Behind and Before

By Caley Buxton

Brooks Quinlan is a young man who has never understood his family’s Christian faith and feels disconnected from them, particularly hurt by the unexplained grudge his father holds against him. When Brooks meets Marie, he is forced to consider that belief in Jesus might not be a Quinlan peculiarity but rather the reason for her apparent peace despite her mysteriously tragic past. Over the course of a year, facing the hills and valleys in both their lives, Brooks begins to ask the questions that have plagued him. He discovers that faith enables people to live without all the answers, and redemption reaches even the deepest wounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664215597

Caley Buxton

Caley Buxton was born in Denver, Colorado. She loves the mountains and has lived within sight of the Rockies all her life except for her three years at Duke University, where she earned a master’s degree in medical physics. Her background is in physics and aerospace, but she loves reading and writing. Caley is living with metastatic breast cancer, and publishing Behind and Before is the fulfillment of her bucket list, made possible by the GoFundMe a friend created for her.

Book preview

BEHIND

and

BEFORE

CALEY BUXTON

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Copyright © 2020 Caley Buxton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system

without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International

Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc.

TM. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-1502-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-1503-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-1559-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020924153

WestBow Press rev. date:  12/14/2020

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Special thanks to my mom for being my first reader. I could not have risked hearing that my book was terrible from anyone else. Thank you to Kristen for reading and advising. Thank you to Christina for making sure I had a way to publish. Thank you to Jessica for giving so generously. Thank you to Lane for her amazing art.

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CHAPTER 1

I met Marie Wilson in a bookstore.

It was a snowy Friday afternoon, and I’d finished my shift for the day, so I’d decided to wander around Benson’s Books for a while. I wasn’t paying attention to much, wiped out as I was from work, but then my eyes were drawn away from the astronomy section and to, of all places, the little rotating metal box with name knickknacks on it.

You know the ones. They were once just tiny license plates, but someone decided that expanding into one-milliliter mugs, flowers, picture frames, and so on would be a fruitful venture.

Since it was close to Christmas, Benson’s was proudly displaying marble-sized snow globes. Each had a miniature snowman with two, or, if you were lucky, three pieces of white stuff. The snow. And of course a name in white letters on a red stand.

It was not the snow globes that caught my attention—it was the person staring at them. She looked a few years younger than me, probably twenty-two or twenty-three, and she was holding three unidentifiable books in one hand while the other hand was slowly spinning the snow globe display.

She was average height but looked smaller because she held herself, mostly her shoulders, in a kind of meek way, like she was trying to escape everyone’s notice or was expecting someone to yell at her.

So, I wasn’t going to approach her.

But.

You know how people are all obsessed with Mona Lisa’s smile? There’s all this speculation about what she’s smiling about, and who she was, and what she knew, and why her expression grabs us. Seriously, there have been studies done about this. Some Dutch and American university collaboration ran the painting through a computer program and determined that her smile is 83 percent happy, 9 percent disgusted, 6 percent fearful, 2 percent angry, and some miniscule percentage neutral. She is 0 percent surprised. I, on the other hand, am 100 percent surprised that people spend money on this. I’ve never understood. I don’t think I ever will. It’s a painting.

But this woman’s real-life smile fascinated me. I don’t have a numerical analysis, but it was kind of happy. Not at all disgusted but more than kind of sad. It was wistful and a little scared. Saying an expression is neutral sounds like a cop-out, but I don’t think there was any surprise on her face either. The point is there was some depth of feeling that I couldn’t understand. The thought of walking away without talking to her left my head. Selfish curiosity. I knew that if I had the kind of brain-hand coordination required for art, I’d paint a picture that would make people ask the same questions about her that they do about Mona Lisa.

"They never have my name."

She took an inordinately long time to turn toward me and even longer to say something. She just stared at me, and I sort of forgot that I was waiting for a response. Her eyes were so blue.

When I got my head on straight again, I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. Her silence wasn’t aloof; it was surprised and apprehensive. More support for my theory that someone that gorgeous could hardly go through life without being harassed by oglers (yes, like me).

She took a deep breath and finally smiled. I was glad she didn’t appear to see me as a threat—not a creepy old guy. I was twenty-six, so … yeah. I’m glad she didn’t think I looked too old. What a slam to my self-esteem that would be, since I was well within the widely accepted calculation for the non-creepy dating age range.

She shifted her books to her other hand. The small tragedies of life.

From most people, that would seem like a very sarcastic, unkind statement. But something in her eyes and tone made me think she was serious and truly sorry that my name would not allow me to buy a little personalized snow globe.

I held out my right hand. Brooks Quinlan.

She took my hand and shook it. "Well, that does make finding a personalized trinket a rather hopeless prospect."

Indeed.

She took her hand back. Now that I had revealed myself to be nonthreatening, her posture seemed more confident. She didn’t appear intimidated by me at all. Which was good. Are you experiencing the same despair? I asked, gesturing to the globes.

She shook her head but seemed to close herself away from me a bit. Her eyes lost some of their warmth. It’s there.

She regarded me for a few seconds without offering up her name. I hadn’t foreseen the necessity to ask. I’d already told her mine. Usually people reciprocate without any prompting.

Apparently not her. But I wasn’t about to give up or give in. I squinted at the globes, searching for the worst name available. I spotted it and smiled. Eunice. Shrugging, I said, As I expected.

Her mouth twitched, and the sparkle returned to her eyes. It was hard to keep my train of thought from jumping the rails.

She stared at me for another few seconds and then said, Marie Wilson.

I nodded. Rotating the display to the Ms, I found a snow globe with Marie on the base and held it out to her.

She took a step back. Oh, no … that’s okay.

I took a step forward. Seriously. I’ll buy it for you. I know I was being pushy.

I couldn’t let you do that.

’Tis the season, I insisted. (I know. Get a grip, Brooks.)

Her eyes softened. Melted, really. I could tell, as I’d noticed the second I’d seen her with her better-than-Mona-Lisa smile, spinning the display, that those little snow globes meant something to her. I was dying to know what.

She gave a small sigh and smiled at me again. This time in defeat. But instead of taking the one I was holding, she selected two of the generic ones that simply read, Merry Christmas! She held them out to me, and I obediently opened my hand to accept them. I’d hate to flaunt the fact that they don’t make ‘Brooks.’ We’ll be nameless together.

We left Benson’s, each with a memento of our meeting. But I was not ready to let her go. The snow was coming down more lightly, but it was still very cold, and I decided I needed Italian food. As one does.

Would it be inexcusably forward of me to offer you dinner? I asked, turning toward her on the sidewalk.

She looked thoughtful for a second. Probably. But give it a try.

I grinned. Okay. Do you like Italian?

I love it.

All right. Would you be okay with walking? There’s a great place right across the street. We’ll come back for your car later. Considering the weather, I would have offered to drive, but I didn’t think most women would accept a ride from a random guy ten minutes after meeting him.

Sure, she replied. We set out across the parking lot. She was wearing black snow boots over her jeans, which looked so good. I hoped my idea wasn’t too dumb. If she had been wearing those boots a lot of girls do that are slumpy and decidedly not waterproof, I would have come up with something else.

I snuck a glance over at her. She was looking up at the falling snow as we walked. I smiled. So she was one of them. In my experience, people either hate the snow—to which I respond, Well, why are you in Colorado?—or they love it. She seemed to love it.

We went to a little restaurant called Cella’s. Not only does it have great food, but it’s also one of my favorites because it has a heated, covered patio so people can eat outside all year. I imagined she would like that.

She did choose to sit on the patio. After the waiter finished telling us the specials and bringing us water and bread, we both watched the snow drifting down for a minute before turning our attention to our menus.

So, we said at the same time after he took our orders and headed back to the kitchen. We both stopped and laughed.

Go ahead, I said. I offered her the bread basket.

She took a slice. Thank you, she replied. What do you do?

I’m a paramedic. I took a piece of bread and set the basket down.

Her eyes widened. How long have you done that?

I took a bite of bread, which was a bad choice, because I had to chew hurriedly in order to prevent an awkward silence: the bane of first dates. Well, I volunteered in high school and then was officially hired during college. After I got my degree, I figured I’d just keep at it.

What’s your degree in?

Biology. Premed. I just didn’t want to do med school or deal with the politics of being a doctor. Much to the (vocal) disappointment of my father, Dr. Quinlan. But that was another story.

You must really love it.

I nodded. I do. It’s nice to know I’m really helping people. Not only the hurt people but also whoever happens to be with them. Parents, friends. I think paramedics give better answers than doctors. Much less vague and alarming.

I remembered the first and last time I went to my dad’s work with him. I probably shouldn’t have been in the room for the phone call, but I sat there in horror as he told a woman on speakerphone that she had some horrible disease I can’t recall. She’d asked the predictable questions of how long she had and what was going to happen to her. My dad’s answers were terse and highly uninformative. He was flipping through his mail at the time.

Anyway.

She bestowed one of her smiles on me. I couldn’t keep from leaning forward. She played with her straw but kept her gaze focused on me. I always think it’s so amazing that people enjoy and thrive in different scenarios. I could never be a paramedic. I’d lose my head with stress.

So what is your scenario?

I’m student teaching. I’ll be full-time in August.

The waiter came with our food. We thanked him, and then I inquired, What subject?

AP physics. I majored in physics and math, and now I’m helping the physics teacher at Westview.

I may have stared a little. More than I’d already been staring at her, I mean. I’d never met anyone who actually liked physics. Wow. That’s … well … wow.

She didn’t reply. Which was fair. I hadn’t really said anything of consequence. What … topics … do you teach, specifically? Awful question, in terms of the likelihood that I’d understand the answer.

She took a drink of her water before answering, which gave me time to try to remember physics, but I drew a blank. However, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, I’ll have you know. She said, Kurt—he’s the teacher—is having me do lectures on the Doppler effect, Gauss’s law, and time dilation. Her eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm as she spoke. "Next year, I’m going to teach the calculus-based AP physics while Kurt takes the algebra-based regular and AP classes. I’m really excited. Calculus makes physics so much better."

I bit my lip to keep from smiling too broadly. She just looked so … enthusiastic. It was cute.

Noting my expression, she shrank suddenly into the posture of someone expecting to be rebuffed, like she’d looked in Benson’s. Sorry, she murmured. I tend to go off about physics too much. She toyed uncomfortably with her fork, not meeting my eyes.

No, I disagreed. "I like it. Someone should be passionate about physics. It would be sad otherwise."

She looked back up at me. Okay, she said softly.

We ate in silence for a while, but it actually wasn’t awkward. I was more than a little curious about her apparent lack of confidence, however. I was glad she seemed to like me, but I wondered why she cared what I thought so much. I guessed that she had tough parents or a mean ex-boyfriend or something.

So, were those physics books you bought at Benson’s?

She nodded. One was. One was math, and the other was a novel.

Teaching an English class too?

No, she said, laughing, but I’d love to. I had a hard time picking a major. I like everything.

What else do you like to do? Apart from calculating and reading.

Oh … anything outside. Walking, hiking. Sports, recreationally. Also, I’d love to have a garden, but, you know … apartment.

TV? I asked.

She made a face. "Not in recent memory. It would have to be something really good."

Me too! I turn on my TV only in desperation. I think I have a short attention span for all the shows. I’m addicted to soap operas, I joked. Thankfully, I could tell by her expression that she didn’t believe me. Travel? I continued.

Her eyes lit up. Yes, definitely.

Been anywhere cool?

She quickly took a bite of pasta. Not lately. You?

No. But I’m dying to go to Scotland.

It’s beautiful.

I’m scared of Nessie. But I’d still like to see it. Him. Her?

Her smile was amused. Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster?

I shrugged. "I bet there’s something there. But it’s probably not a dinosaur."

Believe it or not, we spent a long time talking about dinosaurs. And then science and museums. To prolong our dinner, we ordered drinks: green tea for her and apple cider for me. That kept us going another hour and a half. Before I knew it, it was 8:30 and I figured I should probably let her go.

The waiter cleared our dishes then, leaving the bill between us. She immediately reached for it, but I stopped her.

But you bought me the snow globe! she protested.

I raised my eyebrows. It was a dollar twenty-five. She made a face, and I laughed. I said, I insist, and she sighed in defeat.

When we were back outside, I asked her what her family was like.

She was quiet for so long I wondered if she had heard me. I glanced at her, growing more and more worried. Bad topic, apparently. Forget I asked, I said quickly.

No, it’s okay. I’m sorry. They died a while back.

I froze. I’d made her hurt, a whole four hours after meeting her. I half reached toward her, then got scared. I’m … so sorry.

She jerked her head to the side rather forcefully. It’s fine. It’s a normal question to ask. With obvious effort, she turned to me and smiled. "And to prove it, I’ll reciprocate. What’s your family like?"

Wanting very much to make her smile genuine again, I said, "I have an older sister, whose name is not Rivers, Streams, or Creeks. It’s Bonnie."

She did laugh, for which I was gratified. Do people really say that to you?

Often. It wasn’t funny even the first time.

Does she live here? What about your parents?

Yeah, all of them. My mom is a Realtor, and my dad is a doctor. Doctor Father, MD.

She must have picked up on my tone. Usually I’m better at masking the father/son tension, but she was just so easy to be around. I’d let my guard down. Does he wish you’d gone to medical school? she asked astutely.

Yep. I’m a disappointment, I said cheerfully.

She gave me a knowing look that led me to believe she wasn’t fooled by my flippant attitude, but she said nothing until we got back to Benson’s.

Which is your car?

She pointed. The blue Civic.

I insisted on brushing it off for her. She opened her door and looked back at my car, which had a thick layer of snow on it. "You know, I could insist on helping you clear your car, and then you’d have to help me again, and we’d be stuck here forever."

Suits me. I got out my phone. Could I call you?

Of course. She gave me her number and took mine.

Now drive carefully. I don’t want to be called out to rescue you.

She smiled. I promise.

It was good to meet you.

You too, Brooks. Thank you for the snow globe and for dinner.

You’re welcome. I shut her door after her and returned to my car with a stupid grin fighting to plaster itself on my face. As I watched her taillights disappear into the blowing snow, it broke free, and I didn’t even try to conquer it as I drove to my house.

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I didn’t sleep particularly well that night, and I was rather distracted on Saturday as well. I had to do various errands, laundry, and other chores, but I kept going over our conversation the night before. I couldn’t believe we’d spent such a long time together, and it had been so easy! I was really looking forward to seeing her again. (Understatement, trying to sound cool. Don’t mind me.)

My family has weekly dinners at my parents’ house, so I took off for that after my highly productive day. I stopped by the hardware store, and shortly thereafter, I arrived at the grand estate of Dr. and Mrs. James Quinlan. The place is massive, and I’ve never liked it.

In elementary school, I had friends over a couple of times. Their first reactions were shock and awe, which turned to negativity and detachment after they finished exploring and returned to their own homes.

I asked Bonnie about it, why they were suddenly less friendly at school and why I never seemed to get invited to their houses much. She explained that the parents likely made disparaging comments about our family out of jealousy and to make sure the kids were happy with their own lot. It was nothing against me personally, she assured me; adults were just very insecure about money and felt a great deal of pressure to be successful. Our house was a symbol of the gulf they saw between themselves and my parents, and therefore they were very vocal in their disapproval to mask their discomfort and feelings of inferiority.

Bonnie was twelve when she told me that. No wonder she became a psychologist.

As an adult with my own place, I didn’t mind returning to the house I’d avoided all through elementary school, junior high, high school, and college. It was no longer my spectacle of a residence, and it was less echoingly huge when Bonnie and her husband, Vince, came, and their two daughters ran all over the house. My mom enjoyed being a doting grandmother, and she’d be getting another beneficiary soon. A third girl was due in February.

I went in the front door, which was bedecked, as it was every winter, with Christmas decorations. It looked very beautiful in the falling snow.

Upon entering, I was immediately assailed by Leah and Aubrey, my nieces, who had been demanding my attention for six and four years, respectively (but not necessarily respectfully). Bonnie had honored me with both of their middle names: Brooke for Leah and Olivia for Aubrey (my middle name is Oliver), so I think that was payment for my role as trampoline, horse, evil magician, and various other bit parts. It was Aubrey who resembled Bonnie and me more. We all have dark brown hair and hazel eyes but could not get tan if our lives were in jeopardy. It’s an odd combination of characteristics. Leah took after Vince, who was a college quarterback and looked the part with sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

After I’d agreed to join them in a game of hide-and-go-seek later, Leah and Aubrey darted off again, and I followed the sound of voices.

The fire was going, and the enormous tree was lit, so the scene was like something out of a Christmas special. ’Twas the season to be jolly. Or smitten. Or a dangerous combination of the two.

Bonnie and Vince were on one couch, each with a mug of hot chocolate, while my mom was standing by another, holding a mug out to me. I saw you pull up, she explained, hugging me before handing it off to me.

Thank you! I leaned over to kiss Bonnie’s cheek and shake Vince’s hand (men are weird), and then I sat down in a big armchair.

How are you? How do you feel? I asked Bonnie.

She sighed dramatically and looked down at herself in her large red sweater. Fat. But festive!

It’s a fantastic time to be ‘great with child,’ I remarked, taking a drink.

"Your head is going to be great with lumps if you say that again," Bonnie threatened fiercely, but her twinkling eyes gave her away.

"How are you?" my mom asked.

The smile I’d been trying to control broke free. Funny you should ask, I said.

Vince and Bonnie stared at me, then exchanged a glance. It’s not like I’m usually a sullen brat, but neither do I make it a habit to go around beaming foolishly, my face hurting from the strain.

Well? my mom prompted, looking just as surprised as Bonnie and Vince.

I met someone, I announced.

Everyone’s eyes grew, and if I hadn’t been so happy, I would have been insulted.

Who? my mom demanded in a higher pitch than usual. Where?

What, when, why, and how? Let’s cover all the bases, Mom, Bonnie interjected.

Her name is Marie Wilson. We met at Benson’s, and then I took her out to dinner. She’s a physics teacher. Her face filled my head as I responded. She was … great. It was a lame statement but all I could manage. I couldn’t explain in my own head, much less aloud, exactly what had happened … how much I’d liked her.

They all smiled. That’s wonderful, Brooks! my mom said.

At that moment, I heard footsteps far too loud for Leah or Aubrey, and my mood sank slightly as my mom said, When are you going to see her again? When can we meet her? Then her eyes widened, and she trilled, She could help us decorate cookies on Thursday!

I could have sworn the room got a few degrees colder as the footsteps entered and I answered, I have tomorrow off too, so I thought I’d call her later tonight. But I just met her, Mom. I don’t want to scare her with family yet.

Rude. Bonnie sniffed, but I caught her grin before the good doctor chimed in.

How nice it must be to have so much time off from work. I’m sure Vince shares in my envy at your leisurely schedule.

Vince is a hotel manager. The good doctor loves managers.

I sipped my hot chocolate. "Your dedication to your golf game is certainly commendable. At least you get some free time to drop in at the hospital."

Silence fell before he came around the couches. He smiled at Vince, kissed Bonnie and my mom, and sat beside her before addressing me (or, at least, the universe in the direction of me) again. Brooks, he said flatly, as though beginning to read a dictionary entry. But maybe with less warmth.

Sire, I returned, bowing slightly.

To be honest, I was not positive exactly what my dad’s problem with me was. For as long as I could remember, he’d been disappointed in me, and he let me know it. My mom once tried to say he didn’t think I was serious about anything, but that was a blatant lie. And it wasn’t just the doctor thing, because he didn’t like me even before I’d told him with utter certainty that I’d never be a doctor. So, whatever.

With a fine effort to turn the conversation into a friendly affair, Bonnie said, A girl in a bookstore. The dream fulfilled.

I beamed. Seriously. I opened my mouth wide and stretched, moving my jaw from side to side. The happiness had some uncomfortable side effects.

Then Leah and Aubrey came bounding in for hot chocolate, and when they had finished, they dragged Vince and me off to play an epic game of hide-and-go-seek/tag of their own invention, with wildly complicated rules that basically boiled down to boys can’t win.

We ate the delicious dinner Bonnie made, and then everyone begged me to get my guitar so we could sing Christmas carols by the tree. As I played and sang along with my family, I thought constantly about Marie. I wondered what she was doing, who she was with, and whether her thoughts ever strayed to me. I wondered if she also felt, already, that there was something between us.

As nice as it was to be at the weekly family dinner, I could hardly wait to leave and talk to Marie about the next day.

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CHAPTER 2

I didn’t want to call too late, but neither did I want to call creepily soon after our lunch. Eventually, my impatience won out over any qualms I had, and I called at 8:53. A rule of my mom’s is that you shouldn’t call anyone before 9:00 in the morning or after 9:00 at night unless you are absolutely positive you won’t be waking him or her. I was cutting it close, regarding that particular gem of etiquette, but I was still in the clear. HOO-rah, baby.

To my immense delight, she answered on the fourth ring and did not sound annoyed, wary, or foggy from having been awoken.

Hi, Brooks, she said in a friendly tone.

Hey, how are you?"

I’m fine. You?

Yep, me too. Did you have a nice day?

Yes, she replied. I was at Kurt’s house helping him write the final exam.

Kurt. I figured I’d better find out what sort of threat he posed to my designs of getting to know his protégé much better. You two must be close. I gripped the phone tightly as I waited for her response.

We are. He’s an incredible person. My heart sank. He and his wife have been so wonderful to me. My heart regained buoyancy so rapidly that it broke the proverbial surface and rocketed into space.

I’m glad you have him then. And it was true! Good for me. And I had a sudden extreme fondness for Kurt’s wife. How pleased I was by her existence.

I am too.

Well, since I’d cleared that up, I could proceed with my magnificent plan. I was wondering if you are free at all tomorrow.

Yes, I am, after church.

Could I come get you around eleven? I’ve got a little adventure in mind. I glanced out the window. It had finally stopped snowing, but I’d listened to the weather forecast after leaving my parents’ house, and there were light flurries expected from 10:00 the following morning on through the evening. It would be perfect.

An adventure? Should I wear my bush jacket and pith helmet? Will I need my machete?

I snickered at the mental picture. I think snow boots and a coat should do it. I promise to bring you back in one piece.

Well, if you do, how about I cook for us after?

Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, haaaaa-lleeeeeeee-luuuuuuuuu-jaaaaaaaaaah! Sounds great. I sure can play it cool. And in the interest of not overwhelming her, I decided to refrain from relaying my mom’s invitation just yet. I’d see how the first planned date went before getting my family involved.

I was especially worried since her parents had died. I didn’t want to throw my close family (with the notable exception of the doctor, I mean) in her face. Also, I could only imagine how my mom and Bonnie would react to the revelation of how alone she was. They would positively adore her anyway, I could already tell, but add in her sadness, and they would both want to adopt her. Actually, my dad would probably endeavor to find out if there was a quick, easy way to disown me and claim her with a single verbose legal document.

She gave me her address and said, I’ll see you tomorrow then.

All right. Sleep well.

I did not sleep well. The hours could not pass quickly enough. I kept thinking about my day. It seemed incredible that everything could feel so different, so suddenly. I couldn’t pinpoint what separated this from my previous dating experiences, but I could already tell it was something else.

I wanted to conk out to make the night be over, but my mind contrarily kept racing, and I could not turn it off. I kept getting up and doing random things to distract myself, like looking through my high school yearbooks (Your a stud!!! (sic). … Don’t ever change! … 2 cute 2 b 4gotten), cleaning the kitchen, and doing sit-ups.

After my fifth set of reps, I stumbled back to bed and managed to drift off for a few hours.

I spent the morning shoveling my driveway. The snow was heavy and deep, so it took a long time. But not long enough. Since it still wasn’t time to go, I shoveled both of my neighbors’ driveways, the sidewalks, and the driveway of the house across from mine. I was just about to do the houses flanking that one when my phone rang.

I was terrified it would be Marie canceling, so I was exceptionally relieved to see Bonnie’s name on the screen. Hi, I gasped.

There was a pause. My panting was the only sound. "What are you doing?"

Shoveling.

You sound like you’ve been at it for hours.

I took the phone away from my ear to see the clock. Yeah, just about three.

Maybe I should get you a snow blower.

I have one.

Silence again. I wiped some sweat from my forehead. A shower was definitely in order before I left.

All right, Bonnie finally said.

I smirked at her tone.

Well, I just wanted to ask whether you’ve got your hot date today.

Hot. Man, I was hot. I unzipped my jacket as I headed back to my house. Yeah, I’m picking her up at eleven.

An hour and a half. Do you think you’ll manage to get your heart rate down by then?

I hope so.

She laughed. Okay, good. Hold on. Her tone was exasperated. "No, you cannot wear your Easter sandals to church. There is a foot of snow on the ground."

Eighteen inches, easy, I corrected her.

You’d know, she returned. How much will you hate it if I’m a prying sister and press you for all the details later?

Oh, tons. It’ll scar me. I may need to ask you for a referral to one of your colleagues.

Way ahead of you. I’ve had one in mind for years. Call me later.

Yeah, yeah. But I smiled. It was nice not to be alone in my happiness. The insanity was my problem and no one else’s, but happiness is best when shared.

I took a shower and got dressed, then paced up and down the entryway for ten minutes before I allowed myself to leave. Better to be early than late, and who knew what the traffic would be like. Ha. Traffic on a Sunday morning. I was so full of it.

As forecast, light flurries had started up again. I drove carefully, which had the dual benefit of being safer and making me less embarrassingly early.

It turned out that my worry was needless. She was already outside when I got there, sitting on a low rock wall and looking up at the drifting flakes.

She heard my car, I guess, and met my eyes with a shy smile.

I parked near her and got out. Hi, I said. I took a deep breath and realized how shallowly I’d been breathing all morning. Apparently, my health was at risk. Somehow, I didn’t care.

Hi. She was wearing the black parka again and a sky-blue scarf that matched her eyes perfectly.

I opened the passenger door for her.

She hesitated. Do I need my passport? she teased, but she climbed in.

I patted my (empty) pocket. I’ve got all the necessary documents, I assured her.

Fantastic.

I drove us to a park a mile away. There was a little playground, and some trees dotted the expanse, but there was also a huge stretch of wide-open ground devoid of rocks, plants, ditches, and, as I’d hoped, other people.

Apropos of the short drive, I suppose, she observed in a lighthearted tone, "Adventure really does lie at your doorstep. Or at mine anyway."

Don’t worry, I said with feigned solemnity as we climbed out of the car. You’re safe with me.

She stopped and gazed at me. With a depth of feeling beyond what I would have expected, she said, I believe you.

I looked into her eyes for a minute, saying nothing. A small smile crossed her lips before she turned to face the park again. I copied her.

Ready? I asked as we stood side by side with the open, untouched, snowy field before us.

Yes, she said, her tone tinged with curiosity. Admittedly, my plan wasn’t anything grandiose. Most people would likely find it pointless and childish, but I had a feeling she would enjoy it. I hoped I was right.

Okay. Close your eyes.

She glanced at me quickly and then obeyed.

Now let’s walk.

She laughed but not in a what-is-wrong-with-you-and-your-hick-idea-of-fun way. In that quiet so peculiar to snowy days, I heard her take a step. My eyes closed as well, I started moving forward, my arms stretched out slightly for balance. I felt tiny flakes on my face every few seconds, and I could hear my own steps, but that was about it. It’s amazing that even having seen that there was nothing in our way for yards upon yards, it was still not enough to make me brave enough to run forward.

She laughed again, and I opened my eyes. I turned to look at her, and she seemed to sense my gaze. She opened her eyes too, looked at me, and then behind us. We’d come all of twenty feet from where we started.

She came up to me and, in a move that took me by surprise, grabbed my gloved hand with her own. Let’s run, she said, her eyes sparkling.

Okay, obviously she was brave enough to run.

We closed our eyes and went forward at as much of a run as we could manage in the deep snow and our bulky getups. We were both laughing as we stumbled along, falling gently once. I no longer cared if I hit a tree.

I stopped after a minute or so, and she stopped when she felt me pause. Our eyes open once again, we turned around. The two sets of footprints were the only marks in the sea of white. We were completely alone, and it was completely fine with me.

We walked the rest of the way to the playground without ever acknowledging aloud that it was our destination. The sky was soft over us. The snow-covered evergreens and the bare branches of aspens and cottonwoods were dark and stubbornly crooked despite the snow that had smoothed all other edges.

Do you like swings? I asked, pointing ahead.

I love them. She started running again, pulling me with her to the two swings. She brushed the snow from both of them and sat in one while I squashed myself into the second.

I’m a little big, I reported.

She gave me an appraising look. I was at an awkward angle so I could fit my shoulders between the chains, and my knees were practically touching my chest. A little, she said airily. She pushed off the ground and started to swing through the still-swirling snow. Swinging was really out of the question for someone as tall as me, but I didn’t mind. I was happy to sit there and take in the wintery view. She looked so content. I couldn’t help but feel warm despite the weather.

She looked my way every few seconds, troubled that I couldn’t swing too. I waved my hand. Enjoy yourself, I urged her.

After a few minutes, she stopped pumping her legs and just let momentum carry her back and forth. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

When the swing came to rest, her eyelids opened, and she turned to me. I’m sorry you’re too tall to swing, she said softly. It was the same as her tone when I told her that my name was never offered on little factory-made knickknacks. She was truly sorry that I couldn’t experience the same happiness she’d just felt, on a swing like a kid again.

I wanted to ease her guilt. I’m just glad you liked it.

I did.

She rose to her feet and stood before me, offering her hands to help me up. My hands covered hers completely. We stood there, not speaking, just searching each other’s eyes. I wanted to brush her hair with my fingers, but the gloves were not ideal. Besides, at that moment, she shivered.

Come on, I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She leaned into me, and together we made our way to my car.

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When we got back to her apartment, she asked, Hungry? I did promise to feed you.

Starving. I grinned.

She led me up the stairs to her apartment on the third floor. Are you strongly opposed to a breakfast food? It’s seems right for the weather.

It’s fine with me.

She opened the door, and we stepped inside. As we removed our coats and boots, I looked all around. It was very open and light, exceptionally clean and organized. The big windows faced several snowy ponds and large trees.

There was a big, forest-green couch along one wall, with two matching green-and-blue chairs opposite. A large painting of a rocky shore with crashing waves hung above the couch. Bookcases, three in all, were the other main pieces, apart from a glass coffee table on which she had put up a small Christmas tree.

There was a wooden nativity scene on one shelf of the largest bookcase, and she had placed various other Christmas candles and decorations around.

She took my coat from me and hung it on a hook behind the door. Well, she said, this is home.

Her tone betrayed a hint of sadness, the cause of which eluded me. Maybe she was thinking of her parents. I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking her more about it, but I wondered how long it had been since they’d died and what the circumstances had been. It wasn’t entirely morbid curiosity; I figured that if I knew a little more, I could steer clear of situations or comments that would remind her of it.

I saw the snow globe from Benson’s on a shelf with a red and gold candle. Nice, I said, pointing.

Yes, I thought so, she agreed with a laugh. So … She stepped away from the door, and I followed. The kitchen was attached to a little dining room with a wooden pub table. Make yourself at home. It’ll be about fifteen minutes.

Okay.

Do you want something to drink in the meantime?

I’m fine, I assured her. She nodded and started opening cupboards and assembling different ingredients and utensils. I looked more closely at the sea painting and then perused her bookshelves.

The largest contained a huge selection of fiction books. I read the titles, nodding when I recognized any of my favorites. "I really liked To Kill a Mockingbird," I said, running my finger down the spine.

She came out of the kitchen, holding a big mixing bowl and spoon. Oh, me too. I read it for the first time when it was required for my seventh-grade English class, but I’ve reread it probably yearly ever since. She stepped out of sight again.

Despite my love of books, there were tons of stories in her collection that I had never even heard of. It amazes me just how many books there are in the world. John Milton read every book ever published in his time. He went blind doing it, and his daughter had to read him the rest. His feat would be absolutely impossible now.

How do you feel about raisins? she asked, breaking into my thoughts.

I like them.

The smallest bookcase had various history, art, and travel books, while the third was full of physics and math textbooks, along with other scientific tomes that didn’t look like they were from school. There seemed to be a lot that concerned relativity, quantum mechanics, and fractals. I’d heard of those subjects but really had no idea what they entailed.

What are fractals? I asked.

Oh no! That’s a dangerous topic to ask me about. I’ll go on and on.

I went to the kitchen and leaned against the wall. The air was laced with cinnamon and a lot of other scents I couldn’t identify. I’m not much of a cook. I’d love to hear it. That smells incredible.

She shot me a smile, then poured some batter into a waffle iron. You’re asking for it, she warned me. When I didn’t bolt in fear, she launched into an explanation with enthusiasm. Basically, fractals are infinite patterns.

Infinite and basic weren’t compatible concepts in my mind, but I waited for her to keep going.

If you zoom in farther and farther, the pattern keeps going, and looking like the original, on smaller and smaller scales. That’s called self-similarity. The other characteristics need long mathematical lectures, so I’ll spare you. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, and she drew a triangle with all three sides the same length. She stirred something on the stove, then paused to erase the middle third of each side of the triangle and used the empty spaces as the bases for three more equilateral triangles, making a little triangle on each side of the big one. She repeated the process on each of those little lines, and suddenly, it was difficult to pick out the original triangle.

It looks like a snowflake!

She nodded and set the pencil down. She opened the waffle iron and placed the waffle on a plate before adding batter again. Exactly. Snowflakes are fractals. That algorithm I just did makes the Koch snowflake. Perfect fractals are only possible with computers, but approximations of fractals are all over. Snowflakes, rivers, leaves, trees, lightning. It’s really amazing.

It sounds like it.

I’ll show you pictures sometime. They are so beautiful. Especially the Mandelbrot.

She said the name as an art lover might say Monet. Her face was alight with wonder and joy. Then she rolled her eyes in a self-deprecating way. I’ll stop before you become even more convinced that I’m out of my mind.

Shaking my head, I looked at her quite seriously. It’s really interesting. Way over my head but fascinating.

After a few minutes, she took out the second waffle and put batter in the iron one more time. She unplugged it and carried the two plates to the table. Then she poured whatever was on the stove into a small pitcher and got two knives and forks, napkins, and margarine.

I’m glad you don’t mind hearing about it. I’m always happy to spread the joy, if people can stand it. She indicated that I should sit down.

So, what exactly is this culinary masterpiece? I asked, inhaling deeply. The smell had my mouth watering.

Gingerbread waffles with vanilla raisin syrup.

The only waffles I’ve ever had were Eggo. These look unbelievably good.

She smiled as she offered me the margarine, then drizzled syrup over my waffle and hers.

I took a bite.

Oh. Wow.

I took several more bites in quick succession. It was absolutely the best thing I’d ever eaten. The waffle did taste a lot like gingerbread—spicy and somehow warm in a way that had nothing to do with actual temperature. The syrup reminded me of the white icing lots of gingerbread cookies have, and the raisins had soaked up some of the liquid and were like vanilla/maple Gushers. Man, I love Gushers.

Suddenly I realized that I was acting like a pig. My eyes darted from my plate to her face, expecting to see disapproval at the very least. But she was smiling at me … fondly. Amused and like she thought it was … cute. What?

I’d take it.

With considerable effort, I put down my fork and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Words fail me.

Her lips curled. I noticed that when she was trying not to smile, the left side of her mouth curved up before the right side, giving her away. Then keep eating, she suggested as she took a bite herself.

I obeyed immediately but managed to have a modicum more manners this time. My nieces would flip for these.

I’ll give you the recipe.

Whose is it?

Um, mine. She blushed at the intensity of my gaze (and, like, maybe I theatrically did a jaw-drop thing …) and looked down.

Don’t tell Paula Dean. She’d hire a hit man to take you down. Eliminate the competition. Except really, I doubt there could be any real competition for these.

She looked very uncomfortable at my praise, so I changed the subject. My having the recipe wouldn’t do them any good. I don’t cook much.

What about your mom and sister? After my Eggo comment, she probably saw how it was but didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

"Bonnie doesn’t really do desserts and that sort