I woke to find that a couple inches of new snow had fallen and the air temperature was six degrees. Since I hate summer so much, I try not to complain about winter but this kind of cold and every-other-day snow is getting old.
I went straight from bed into double layers -- leggings under jeans, long sleeves under a t-shirt and two pairs of socks. I’d have worn more socks if the snow boots with good traction were roomier. The coat I wear for shoveling adds two sizes to my frame but is warm enough to protect against this cold, and a fleece slip-over hood adds extra protection from wind. I layered gloves, too, but my fingertips went ice cold within minutes, then went numb. I kept reminding myself the cold meant a dry, light snow, which is so much easier to throw. Still, the internal monologue I maintained throughout was expletive rich. Forty minutes after I walked out the front door, where I began, I walked through the back door, finished.
On the way to the bedroom to change into comforting fleece, I passed the phone charger and saw I’d received a text. It was from Blaine saying he and Paul were going to come by and blow the snow. That is going above and beyond the level of our...whatever it is. Not exactly friendship, not in the strictest sense, and not a relationship yet. Anyway, the offer had a warming effect, partly from its kindness and partly from sudden panic that they would show up and find me with combo bed head and static head from the fleece hood, no makeup, unshowered and dressed like a seven-year-old about to camp out in front of the television to eat a bowl of cereal and watch cartoons. I called Blaine to be sure I’d catch him, and I let him know I’d already finished. He was at Paul’s. They were about to load the new electric snowblower that Eve bought last week while Paul was working out of town. I sensed Paul felt about the snowblower as she had felt about his loft barricade: a huge mistake.
“Fill me in tonight?” I asked Blaine.
“I will do that. Looking forward to it.”
“Hey, do you like white chocolate, coconut and pecans?”
“Yes,” he sounded intrigued. “Is this going to be dessert?”
“It is.”
“Can’t wait. Come early if you want.” There was a pause. “Come now if you want.” I kind of did. Again, though, bed head and static hair wasn’t the look I planned to go for. We agreed to move the arrival time up an hour.
When we had talked earlier this week, Blaine invited me to his house for dinner. “Nothing fancy,” he said. “I’ll grill steaks.” How that was going to work in this cold, I didn’t know but men understand the relationship between meat and open flame better than I, so I didn’t question it. I offered to bring dessert.
The only from scratch dessert I make well is a dense, not overly sweet three layer white chocolate, coconut, pecan cake. It’s time consuming to put together so I rarely make it, but I felt like showing off. By mid afternoon it was baked, cooled, frosted, adorned with toasted coconut and pecans and on a cake plate, ready to go into the carrier. I was ready a couple of hours later.
Blaine and I live off the same arterial street but are separated by several miles and a tax bracket or two. His directions said to go to the last street in the city and turn right. At the last street within the city limits there’s a street light; beyond, darkness. Maybe dragons too. Certainly, cranky racoons.
He lives in a pretty brick townhouse on a golf course. I don’t think I audibly gasped when he opened the door to me and I stepped inside, but I felt it when I saw that the entire back of the house is windows. The light of the day was weakening but with the lights dimmed in the living room and the landscaping lights on the golf course reflecting off the snow I could see enough to be impressed. I live in a 1920s bungalow in an old, crowded neighborhood. My view is of houses. I miss seeing sky when I look outside, something I had growing up.
While Blaine was hanging up my coat, I took in the rest of the open floor plan. The entrance flowed into the living room, which flowed into the dining room, and a breakfast bar kept the kitchen both open and isolated. I love houses, love seeing interior layouts so for a few moments I indulged in the details -- high tray ceilings, wood and wrought iron railing leading to the basement, and built-in bookcases on one side of the fireplace.
The fireplace was on. Above it on the mantle were a row of mixed-height flameless wax candles, all flickering. He’s full of surprises, this one, I thought.
He prepared drinks for us, and we went to the couch in the living room. We sat facing the fireplace. The flickering candle “flames” reflected off the black screen of the television mounted above the mantle. “Those candles are very pretty,” I said.
“My daughter’s idea. I wasn’t sure about having a bunch of candles. She told me they came with a ‘manly remote control’ so…”
“They are the manliest candles I’ve ever seen,” I confirmed.
“Thank you. I am feeling more virile lately.” Before I could laugh, I felt embarrassment start to radiate off him. “That wasn’t--. I didn’t mean--.”
I bumped his shoulder to interrupt him. “That’s a very manly blush you have going on there.”
Gruffly, he said, “I don’t blush.” He rubbed his hands over his face.
I offered him my glass of Diet Coke and Bacardi Black. “Do you need this?” He took the glass and a healthy swallow, then winked at me. Playful Blaine was back.
I would have liked to be inside his head during that.
Over an excellent dinner, Blaine told me Paul thought Eve was crazy for buying a battery operated snowblower, but he was impressed that she had put it together on her own. It handled this light, small amount of snow OK.
While we were cleaning up afterward, I was suddenly struck by where I was and who I was with and how comfortable it was. How had I ended up here? I tried to remember what my first impression of Blaine had been. I remember I had become flustered when I arrived at the restaurant bar and found more people than Eve and Paul, and when Blaine and I were introduced and I realized this was the guy Eve was wanting to set me up with, I went quiet and self-conscious. A short time later, though, I remember thinking This will be OK. He’s one of the good ones. I certainly never thought I would go out with him even once. It absolutely never entered my mind that two months later, on impulse, I would walk up to him in his kitchen, go up onto my tiptoes, slip my arms around his neck and kiss him, or that his response would be as welcoming and enthusiastic as it was.
In more ways than one I got here by going to the edge of darkness and turning right.
