The First Man You Meet

When Debbie Macomber first decided to write a novel, people called her a hopeless dreamer. As a young, dyslexic mother of four active children, no one believed she had what it took to write a book, except Debbie. She wrote – for years. But each time she completed a story and mailed it off to a publisher, the manuscript was returned, stamped ‘‘Rejected’’. As tough as it was to keep her spirits alive, Debbie never gave up.

But all her perseverance paid off and Debbie’s heart-warming novels have made her a New York Times bestselling author with sales of over fifty-one million novels worldwide. Wednesdays at Four, Debbie’s charming tale about love and friendship, is available now from all good bookshops, and watch out for a brand-new title later this year.

by

Debbie Macomber

Chapter One

IT HAD BEEN one of those days.

One of those hellish, nightmarish days in which nothing had gone right. Nothing. Shelly Hansen told herself she should have seen the writing on the wall that morning when she tripped over the laces of her high-top purple tennis shoes as she hurried from the parking lot to her dinky office. She’d torn a hole in the knee of her brand-new balloon pants and limped ingloriously into her building. The day had gone steadily downhill from there.

By the time she returned to her apartment that evening she was in a black mood. All she needed to make her day complete was to have her mother pop in unannounced with a man in tow, convinced she’d found the perfect mate for Shelly.

That was exactly the kind of thing Shelly had come to expect from her dear, sweet desperate mother. Shelly was twenty-eight now and single, and her mother tended to view her unmarried status as something to be remedied.

Never mind that Shelly felt content with her life just the way it was. Never mind that she wasn’t interested in marriage and children…at least not yet. That time would come, she was sure, not now, but someday soon—or rather, some year soon.

For the moment, Shelly was absorbed in her career. She was proud of her work as a video producer, although she continually suffered the cash-flow problems of the self-employed. Her relaxation videos—seascapes, mountain scenes, a flickering fire in a brick fireplace, all with a background of classical music—were selling well. Her cat-baby-sitting video had recently caught the attention of a major distributor, and she couldn’t help believing she was on the brink of being discovered.

That was the good news.

Her mother hounding her to marry was the bad.

Tossing her woven Mexican bag and striped blue jacket onto the sofa, Shelly ventured into the kitchen and sorted through the packages in her freezer until she found something to strike her fancy for dinner. The frozen entrée was in the microwave when the doorbell chimed.

Her mother. The way her day was going, it had to be her mother. Groaning inwardly, she decided she’d be polite but insistent. Friendly but determined, and if her mother began talking about husbands, Shelly would simply change the subject.

But it wasn’t Faith Hansen who stood outside her door. It was Elvira Livingston, the building manager, a warm, delightful but insatiably curious older woman.

‘‘Good evening, dear,’’ Mrs. Livingston greeted her. She wore heavy gold earrings and a billowing, bright yellow dress, quite typical attire. She clutched a large box protectively in both hands. ‘‘The postman dropped this off. He asked if I’d give it to you.’’

‘‘For me, Mrs. L.?’’ Perhaps this day wasn’t a total waste, after all.

Elvira nodded, holding the package as though she wasn’t entirely sure she should surrender it until she got every bit of relevant data. ‘‘The return address is California. Know anyone by the name of Millicent Bannister?’’

‘‘Aunt Milly?’’ Shelly hadn’t heard from her mother’s aunt in years.

‘‘The package is insured,’’ Mrs. Livingston noted, shifting the box just enough to examine the label again.

Shelly held out her hands to receive the package, but her landlady apparently didn’t notice.

‘‘I had to sign for it.’’ This, too, seemed to be of great importance. ‘‘And there’s a letter attached,’’ Mrs. Livingston added.

Shelly had the impression that the only way she’d ever get her hands on the parcel was to let Mrs. Livingston open it first.

‘‘I certainly appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to,’’ Shelly said, gripping the sides of the box and giving a firm tug. Mrs. Livingston released the package reluctantly. ‘‘Uh, thanks, Mrs. L. I’ll talk to you soon.’’

The older woman’s face fell with disappointment as Shelly began to close the door. Obviously, she was hoping for an invitation to stay. But after such a frustrating day, Shelly wasn’t in the mood for company, especially not the meddlesome, if well-meaning, Elvira Livingston.

Shelly sighed. This was what she got for renting an apartment with ‘‘character.’’ She could be living in a modern town house with a sauna, pool and workout room in an upper-class yuppie neighborhood. Instead she’d opted for a brick two story apartment building in the heart of Seattle. The radiators hissed at all hours of the night in perfect harmony with the plumbing that groaned and creaked. But Shelly loved the polished hardwood floors, the high ceilings with their delicate crystal light fixtures and the bay windows that overlooked Puget Sound. She could live without the sauna and the other amenities, even if it meant occasionally dealing with an eccentric busybody like Mrs. Livingston.