The Divine Beauty

By Evan Stalter

All is well in the peaceful central Illinois city of Orwell until a sudden burglary occurs at its United States military base. During the disarray that follows in the reputable community, twenty-eight-year-old Weston James, recently heartbroken IT Architect and citizen of Orwell, receives an invitation to a mysterious jury party for an upcoming important trial from the local judge, Howard Fenton. When the party takes a ghastly turn for the worse at the judge’s country manor, Weston and the other guests, all from different backgrounds and careers, must band together to solve a staggering, spellbinding mystery that takes them all beyond the bounds of reality. Throughout his journey for both the truth and the recovery of his wounded soul, Weston discovers the shocking life of the revered judge, a monumental secret of the United States government, a passionate romance, an illustrious, enigmatic treasure, and a grand destiny that has been waiting for him for countless centuries. But death lurks around the manor’s every corner, as an intelligent, elusive, and scheming killer will stop at nothing to erase that destiny and make sure that no one escapes the manor alive. Twisting, turning, and brutally suspenseful, The Divine Beauty is the first novel by Evan Stalter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evan Stalter
• Release date: Aug 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476341774

Evan Stalter

I am a full-time college student and author. I self-published my first novel, The Divine Beauty, a gripping murder mystery/thriller, in August of 2012, and am releasing new works in 2014. Writing has been a lifelong hobby and passion of mine, and I endeavor through my work to persaude readers that THIS COULD HAPPEN while giving them a rousing, page-turning experience. Other hobbies I enjoy include reading, playing music, computer programming, playing video games, watching movies, playing and watching sports, spending time with friends and family, and walking my Aussie-doodle dog, Hershey. I reside in my beautiful home state of Illinois.

Book preview

The Divine Beauty

Evan Stalter

Published by Evan Stalter at Smashwords

Copyright 2012

Cover image courtesy of Steven Depolo

Cover by Joleene Naylor

The dedication of this debut novel is divided several ways. First, I would like to thank my mom and dad, who have always been there for me and supported me throughout every endeavor I have taken on in my short life; this work is, in essence, a product of their own hard work in raising me to be the man I am today. Second, I would like to thank my high school English teacher, Mr. John Streit, for reading over the manuscript and making writing fun in high school, or else this novel would have never existed. Lastly, I would like to thank my friends from both Eureka High School and Illinois State University (Jake, Austin, Cameron, George, Derek, Brandon, Janelle, and Katy) for their unwavering support throughout the years and who all mean more to me than I can possibly express. Everyone I mentioned, this one’s for you.

To God Be the Glory.

Chapter 1

The community of Orwell, Illinois, was known across the American Midwest as one of abundant peace and brotherhood. It was a little city of barely five thousand inhabitants and, if an outsider were to ask any resident, they would claim to be able to name every person living in their specific neighborhood. While walking on a calm summer night, it would not be unusual to see people walking up to their neighbors’ doors with a steaming pie, baked with the tender love of its creator. The lawns of the homes that lined Orwell’s streets were always perfectly manicured; to see a weed growing anywhere on someone’s property was quite rare.

Orwell also possessed every service a person could need or want. There was a fine school district that consisted of a preschool, grade school, middle school, and high school. A gem of education of which Orwellians often boasted was Orwell College, one of few four-year postsecondary institutions in small Illinoisan communities. Orwell College contained a lush campus with numerous academic buildings, sports facilities, and dormitories, and was the most popular choice of college education for graduating Orwell High School seniors.

While Orwell College was an excellent feature of the small Midwest community, its true claim to fame was distinguished conspiracy author Renee McDowell. The author of nearly thirty books on famed United States government conspiracies, McDowell hit gold with her national bestseller, Where Your Tax Money Goes. Despite numerous offers for her to move to New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, McDowell ultimately decided to remain in Orwell, which she said in an interview with The Chicago Tribune was Heaven on Earth.

The citizens of Orwell took great delight in McDowell’s flattering comment, and organized a parade for her when she returned to her hometown after a book tour on the east coast. In a speech given at the downtown courthouse in front of thousands, McDowell said with a smirk, You might have heard that I called our little city Heaven on Earth. The crowd cheered relentlessly.

You want to know why? pushed McDowell, as the throngs of Orwellians cheered on. Because you could never find a community elsewhere in the world where the people are more friendly and considerate of the needs of you and your family. It so happens that this said community is also a county seat, has a solid school district for its children and a fine college for its young adults. It has amenities such as Bennett’s Grocery Store for all your dietary needs, a gym for when you need to exercise, an insurance company to financially protect yourselves, countless restaurants, numerous churches available for us to praise God, florist shops, strip malls, gas stations, a jewelry store and even a U.S. military base to keep us safe. Orwell has it all!

The crowd roared as McDowell concluded her speech, and the autograph session in front of the courthouse lasted nearly three hours. The famous author had given Orwell the reason to believe that it had come as close as possible to being the perfect American community.

The seeming perfection lasted nearly two months and into the summer. In the early morning hours of June 19, 2011, the citizens of Orwell were awakened by the noise of frantic sirens racing south on Main Street. Dr. Sumatra Laroja, an associate professor of geology at Orwell College who lived in a two-story green house on Main Street, was one of them. Dr. Laroja sat up in her bed, tucked her long black hair behind her ears and walked to the window. Instantly, she grabbed her daily diary and started to write.

June 19, 2011

Dear my Precious Diary,

I am reminded again of why I desperately want a man with which to share life experiences. While the majority of the citizens of Orwell believe that they live in a perfect community, I find it difficult to imagine myself as a part of that. However, after tonight, their belief in McDowell’s farcical banter may have come to an end.

I have just witnessed twenty police cars speeding down Main Street with their sirens blaring. This is by far the most interesting sight I have seen in my years of residence in Orwell. I think they are headed toward the U.S. military base, which lies just south of town. I hope that nothing serious has happened; at the very least it will give that monger of an author something else to write about and make countless millions while I slave at teaching geology for much less.

I again remind you of my need for a companion as I hear the sirens die away in the distance. Good night.

With Love,

Sumatra

Dr. Laroja squinted off into the distance; the red and blue lights of the police cars were growing infinitely smaller. After a few seconds she sighed, stretched, and padded back to bed, hoping that whatever happened at the base would not eventually involve her. The thought was so absurd that it might have been considered amusing.

The incident that occurred on June 19 rocked Orwell to its core. The few people that lived on the north, east, and west outskirts of town that did not hear the sirens quickly heard of the news via their neighbors. Several people phoned the police in the morning about the incident and were assured that the situation was under control. These words comforted only a few residents, leaving the rest of the community concerned. There had been no automobile accident on the south side of town, as no wreckage of any kind had been discovered. That left the U.S. military base, and soon several hundred telephone calls and letters began pouring into both the base and the mayor’s office, demanding the truth of the situation be disclosed to the public. On June 22, the mayor, Charles Browning, held a press conference at the courthouse, attended by nearly all of the area media. A reporter from WMBD in Peoria, Illinois, asked the first, most pertinent question of Browning.

Mayor Browning, are you aware of the details of the incident that took place just south of Orwell on June 19 at two-thirty in the morning?

Browning gripped the podium, looking strained and uncomfortable in a black suit and black tie. He turned to the WMBD camera and spoke directly into it.

"As mayor of the city of Orwell, it is my duty to serve its residents. When the residents ask something important of me in terms of the welfare of the community, it is my job to respond immediately in a beneficial, satisfying way. However, I am at a loss with this certain scenario. I am also aware that there has not been an emergency in Orwell worth blaring police sirens in nearly three years, and am maddened at the fact that twenty police cars awoke a sleeping community for reasons they will not disclose. I have made every effort in cooperation with the Orwell Police Department; Commissioner Graham says that his officers are still at the military base investigating. As for the military, do you really think they would tell me anything? They won’t even let me go down there!"

The press and citizens attending the conference fell deathly silent at the mayor’s infuriated words. Browning’s face had turned beet red, and his lip was quivering. Inhaling slightly, he continued. I understand the secrecy of the military. I understand their codes and regulations. But when those codes and regulations infringe on our peaceful existence in the community of Orwell, and when I am called on to resolve the issue, I expect some decent cooperation, or they will lose my support.

With that, the mayor stormed away from the podium, raising a hand to block the subsequent barrage of questions from the various media.

Well, said a journalist from The Orwell Gazette to her colleague, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a controversy here in Heaven on Earth. Let’s go down to the base and see if we can’t dig up a story on this.

You go ahead, Yvonne, said the colleague, shaking his head. I’m going to try and get more controversial words to come out of our troubled mayor.

Two days later, on June 24, an article in The Orwell Gazette began circulating around town about the occurrence in the early morning hours of the 19th. A goldsmith named John Luster sat at his desk at the jewelry store, the paper in his hands and his colleague, Jim Bowman, across from him. Behind Bowman was a glass frame that allowed Luster to see the shop; only one man was there, and he appeared to be looking at rings.

I thought you might have a good laugh reading that, said Bowman, smirking. The title’s terrible…

Luster began, frowning more and more as he read down the page.

Sirengate: The Facts Behind the Speeding Police Cars

By Yvonne Proctor, The Orwell Gazette

From the horrifying incident of the speeding police cars that occurred at 2:30 A.M. on June 19, 2011, to Mayor Browning’s passionate verbal assault on the secrecy of the military and the police investigation, Sirengate has gripped the peaceful community of Orwell with an iron fist.

After the brief yet controversial press conference that Mayor Browning held on Wednesday, I took the liberty of going down to the military base to have a look. I could not have been prepared for what awaited me at the scene. Twenty police cars were still parked in the parking lot! Several black, authoritative-looking cars, presumably from the FBI, were parked next to them, so naturally I felt a little awkward pulling my blue Prius into that place.

I got out and walked toward the medium-sized concrete complex that is the Orwell military base. Numerous investigators with white lab coats and special equipment were surveying the outside area. All of them gave me a weird look, as if to say, Who let you come?

A police officer stopped me at the front entrance and said, Ma’am, do you have a pass?

I assured him that I meant no harm; that I was Yvonne Proctor from the Gazette. He asked for my ID; I gave it to him. He said, I’m sure you aren’t looking for trouble, but I assure you that if you set foot in this building, you will find it.

I thought that that statement was interesting, so I got out my recorder and asked him for an interview. He declined and told me to leave. However, a gentleman in a black suit with sunglasses (the James Bond type) walked up from behind and asked the officer, What does this young lady want?

I intervened, knowing that this man was important, and asked again for an interview. The officer started to protest, but the man assured him that it was all right; that he would allow the local media to ask a few questions.

Unfortunately, I had to sift through the interview with this man, FBI Agent Robert Hawk, who is leading the investigation at the Orwell United States military base, to pick out the most important part, since the Gazette has a limit on article length.

I asked him if he knew what had happened in the early morning hours of June 19, 2011, and what they were doing about it. Hawk replied, "I am well aware that the community of Orwell, so used to peace and happiness that a little event like this has shaken it, wants to know about the incident. I am also aware that the mayor is proving to be more of a hindrance than help. Naturally, as head of this investigation, there is confidentiality that I am sworn to protect. However, I will allow the community of Orwell to know the generalities.

"The military base was broken into in Sunday’s early morning hours. Evidence of the culprit’s actions was eventually detected by our security, which is high, I assure you. Security contacted the police and they came as quick as they could, but the criminal had long since escaped. We don’t know who the felon is or if he or she took anything; that is what we’re trying to find out."

Hawk refused to give me more details of the situation. However, this sheds a little more light on what truly happened that fateful night.

Luster chuckled at the final sentence, prompting one from Bowman as well.

You know, said Luster, sitting back in his chair, that’s what I thought it was, and I’m not even an expert.

"Who comes up with a name like Sirengate? exclaimed Bowman. Honestly, Proctor’s a crackpot. She’s been concocting these stories for The Gazette for years. I’d be more interested in this article if Renee McDowell wrote it, but Yvonne Proctor? C’mon."

Well, you showed it to me, said Luster, chuckling again. You must have shown some interest in it.

Never in my life would I show serious interest in a Proctor article, John.

Sorry, sorry… Hey, it looks like you’ve got a customer out there.

Bowman turned around. Sure enough, the man looking at rings looked like he had finally picked one out. Luster’s phone began to ring. Bowman turned back and said, Lovebirds today…

I’ve got a client, Jim, said Luster, motioning toward the door. Thanks for the article.

Don’t mention it, replied Bowman, going out the door. From the other side, Luster could hear him politely ask, How can I help you, sir?

Luster took another look at the article, wanting another excuse to gawk at Proctor’s foolishness before answering the phone.

All was quiet in the streets of Orwell in the early morning hours of July 13, 2011. Darkness filled the windows of empty downtown shops and businesses while streetlights illuminated the sidewalks and roads. The only stoplight in downtown Orwell, positioned at the intersection of Main Street and Pershing Avenue, sat dormant, the lights the same colors as they were hours before.

A dark blue Buick Regal cruised north toward the stoplight on Main Street, its turn signal blinking toward the west. The lights did not change as the Regal calmly turned onto Pershing Avenue.

Minutes later, the Regal was driving out of town, the few lights of the sleeping community of Orwell fading away. It turned onto a country road and drove north about a half-mile before pulling into a gravel residential driveway.

The house was a green, modest-sized ranch with two windows on either side of a plain white door. The one-car garage, also green, was positioned to the right of the house. The Regal pulled up to the garage and stopped, mildly crunching the gravel underneath its tires. The driver shut off the headlights, unbuckled the seat belt, opened the door and emerged from the car.

After quietly shutting the door to the car, the driver, a woman, surveyed the area around her house, as if wary of something unusual. She sighed after several seconds of observing the premises and walked toward the side door, the keys in her hand.

The woman unlocked the side door and pushed it open slowly. The door led to her sunroom, which was bathed in moonlight. She observed that everything remained where she had left it, and started toward the kitchen. In that room, everything also had stayed in its rightful place. The woman had a more confident stride walking into the living room, where she again observed that all of her possessions and pieces of furniture remained where they had been hours before, except the blue rocking chair…

You really shouldn’t discuss your plans in broad daylight, came a male voice from the other side of the rocking chair, startling the woman. He spun around. Someone might overhear.

The woman regained her composure, grasping a nearby table for moderate support and staring the intruder in the eye. After a few moments of silence, she let go of the table and studied the man from head to toe, identifying him quickly in spite of the darkness.

How did you get in? demanded the woman briskly.

The man held up a straightened paper clip. Picked the lock. You don’t exactly have an automatic harpoon security system like that old judge.

Fair enough, replied the woman scathingly. You must have walked here since there is no vehicle outside. I’m impressed; I had foreseen that a skilled burglar might break into my home, but not a man of your profession.

There’s the prejudice again, observed the man. We’re more than just a bunch of people that sit at desks and bicker all day long. I’ve been picking locks since I was a boy… The man trailed off and twirled the paper clip in his hand, marveling at his achievement.

Enough with the small talk, said the woman impatiently, now not flustered that an intruder had broken into her home. Why are you here?

I thought you were brighter than that, my dear, replied the man smugly. Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?

Perhaps I could, but I have the right not to.

The man shook his head. "Pity. Well, I guess I will have to break the bad news to you. I know what you did, Miss Innocence, and I’m here to capture you and turn you in to the police."

The woman chuckled, walked over to the sofa and casually sat down. "You have no proof. But you must be completely sure, as you broke into my house just to confront me and… What was it? Oh yes, capture me… She paused, allowing her sarcasm to sink into the man before continuing. Tell me how you found out. I’d like to know."

The man crossed his legs and rocked in the chair, as if about to discuss the weather forecast. I already told you when you walked in a few minutes ago. I overheard you and your associate speaking of your misdoings in broad daylight. While I didn’t tape record the conversation, I believe that my reputation in this community is solid enough for the police to believe every word I say. I also think that, under intense pressure and interrogation, you might reveal your plan to them yourself. I’m sure they’ll be glad to have the criminal apprehended so they can be done searching that base after over three weeks.

The woman sat calmly and listened to the man’s testimony, only fidgeting to readjust on the sofa; a movement to which the man paid no attention. She cleared her throat before responding.

Interesting. You know, I think I know where you must have heard my associate and I plotting, and again I am impressed, said the woman calmly. But let me ask you this: does your wife know you’re here?

The man frowned in confusion. Of course not; she’d worry too much. Besides, she’s on a business trip in London.

I see, said the woman coolly. And how long has she been in London?

Four weeks, replied the man in a different, more agitated tone of voice. She comes back in three weeks. This is beside the point…

Oh, but it isn’t, continued the woman snidely. I know for a fact that your wife’s surname is Bentley, since she refused to change it to yours when you were married, and that she is the CEO of Bentley Insurance. As a part of that prestigious occupation, she is often away on long business trips, leaving you here alone. You must feel so free when she is gone... Free to do whatever you want…

That’s not… You are the one breaking the law here! exclaimed the man nervously, now knowing where the woman was going with the conversation.

And you speak of your reputation as if it is of almost godly stature; that the police will believe any word you say, said the woman icily. Well, I will have to disagree with you on that. Never underestimate the power of the camera, as it can destroy countless aspiring careers…

The woman began to grin, and the man could barely control his rage. He sat shaking in anger, no longer comfortably rocking in the chair.

Not to mention you broke into my house, which happens to be illegal, continued the woman. You thought in doing this you were capturing a felon; that you were making yourself out to be a public hero by solving the most intriguing crime in this community’s history. Instead, you are becoming a felon yourself, and if I have my way with you, you will eventually become the most corrupt man in Illinois…

"That will never happen! screamed the man, finally letting his rage run rampant. He held up a bag and hastily showed the woman its contents. I found this in your home, so therefore you are guilty!"

The woman did not move, but became slightly more concerned. Where exactly did you find that?

"In the pantry, where you put it after you stole it! rasped the man furiously. He suddenly removed a Glock handgun from his pocket and pointed it at the woman. I’m taking you to the police!"

The woman swiftly responded by reaching under a cushion and pulling out a Beretta handgun, pointing it at the man, who slightly recoiled.

"If you really think that I am just going to give up and come quietly with you, you are sorely mistaken, she snarled, rage now etched in every line of her face. I am not going to let the greatest and most expensive treasure ever known to man slip away from me. If you escape death at my house tonight, I swear I will make your life such a living hell that you will eventually be pleading for death."

Your words don’t intimidate me, responded the man angrily. Drop the gun and come with me.

I refuse. My words are true, and speaking of intimidation, perhaps my associate, who I contacted while you were explaining how you found out about my plot, will shed a new light on this conversation.

As soon as the woman finished speaking, a gigantic figure emerged from the adjacent sitting room, running for the intruder. The man rotated and fired three bullets at the giant man, who collapsed onto the floor with a loud crash. The woman promptly started firing at the trespasser, who dodged the first array of bullets by diving onto the ground, dropping his weapon in the process. While the woman was reloading, the man hurriedly grabbed his bag and fled toward the front door. The woman fired again, but not in time; it ricocheted off the doorknob and into the wall as the man started running full-speed across the road and into the cornfield.

"Get up! the woman yelled at her gargantuan associate, who slowly rose to his feet. I told you that you would need that bulletproof vest…"

The associate groaned and got to his feet. What now? he asked.

The woman started toward the side door, beckoning her partner to follow. We pursue him. He’s bound to come out of the cornfield onto Pershing Avenue, and we must be waiting for him. Until then we need to go into town and retrieve the evidence needed to make his life a living hell.

The associate followed the woman out the side door, slamming it behind them. Why not just kill him? He overheard us talking and knows we stole it!

The woman stopped in her tracks and faced the giant man. She was miniscule compared to him, but showed authority over him in her voice.

I am paying you to assist and protect me, and part of that job assignment is to give me good ideas! snapped the woman. "So far I was the one that suggested you stay near my house when I am gone, which was useful this evening. I told you to wear that bulletproof vest tonight, which saved your life! And right now, I am saying that if we pressure him enough, he will become our servant and will be extensively useful in the near future."

But what if he doesn’t bend to pressure?

Trust me, he will. I know his type, said the woman assuredly. I know the fact that an outsider knows of our plot worries you, but I am in complete control. When his usefulness runs its course, we may dispose of him along with the others.

The giant man grinned and said, I never should have doubted you. The clock is counting down to our ultimate success.

The woman and her associate entered the Regal. As she started up the engine, she said, Another thing about our dear intruder is that he’s off on the wrong foot anyway.

Why is that? asked the associate.

The woman began to back out of the gravel driveway. We are still in possession of the treasure. He stole the fake out of the pantry.

Chapter 2

Weston James sat at the bar in his kitchen at around four o’clock in the afternoon on July 22, 2011, reading over an invitation that had boggled his mind for an entire week. He had apparently been summoned for jury duty, but not by the courthouse. His notice was in the form of an invitation, sent by the judge himself. Its relative lack of formality was dumbfounding.

The Honorable Judge Howard Fenton cordially invites you to a dinner and breakfast party at his manor at five o’clock in the evening of Friday, July 22, 2011, continuing into the morning of Saturday, July 23, 2011. You and several others have been selected to be on the jury of a trial that the judge will be explaining to you on the evening of the 22nd.

Weston was not a legal expert, but he had thought that the judicial process was much different; that the jury usually had no dinner and breakfast party with the judge before the trial. And why was it an overnight deal? Weston figured that this must be a very important case; perhaps the police had arrested someone for the military base break-in.

He looked at the address on the back and instantly recognized it. He had driven by the judge’s manor in the country north of Orwell before and knew that it was quite sizeable and must be able to accommodate the overnight needs of twelve or more people. Weston envied the judge; in his opinion, the country plains of the Midwest were unequivocally beautiful.

Beauty, he had learned, could also be heartbreaking.

Tears started to form in Weston’s eyes, but he forced them back. No, he thought forcefully, I am not crying again. She’s gone from my life, and probably much happier. I need to realize that I’ll find someone new.

But he knew that finding someone new was going to be difficult, especially in a small town like Orwell. For him, the community, especially recently, was far from Heaven on Earth. His girlfriend of ten years, Alexandra Dresden, had left him for another man.

Weston was unaware of her reasoning for it. He had no idea who the other man was, but perhaps he was more attractive, rich, or powerful. Possibly even more romantic, but Weston forced himself not to think about the notion; it was agonizingly painful.

He had never thought of himself as boring, but just typical. He graduated Orwell High School with a 3.0 grade point average, was not involved in many activities, was moderately shy, and had a close circle of friends but never dated. He then went against the grain and chose Illinois State University over Orwell College, majoring in General Computer Science. It was on one of his first days in college at lunch in the dining center that he had met Alexandra.

The dining center was packed, and since Weston was the only one of his graduating high school class to go to Illinois State, he had no current friends at the college. The only spot available was next to a rather pretty girl with blonde hair and blue eyes in an ISU shirt and gray shorts.

May I sit here? asked Weston timidly, as if he had a choice.

The girl smiled at him. Of course, she said kindly.

Thanks, said Weston, and sat down, feeling rather awkward. Uh, I’m Weston James by the way, General Computer Science major.

Nice to meet you, Weston James. I’m Alexandra Dresden, Business Administration major, replied Alexandra. They both smiled, shook hands, and Weston began to eat, glad to have found a relatively kind person to sit next to.

Midway through the meal, neither of them had said a word to each other beyond the initial greeting. Weston had always been one to lose his nerves around pretty girls such as Alexandra, but there was something about her that made him go about eating normally, even though he still would not be brave enough to begin a conversation.

Suddenly, Alexandra noticed what Weston was doing and asked, Holy cow, are you buttering both sides of your bread?

Weston recoiled and stopped buttering the other side of the bread. His face turned a shade of maroon as he stammered, Uh…w-well…

I do the same! exclaimed Alexandra, smiling fruitfully and showing him her piece of bread with butter on both sides. I’ve always been self-conscious about it because no one else I knew back home did it, but now I’ve met someone at college who does!

All of a sudden, Weston’s face turned back to a normal shade, and he felt confidence in his voice that was supported by the fact that if he asked a question, Alexandra Dresden would actually be happy to commence a conversation.

Wow, really? I was picked on back in Orwell for doing this and I thought you were going to tease me as well, but—

Oh, no, no, no! recovered Alexandra. I’m so sorry if you thought I was going to pick on you. Why would I ever do that to someone as nice as you?

How could you tell I was nice? asked Weston.

The way you asked me if you could sit here, replied Alexandra softly. And the fact that you have brown hair and brown eyes. In my opinion, all the nice guys have brown hair and brown eyes.

Weston chuckled, knowing instantly that he had met a new friend. So if I told you I was going to blow up this dining center right now, you would still think I’m a nice guy?

Alexandra was taking a drink of water at the time and started laughing uncontrollably, even though Weston knew it was a lame line. She laughed so hard that water had apparently gone down the wrong pipe and she started coughing. Weston had to pat her back several times before she was able to reply.

Eventually she regained her composure, still holding in a laugh, and said, Of course I would.

From then on, everything was pure harmony for Weston and Alexandra. The conversation in the dining center led to the two of them spending the evening taking a stroll on the university’s quadrangle, chatting about their lives before college. Weston learned that Alexandra was from Crystal Lake, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, her parents were both college professors, and her brother was a senior at Northwestern University, majoring in Physics. They ended the night with a polite hug; Weston would never forget the glowing feeling he had while walking back to his dormitory at the end of the night.

Weston and Alexandra made it a habit to always eat with each other at every meal. Soon enough, Weston was able to learn nearly everything about his newfound friend, and found himself comfortable enough to allow her to learn everything about him as well. She was helping him come out of his eighteen-year-old shell, which he fully enjoyed. Through this, he was able to make other friends that lived on his floor in the dormitory. Alexandra even introduced him to her three other friends on campus. Weston never understood why she spent time with her friends; their happy-go-lucky personalities were the opposite of Alexandra’s. In fact, during his first meeting with Alexandra’s friends at a coffee shop on campus, one of them actually flirted with him. Although Weston had become more outgoing, this was something new.

Her name was Holly Barnes, an incredibly vivacious and beautiful young woman. She was of moderate height, like Weston and Alexandra, and was tan with short brown hair and dark brown eyes. When Weston shook hands with her, she smiled, raised her eyebrows, and said, You know, if you weren’t dating Alexandra, I’d be all over you.

Both Weston and Alexandra blushed, and he attempted to recover. Um… Thanks, but we’re not dating. We’re just friends.

Well, then, you know where to find me, said Holly shiftily. For a second, Weston became entranced by her good looks, but snapped out of it quickly.

Well, it’s nice meeting you all, said Weston, acknowledging Alexandra’s two other friends, Tyra and Rachel. Why don’t we go get a table?

Holly’s playful joke actually sparked Weston to think about relationship possibilities with Alexandra. Nearly everyone they knew, including their parents, believed that they were attracted to one another, which was indeed true, at least on Weston’s part. She was his best friend, and he had definitely begun to develop extra feelings for her. But did she think of him as just a friend, or as a prospect for something more?

Weston knew that this was the question that plagued most young couples, so he decided to talk to Alexandra about it at the end of their first year of college. He remembered the conversation vividly; it took place on the steps of Cook Hall, a castle-like building with a budding and odorous ginkgo tree next to it. Weston was the first to speak.

Alexandra, he began rather awkwardly, looking up at her unfailingly happy face. I’ve been thinking about things.

Weston James, in nine months of knowing you I’ve never heard you say that.

I know, because this is about something different, replied Weston, taking a deep breath before continuing. While the nerves showed up sometimes in his conversations with Alexandra, they were often quickly soothed by her soft, friendly presence. It’s about us.

What about us? she asked.

"Well, it’s been my great pleasure getting to know you this year, and I really, really like you, said Weston confidently. You’re my best friend, and I value that more than anything. But I also believe that something more can come out of this relationship. Do you think that, maybe, we could—?"

Alexandra’s smile had been growing gradually while Weston was talking, and she raised a finger to his lips before he could finish. Date? I’d love that.

Weston lit up like a firefly. Really? You mean it?

Of course I do! I was wondering if you were ever going to ask me!

Oh, then why didn’t you ask me? demanded Weston playfully. I guess guys have to do everything in a relationship…

Their courtship began and lasted throughout their college years. Weston remembered every second of it, from the restaurants at which they ate to new, interesting bits of trivia each learned about the other to their first kiss on the steps of Cook Hall at sunset. Time flew during their relationship, and Weston was able to attain and sustain a 4.0 grade point average in General Computer Science, Alexandra doing the same in Business Administration. Both acquired jobs, one on campus at Milner Library and the other off campus at a fast food establishment. Weston was consequently able to rent an apartment for the two of them, much to the dismay of their parents. The apartment was a cozy, two-bedroom/two-bathroom living space, and both Weston and Alexandra agreed that they would be sleeping in separate rooms, since they were not married or even engaged. The conversation prompted Weston to think about possible proposal ideas in the coming year. He was certain that Alexandra was the perfect woman for him; everything about her was ideal. The only temptation in Weston’s mind was the gorgeous Holly Barnes.

Holly was considered to be Alexandra’s best friend other than Weston, and she would often come over to their apartment and visit. Weston did not know why, but Holly always seemed to flirt and playfully tease him whenever they were around each other. Alexandra thought nothing of it because Weston outwardly appeared to think nothing of it. However, Holly’s actions always prompted Weston to fantasize about what it would be like to be her boyfriend for a night.

He knew he would never act on the temptation; he loved Alexandra too much, and she loved him. She took the liberty to have a fresh snack prepared for Weston every day when he came back home from working at State Farm Corporate Headquarters as an intern the summer before his fourth year of college. When Weston finished his internship, his boss said, Keep up those grades this year, and I can guarantee you that you’ll have a well-paying spot with us after you graduate.

Alexandra was ecstatic with the news, giving him an extensive kiss and embrace. I love you so much, she said softly into his shoulder. After this year, our life together will be beginning.

I can’t wait, replied Weston, holding her tightly. Just one more hellish year of college.

Alexandra giggled. There’s my Wessie coming out again.

Their last year of college could not have passed any quicker. By the end of April, Weston and Alexandra were ready to graduate with degrees in General Computer Science and Business Administration, and State Farm ended up guaranteeing them both spots starting in May. They were also ready to move to a nicer apartment as soon as they were financially capable, which they decided would be August of that year. Weston secretly decided that the day they moved into their new apartment would be the day he would propose to the love of his life.

The graduation ceremony was long and tiresome, and both Weston and Alexandra had to take numerous pictures with their parents and grandparents. Weston noticed that Alexandra appeared to be feeling slightly under the weather during the ceremony and asked if she still wanted to go to the party at his friend Chad Finley’s apartment that night.

I don’t know, said Alexandra weakly, rubbing her head and looking pale in her black graduation robe. I have a monster headache and I think a fever, too.

Weston put a hand on her head. You’re a little warm, he said. You might have a little flu bug inside of you.

Perhaps, said Alexandra, as they trudged to their apartment with their diplomas. I think it would be better if I didn’t go.

All right, that’s cool, said Weston kindly. We can stay back and watch a movie tonight…

You’re an angel, said Alexandra, patting him on the shoulder, but I can take care of myself. Go celebrate your graduation with Chad and I’ll let you know if I think I can make it down the stretch.

Are you sure? I can fix you a nice bowl of soup and—

Weston, sweetie, I’m fine. Go to Chad’s party tonight; I’m sure he would appreciate it.

Weston tried again to persuade Alexandra to let him stay home, but he could not. At ten o’clock that night while she was lying on the couch, he kissed her on the cheek and left the apartment for Chad’s.

The present Weston buried his head in his hands, the urge to cry again becoming more and more significant. He was so engulfed in his rage against Alexandra for being unfaithful to him that he had forgotten that he had once done the same to her. Weston had never been able to forgive himself for the particular incident and was forced to relive it, the tears now streaming nonstop.

The Weston that had just graduated from Illinois State University climbed the steps to Chad Finley’s apartment. He could hear the rhythmic beat of the subwoofer from outside. Never having gone to any raucous college parties, Weston was unenthusiastic about coming to his first alone. He rang the doorbell, and his friend Chad answered with a beer in his hand.

Weston! exclaimed Chad exuberantly, and the two embraced. Congrats, man! Make yourself at home! Where’s Alexandra?

She’s a little under the weather, unfortunately! said Weston loudly. The music was making it almost impossible to talk to someone a few feet from him. He walked with Chad into the living room, where he saw at least twenty friends and acquaintances either dancing or sitting down drinking a beer. The television was off and a table was set up with an impressive stereo system being run by a DJ.

Enjoy the party! yelled Chad, and he resumed dancing, sloshing his beer around.

Weston chuckled at his friend before clutching his ears during the piercing beginning of a bombastic heavy metal song. He approached the DJ.

"Excuse me, sir! shouted Weston. Could you turn that down a bit?"

The DJ motioned that he could not hear what Weston was saying, so he repeated himself. The DJ shrugged and continued to groove to the song. Weston attempted to repeat himself again, but was startlingly interrupted when someone from behind gently touched his arm. He whirled around.

It was Holly Barnes, looking spectacular in a white tank top and shorts. Weston smiled