Snow had been casting a spell on him since the day in his childhood when a storm blew into Chicago and closed the schools for a week. That blizzard swept a roaring metropolis back in time to a quieter age. All modern modes of transportation stalled, leaving everyone to trudge from here to there on foot, dressed in heavy coats, bright scarves, and ski caps, gazing at the glittering wonderland and commenting how amazing it all was. Nature had granted furlough from schools, jobs, and all the other dreary obligations that can crush adults and children alike beneath the weight of relentless responsibility.
He’d longed for a repeat of that magical blizzard through every subsequent winter. Sadly, perhaps because older eyes see less magic, he never enjoyed another storm quite like it. Still, each snowfall he witnessed always did bring a thrill.
The squall bellowed with gusts so strong the weather-stripping at his windows hummed in musical accompaniment to the swirling madness outside. He stared at the scene until there was little left to see. A nearby line of trees became chalky, then vanished altogether. Closer in, a speed limit sign faded away. Even his hood ornament blurred and disappeared behind the veil of white.
Brewster had never seen one of these Lake Ontario squalls before, but the fury he witnessed was no great surprise. As a boy, he’d read every newspaper and magazine account of blizzards he could lay his hands on and learned that lake-effect storms tended to be the most impressive of the lot, particularly east of Lake Ontario where the rise of Tug Hill can strengthen a snowfall’s intensity. Four inches or more could accumulate in as little as a half hour, three feet in a day. That was no urban legend, but word didn’t get around much about the magnitude of these storms. South and east of Watertown, where the fiercest blizzards raged, the population was too scarce to capture the attention of network news—just a scattering of hamlets whose citizens took nature’s wild winter displays in stride.
And whose citizens probably stayed off the roads when newspaper headlines screamed warnings about incoming storms. Citizens hiding from the butterflies. What better scene if the puppet master didn’t want him to be noticed?
Snow flew at the car from all directions. The relentless, thick fog of giant flakes danced, tumbled, and skidded across the hood, refusing to cling except where his motionless wiper blades formed a windbreak and built two miniature drifts. Similar buildups whitened the weather-stripping of his side windows. He switched the ignition back on to warm the car. Good for the moment, but suppose he ran out of gas and the blizzard buried his car in a drift? He’d read accounts of people stuck in their cars for days. But just as he shivered from the realization a little too much snow might not be a good thing, the storm abated.
Shadows of the tree line reappeared. Perhaps the squall had contracted into itself like a roiling sea, gathering for the next wave. Yet for now, a hint of sun peeked through the clouds off to the left, still shaded enough for him to stare right at it. He did for a long moment, then glanced in his rearview mirror and discovered an amazing sight.
Someone had parked no more than sixty feet behind him—just a pitcher’s distance to home plate—and gotten out of their vehicle in the height of the storm. The heavy snow had apparently hidden the woman from view initially, but the squall had diminished enough to lift the curtain and reveal her, twirling beside her car with arms outstretched and head lifted. She danced like a ballerina. Or a pagan in the midst of a mating ritual. A mystic summoning spirits. The wind lifted her snow-covered hair and splayed it in all directions.
She shadowed and disappeared behind one last heavy burst of snow before coming back clearer as the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld.
Carla.
He scrambled out of his car, slipped on two inches of snow that had fallen in ten minutes flat, and nearly went sprawling. He steadied himself, took in the clean smell of winter, then exhaled a cloud of breath back into the brittle silence. His shoes got wet and his feet turned instantly cold. He rushed toward her, but she kept on circling as if in a trance. She looked gorgeous as ever, although dressed in an ordinary outfit for the first time since he’d met her—jeans and a peacoat, blasted white and showing only hints here and there of the darker colors beneath. The squall had transformed her into a snow angel.
He took in her flushed cheeks, solemn eyes gazing upward, and the expression of rapture on her face and decided she qualified for automatic beatification. “Carla!”
His voice must have broken the spell. The world’s widest smile spread from her lips to her eyes. “Brewster?”
With heart thumping in his ears, he wrapped his arms around her, sending fluffy snow airborne from her coat and hair. As it settled, he could almost hear the chiming tinkle of fairy dust. “You must be freezing!” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m celebrating the first blizzard of the season.” Her soft, breathless voice warmed his ear.
“You’re celebrating—”
“Hold on.” She pushed back a step. “What are you doing here, Brewster?”
“Dreaming?”
She stared at him long and hard.
He could have told her trying to figure things out would be fruitless.
But eventually…first with a twitch of her lips, then a renewed smile, and finally a mistiness in her eyes, she came up with an answer. “Oh, you beautiful
