was doomed. Everything was doomed. Start the funeral dirge.

Her lips apparently preferred something livelier than a funeral dirge. They returned to whistling a Glenn Miller tune.

“Pennsylvania 6-5000.”

Gracie jerked, whipping her gaze to find Noah standing in the doorway. “I thought you were still outside.”

Noah stepped into the room, bringing the smell of fall and smoke along with him, as he set a cup of tea on the corner of her desk. “Needed a break. Thought you might be ready for one too. It’s herbal.”

“Thanks. And it was ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo,’ by the way. The song I was whistling.”

Noah removed a gray stocking hat he must’ve dug out of the hall closet and shoved it into his back jeans pocket as he ran his fingers through his flattened hair, making it stick up in sweaty angles. “I promise you that wasn’t ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’”

“Because you’re a Glenn Miller expert, are you?”

“Pretty much. The Glenn Miller Story was my grandma Rosie’s favorite movie. Must’ve watched it at least a dozen times the one summer I lived with her. So trust me, if anybody knows Glenn Miller, it’s this guy.” He pointed his thumbs at his chest.

“Well, sounds like you need to watch it again. Because this girl”—Gracie jabbed her thumbs at her chest—“was whistling ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’”

“I’m telling you, ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000.’”

“If I’d been whistling ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000,’ it would have sounded like this—” Gracie began whistling.

Noah immediately started shaking his head. “That’s ‘Little Brown Jug.’ Listen, this is ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’” And because he never could whistle to save his life, he began making weird trumpet-sounding noises.

“You kidding me? That’s ‘A String of Pearls.’ Maybe ‘Tuxedo Junction.’”

“You’re just naming songs.”

“You’re just making noises.”

When they transitioned into a weird mash-up of “In the Mood” and Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” Gracie waved her hands and yelled, “What is happening right now?”

“We’re working on the memoir,” Noah said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“This is not working on the memoir. This ”—she waved her finger back and forth between them—“is putting me at a high risk for a stroke.”

Noah lifted his hands in surrender. “You’re right. Time to focus. No more Glenn Miller showdowns. How about we both just take a breath for a minute? You drink some tea. I take a shower. We start fresh in a half hour.”

Not a bad idea. She reached for her teacup. “Fine. Reconvene in a half hour. Maybe then you can tell me what Chattanooga is all about.”

“I thought Glenn Miller was off-limits. Oh wait. Do you mean charcuterie ?” He stepped to the desk and tapped on the paper full of his scribbles.

“That says charcuterie ?”

“Probably spelled it wrong, but yeah, see?” He ran his finger along the next bit of chicken scratch that may as well have been written in Greek. “It ties into this metaphor I thought up about baseball. But I was trying to get it written down so fast that now I can’t tell what I wrote. Shoot, now I can’t even remember how it all tied together.”

“Get out.” Before she dumped the cup of tea on his head. Which, after hearing about Rachel’s beer experience, honestly didn’t sound like a bad way to handle things.

“All right. Be back in thirty. Unless...” He paused in the doorway, his voice full of nonchalant innocence. “You want me to switch that shower into a bubble bath for two?”

Gracie threw a pen at him. He smirked and disappeared from the doorway, making ridiculous trumpet sounds to the tune of Bobby Darin’s “Splish Splash” all the way down the stairs.

If Gracie smiled, it was only because he was stupid. And annoying. And a tiny bit appealing in his flannel button-down shirt that smelled like autumn leaves and outdoor work and all sorts of good memories, including cool fall days that ended in a bubble bath for two.

She shook off the thought. Better to focus on the stupid and annoying aspects so she could remain the ice queen—even if it did feel like that ice queen was slowly melting beneath bubbles the more time she spent with the man.

She glanced at the time. All right. Thirty minutes and they’d get down to business. This day wouldn’t be another total waste.

She reached for the tea Noah had brought her. By now it’d cooled off enough that she could gulp it all down in one long swallow. So that’s what she did.

Whew. She blew out a breath. The tea was stronger than she expected. Not bad. Just... whew .

She hiccuped and looked at the clock. Twenty-six minutes to go. And he better not be a second late getting back.

After a few more minutes, she hiccuped again. And again. She clapped a hand over her mouth. What was wrong with her? She never got the hiccups. Never.

Only time she ever had them was back in high school, which happened to coincide with the only time she ever gave in to peer pressure. Between her dad finding out she’d been involved in underage drinking and blowing the worst gasket she’d ever seen, followed up with three miserable days of nonstop hiccups, Gracie had sworn off alcohol ever since.

Hiccup. Gracie looked at her empty teacup. Noah wouldn’t have...

Gracie sniffed it. Hiccup-hiccup. Would he?

She slammed down the cup. “Noah, what exactly is your definition of herbal?” she shouted.