After 20 years of living at the same house number I sat down for the first time with a woman who lives one block away. We have always been invisibly connected by a dollhouse left on her doorstep 15 years ago.

When I moved to Seattle in 1987 we rented an apartment in lower Queen Anne. The Madigans were incredibly gracious landlords, practically acknowledging each rent check with a thank you note. When we gave notice they sent a housewarming gift. When we let them know that we were expecting they sent not one but two stuffed animals, claiming they couldn't choose just one. With Mrs. Madigan's handwriting setting the tone I always responded in kind very quickly, in awe of their generosity.

Vernice Madigan seemed particularly taken with our daughter's name. Emily James; she always wrote it out in full. I sent them an invitation to the memorial service when Jim died, which was acknowledged with a condolence card and donation. It had already been five years since they were our landlords.

Some 15 years ago I answered the phone to a hesitant voice. "Peggy, this is Vernice Madigan. I hate to ask, but since you have always been so prompt about acknowledging gifts, I am wondering if perhaps you did not receive the dollhouse that we left on your doorstep for Emily James?"

As I would shortly learn when the police department phoned in the middle of the night to ask if my car had been stolen, it's hard to see things that aren't there, or acknowledge events that you didn't know had happened.

"Oh dear," this woman best known to me by her penmanship said, "We must have mistaken the address." She repeated the correct house number but one number too low on the great Ballard NW grid.

"It looked like such a sweet little house," she said. "And there were a little girls' shoes by the front door. I was sure they belonged to Emily James."

A few days later Neighbor Bob called, "Got something for you that a couple left." He soon carried over a gorgeous wood dollhouse already outfitted with doll family and miniature furniture.

The dollhouse came into our home and living room for the next five years before it moved upstairs and then slowly into the basement. It would appear for visits from younger children and occupy real estate in the side yard during summer parties. That model still sells in the best toy stores.

Soon after the dollhouse arrived a very distinctive car pulled away from our house before I could answer the door. A note in the door read, "I believe your friends left a dollhouse at our house by mistake. Can you please call me?"

I learned that my long ago landlords had felt so guilty about repossessing the dollhouse they had left other toys in their generous wake. In turn my neighbor wanted to be able to thank them and needed an address. Anne Mitchell told me about calling every toy store in Seattle to track down who might have purchased a dollhouse that she was sure wasn't meant for her daughter, also an only child just one year older.

It was years before I met my neighbor in person but I sometimes received their mail and would transfer items that appeared to be time-sensitive. "Birthday party," screamed one envelope. Eventually we were introduced at a Ballard Biotech event and talked about the dollhouse. I think I knew their names far better than they knew mine. Their daughter Marian was a star of the Ballard Biotech Program. By then I'd learned Anne worked at the school nearby, her husband was teacher and author Carl Deuker, who writes novels for teenagers - such as "Runner," set in Ballard.

The dollhouse spent several years across the street with two little boys. Whereas my daughter's favorite thing to do was remove all of the furniture and painstakingly replace it in new configurations the boys played with it differently, affixing homemade artwork to the walls of the two-story home with dormers. Eventually it was returned to the doorstep once more. Now the dollhouse waits in the frigid basement for its next move - our first.

The last full day that I legally owned my house I walked to Walter's Scoop wishing I could celebrate with someone. A woman who looked familiar blew in the door and said, "I don't know if you remember me?" It was Anne. She had just read last week's column about my packing up the house after 20 years.

I've often thought about our lives on parallel streets. Our daughters marching quietly toward their serious futures, a published author with the same house number working one block away...how many other writers are tucked into the single family residences zoned in this particular grid? "Can I get you something?" Walter asked. At first she said no, then yes. It was as though after all those years of being somewhat aware of each other's presence we knew time was running out.

We sat down side by side and talked about our daughters, Carl's latest novel (set at Ballard High), her work at Summit after the years at Adams. Anne asked if I had a photo of Emily because she'd read about her so often. Her daughter is already in college. Just as we were one block lower it seems we have always been trailing behind, my daughters' shoes a slightly smaller size when the dollhouse first entered both of our lives. We each used to walk our daughter to the bus stop in the morning. Now they have left us with the reminders of their childhood, their report cards and long abandoned toys.

It suddenly seemed terribly important that Anne have a forwarding address for us and the dollhouse. Our daughters are grown but the dollhouse is our connection to each other and that mysteriously generous couple who visited both our homes like guardian angels, but never once met our little girls.