"If I had not read the cover story in the March 2, 2000, National Enquirer, it's doubtful that I would have gone to Alabama and ruined my daddy's engagement party, much less sent the bride-to-be into a coma. Just for the record, I don't go around hitting other women, even if they are all wrong for my daddy; I don't read tabloids, and I certainly would never steal one, yet that's exactly what happened.

For the past six months, I'd been staying at my late mother's cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, eating salt water taffy, forgetting to shave my legs, and plotting my next trip to Ireland. Days ago, my sweetheart, Ferg Lauderdale, had called from his Dublin hotel room, and, in between sneezes, he'd mentioned that he'd lost his sweater at a pub. "Could you pop a cardigan into the mail, love?" he asked. "Or better yet, could you deliver it in person?"

After we went through our five-minute ritual of saying good-bye, I drove to Jockey's Ridge Crossing, where I bought a pound of pecan divinity at the Footgear, then looked at a flying pig whirligig at Kitty Hawk Kites. Finally, I wandered over to Black Sheep, an eclectic wool store that sold dhurrie rugs, Flemish tapestries, Aubusson pillows, cashmere sweaters, and assorted one-of-a-kind clothing." --excerpted from the book