Julia

The fifty chapters herein were written in fifty consecutive days, beginning on May 25, 2017.

It’s Monday night, and it’s late. I’m stranded in the JetBlue terminal at JFK and wishing I was home. I missed the 11:16 pm flight to Burlington. Next flight out is 8:30 am tomorrow. A nearby hotel room seems like a logical plan, except that everything I’d want to have with me is in my checked bag. I’ll sit it out instead.

There’s only one person in sight, the guy who tests the shrieking door alarms at each gate—yet another reason to travel with noise-cancelling headphones. Squadrons of song birds bolt up and down the concourse, emboldened by the scarcity of humans. The birds act like they own the place. I can’t help but wonder if they’re showing off for the really big birds parked outside.

Stephen P. Kiernan’s new novel, The Baker’s Secret, beckons from my briefcase. I’m already 200 pages in. The question is, will the story continue to compel me enough to stay awake? The cast of characters has already etched in my mind. So I dive into the silence of my headphones and open to the next page. Within a few paragraphs, I’m back in northern France, in a German-occupied village. Lives are hanging by threads, making my travel predicament seem trivial.

A few hours later the story reaches its apex and tears stream down my cheeks. Travelers arrive, and the birds retreat to their hiding places. I turn to the last page just as my flight begins to board.

Not such a bad way to spend the night, after all.

Wednesday. My feet are back on the ground in Burlington after the all-nighter at JFK. I spent most of Tuesday sleeping it off. Now I can settle back into my routine, beginning with my morning exercises, then I’m off to coffee.

I’m walking across the Starbucks parking lot when I first notice it: a little twinge of pain in my chest, left of center, not a wincing pain, but enough to get my attention. Lasts about a second. I’ve had these little twinges for years. My doctor hasn’t been able to explain them. Typically, I’d get a few of these in the span of a few minutes. After that, I might not experience them again for weeks or even months.

But this time is different. The twinges are coming every three to five minutes, and they’ve continued right through the morning. My doctor had told me years ago, “What ever this is, it’s nothing to worry about.” I’m replaying that line in my head like a broken record.

The temperature is 75-degrees and the skies are clear. I’m just itching to get out on my road bike. Conditions like this don’t come around very often. But the twinges have been there for hours now. I decide to do a little experiment. I put on my shorts and sneakers and head out for a 20-minute power walk, just to see whether some mild exercise has any effect.

The twinges become less frequent, so I decide that a bike ride is warranted. I head out around 5 pm. A few miles into the ride, the twinges are gone, but there’s something else now: I’m feeling a tightness in my chest. Forty minutes later, I get out of the shower, and the tightness is still there. I weigh my options. The dinner hour has arrived, and I really don’t want to go to the Emergency Room on an empty stomach. From experience, I know that a visit to the ER for anything heart-related can take hours, even if there’s nothing wrong.

Now the tightness is accompanied by some pain. What if this is something serious? The Emergency Room now seems inevitable. I grab an overnight bag and pack some essentials: toiletries, a change of clothes, cell phone charger. I resist calling 911. I don’t want to freak out the neighbors with an ambulance. I can certainly drive a car. The pain is staying at a constant low level, not alarming, but it’s still there. I place a tiny bottle of nitroglycerin pills into my pocket. Better safe than sorry.

I drive gingerly up Spear Street, toward the hospital. I’m thinking about the ramifications of being kept overnight and possibly making a visit to the catheter lab. Should I call one of my kids? As I approach the traffic light at Main Street, I notice that the pain and tightness has subsided. I veer into the right lane and turn toward the Interstate. The ER can wait. I know exactly where I want to go: to my last supper.

The parking lot at Pauline’s Café is peaceful tonight. The tightness in my chest is barely noticeable. Peter, another Pauline’s regular, is eating by himself. I ask if he’d like some company. A man in his eighties, Peter has a remarkable memory. He knows the names of every employee at the restaurant. Peter tells me that I have a knack for storytelling, and that I should be writing them down. He says I’m just getting started. When I leave the restaurant, I’m thinking about what he said.

On the way home, the chest tightness and pain returns. I get onto Spear Street again and drive straight to the ER. A nurse greets me at the front desk. I utter the words “chest pain” and get pushed to the top of the triage list. A few moments later I’m in a resuscitation room. They wire me for an EKG and install an IV line. A monitor on the wall is tracking my heart rate & rhythm. A nurse takes a blood sample and sends it off to the lab. Then time slows down.

Through the curtain I can hear a patient discussing his health history, and it’s much more serious than mine. From his voice, he sounds one-third my age, maybe younger. I can’t see him, but he says he has a weight problem along with a myriad of internal issues. Sad to think about it, to have so many health problems at such an early age. Eventually, he’s allowed to leave. All I can see is the extra-wide wheelchair they bring for him.

A kind doctor comes by to discuss my symptoms and my blood test results. She says there’s nothing obvious. She wants to order a second blood test, just to be sure. It’s getting late, and I’m getting tired. The bed is comfortable, but every time I begin to doze, the low heart rate alarm begins to ring. 37-beats-per-minute. I hear that Lance Armstrong’s resting heart rate is 32. That’s roughly one beat every two seconds. It comes from years of aerobic exercise combined with naturally low blood pressure. The fact that I’m in this category greatly reduces the likelihood of a heart attack.

An hour later, the second blood test results arrive. Negative again. I’m allowed to go home. Now the chest tightness and pain is completely gone.

Thursday morning. I sleep a little later than usual, shower, and get started with my morning exercises. I’ve been doing these exercises for close to twenty years. They were recommended by a physical therapist for a nagging shoulder pain. As soon as I get into the last exercise, bang, there it is. The twinges are back, and so is the chest tightness. I had skipped the exercises for five days while traveling and must have pushed too hard on Wednesday morning. Tugging on the bicycle handlebars only made it worse. The whole thing was just a chest wall irritation and had nothing to do with my heart.

I like to believe there’s purpose in these little excursions of terror and worry, even when they turn out to be nothing. That dinner with Peter, my last supper, may turn out to be a gift.

It’s good to be alive.

Saturday morning. Having solved the chest pain riddle, I decide it’s time to celebrate and get out of Dodge. I grab a couple of bottles of water, unplug the Tesla and point it south. There’s no plan, no destination. I call it Car Ouija. When I nudge myself away from routine, things happen—the unexpected, the unimagined, and the beautiful. I have a hunch that today will be a banner day for all three.

The Interstate feels like velvet. The only sounds are the gentle whir of tires and air caressing the car. Perfect conditions for thinking. I’m trying to understand how I got to this place. It’s been one hurdle after the next. Every time I overcome one of life’s little challenges, another one pops up to replace it. It feels like I’m being tested. My guardian angel must be using all her strength to keep from intervening.

It started in November, 2016. That’s where I’d draw the line. For a lot of us, November 2016 was a reckoning, especially in high places. Out with the old, and in with the … well, you know. For me, there’s an added piece. My 19-year-old son left home for Marine Corps Boot Camp in November. The enormity of his commitment makes my own endeavors seem insignificant. For thirteen weeks, his welfare is the only thing I think about. Communication is limited to letters—no email, no telephone. A candle burns at my house 24-hours-a-day.

At my son’s boot camp graduation in February I finally take a deep breath. The Marine Corps hasn’t turned him into a monster. He’s just a more focused version of himself. His sense of humor is still intact, and so is his kindness. I feel pride that I wasn’t expecting—me, the 1972 draft dodger who arrived at the induction physical looking like a concentration camp victim. But that’s another story.

My son ships out for his next phase of training, and I’m feeling good about it. He makes a fine Marine. I’m ready to take on another challenge. My dentist informs me that one of my root canals has reached the end of its life. I’m beginning to lose bone around the roots of the tooth. It’s time for a dental implant. “No big deal,” he says. “I had one myself recently.”

So I go to a specialist for the first phase: getting the tooth pulled. I explain to the doctor that I’ve built up a resistance to local anesthetic over the years, so he gives me a double-dose. After some serious pulling, the tooth comes out. From here, it should be a walk in the park.

I’m told to expect some pain and swelling for about three days. Indeed, the pain has subsided after two days, but I’m feeling a new soreness in the back of my mouth. It’s getting more and more painful to open my mouth.

At day seven, I can only open my mouth a finger-width. Apparently, I over-extended my jaw during the tooth extraction, resulting in a TMJ injury. TMJ is an acronym for the jaw joint, located just in front of the ear. It’s the most complex joint in the body. “These injuries can be serious,” my dentist informs me. “Most surgical fixes don’t work.”

I contemplate the implications. Eating has already become a different experience. Food has to be scaled to my narrow mouth opening. Serious kissing is out of the question. And then there’s the issue of getting any sort of dental work done in the future. Annual cleanings will be near impossible. And the list goes on.

My dentist knows a physical therapist who specializes in TMJ problems. I start seeing him twice-a-week. The progress is slow. I’m doing various jaw exercises, but some of them result in more swelling and pain. My jaw muscle on one side is stuck in spasm.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. After two months, I am finally out of pain, but I still can’t open my mouth wide enough to eat a banana. I’m coming to grips with the idea that this could be the new normal.

The doctor who pulled the tooth asks me to come by for a followup visit. He suggests that I try a dental laser treatment on my tensed up jaw muscle. I figure I’ve got nothing to lose.

The laser looks pretty serious, with its roll-around console. He slides the laser probe into my half-open mouth and runs the laser beam back and forth across the tense muscle. Within minutes, the muscle relaxes. I’m feeling relief already. After two weeks of laser treatments and PT, my jaw is opening fully again. I’m pleased to learn that my jaw joints never got damaged. It was only a pulled muscle. I dodged another bullet.

I’ve been silently cruising for almost two hours. I’m on a back road in New Hampshire. A late lunch seems like a good idea. I come upon a rambling mom & pop store, looking as though it was cobbled together from several barns. A banner hangs across the front with the welcoming message, Country Buffet.

The buffet consists of a selection of sandwiches and salads in clear plastic boxes. The only item that remotely matches my diet is an asparagus salad: asparagus spears over greens with vinaigrette. The woman asks whether I’d like a small or large salad. Large please, and a bottle of spring water.

I’m eating the salad from the seat of my car and I notice a man standing by the side of the road. He’s got a rumpled grocery bag under his arm. A well-worn suit hangs from his lanky frame. His shoes are covered in dust, but there’s dignity in the way he carries himself. A car approaches. Instead of putting his thumb out, he engages the driver with a pleasant smile. The car slows, but rolls by. A second car does the same thing.

I finish the asparagus salad, swig a few gulps of water and roll out of the parking lot. I pull up next to the man and lower the passenger window. His destination is six miles down the road. He climbs in. To my amazement, he knows my name. We attended the same boarding school. I learn that he went on to college and business school, and ultimately became the president of a bank in Boston.

There we go, I’m thinking. Car Ouija is doing its magic again. Eventually, his life unravelled and he moved to a farm in New Hampshire and changed his name. Nothing illegal. He says he had his priorities wrong and wished he could do it over. I tell him it’s never too late. I stop at a lone mailbox, and he climbs out. He says he was glad to see me again.

The next town is Wolfeboro. There’s a decent looking restaurant on the main drag. I go inside, hang my jacket on a barstool and order a glass of wine. Then I head for the men’s room. I’m amazed at the quality of this restroom. The tile work and fixtures are first class. Looks like an architect was actually involved in it.

The urinal is one of those new fangled waterless models. How the heck do they do that, I’m wondering. I hadn’t peed since the mom & pop store, so this is fortuitous timing. The fragrance of asparagus is loud and clear.

I’m zipping up, and I notice that something feels different. My right pant leg is soaked. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but somehow the clever little drain in the waterless urinal must have deflected a stream of pee back in my direction. I scan the room for the paper towel dispenser. There isn’t one. Instead, it’s just an electric hand dryer, one of those new ones that you put your hands into, rather than under. This is not gonna work.

I’m hours from home, and I haven’t any spare clothes with me. I’m also getting hungry. So I buck up and head for the bar. That’s when I first see her from across the room, one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen in years. She’s sitting on the barstool right next to mine. There’s another couple on the other side of her, but she isn’t interacting with them. She must be alone.

I’m frozen in place, trying to sort this out. The smell of asparagus pee is wafting up from my jeans. I can’t very well grab my jacket and run. The glass of wine I ordered is sitting there. That would make no sense.

I go for broke. I mount the barstool and say to the woman, “You wouldn’t believe what just happened to me.”

“Try me,” she replies.

The sweet irony of my introduction is not lost on Julia, the beautiful woman sitting next to me at a bar in Wolfeboro. It’s not every day that peeing on your pants can be seen as an attribute. She found the whole thing quite amusing, especially the asparagus part.

I tell her a story about my dad, a veteran practical joker. At the 1964 Lockwood eggnog party, my dad slipped into the powder room. There, he found a narrow-spouted watering can with a half-gallon of water in it. Guests mingled shoulder-to-shoulder on the other side of the paper-thin door. With utmost dexterity, he trickled the entire contents of the watering can into the toilet from an altitude of 4-feet. It took forever. Outside the powder room, guests were squirming. Finally the door burst open and my dad exclaimed, “WOW! I NEEDED THAT!” The room exploded in laughter.

The second thing I notice about Julia, after her easy smile, is her hands. They’re the hands of a woman on a mission, beautiful yet capable. Her long fingers hint at her stature, which I’m guessing is well above the New England average. She seems ageless. Whatever the number is, it’s irrelevant.

I ask her if she’s from the area. Sort of, she says. Her family has had a summer place in Wolfeboro for many years. She has a condo in Boston and an apartment in Manhattan. I hesitate to ask what she does for work. I don’t want to get too pushy. Taking a different tack, I ask her if she went to college in Boston. “MIT,” she replies, “for Nuclear Physics.”

“Good God. Will you marry me?” I ask her.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Julia, a PhD physicist, works at a nuclear research laboratory in Boston—not exactly what I thought of when I first saw her. Our conversation moves in six directions at once, ricocheting from subject to subject. Clearly, we have very similar wiring, and similar leanings too. We order dinner, but the conversation never pauses. She’s fascinated by my quest on this day, a journey with no particular destination. “What are your plans for tonight?” she asks.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” I reply.

“You’re more than welcome to stay at our house and use the washing machine.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude. You barely know me.”

“Nonsense. You can have your pick of guest rooms,” she says. “We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” I reply. “Well… You can count on me to be a perfect gentleman.”

The house is startling—a sprawling lakeside villa surrounded by tall pines. We enter through an eight-foot-tall front door, wood as thick as my fist. Once inside, the ceiling quickly rises to twelve feet or more. Generous windows look out over Lake Winnipesaukee.

“Welcome home,” Julia says.

Julia’s family home feels familiar, an echo of my childhood summer home on Lake Placid—the high ceilings, the lake view, and the tall pines. “First things first,” Julia says. “Let’s get you out of those fragrant jeans and put them in the washing machine.” She hands me a silk bathrobe. “You can take the first or second bedroom down the hall. Each one has its own bath. Make yourself at home.”

Julia is indeed tall. Five-foot-eleven I would say. She could get away without heels but wears them anyway. Her stature sets off a wave of endorphins deep inside me. I’m six-foot-four, and I feel a physical kinship with her. Clearly, we are from the same tribe. I feel compelled to put my arms around her, but I don’t, not just yet.

We settle in on the couch with a bottle of wine, and the conversation continues. Julia tells me more about her work, mostly related to medicine. She seems quite casual about it, as if nuclear physics is as ordinary as marketing. I avoid asking her whether she’s been married or has children. I’ll wait for her to bring it up.

Framed photographs of her family cluster at one end of the coffee table. She lifts one frame at a time and introduces me to the various members of her family. “I’ll be testing you on this later,” she says.

There’s one photograph of Julia receiving an award at some sort of formal event. She’s shaking hands with a gentleman festooned in medals and wearing a formal military uniform. “Wait a minute,” I say. “I know that guy.”

“The King of Sweden?” she replies.

“Yes. I actually do. But you, Julia, you won a Nobel Prize?”

“I shared it with two other physicists.”

“Excuse my French, but Holy Crap!”

“How do you know the King of Sweden?” she asks.

“The King and Queen stayed at our home in Lake Placid during the 1980 Winter Olympics.”

“My, you’re full of surprises,” Julia says.

“I think you may have me beat in that department.”

“How did the King and Queen happen to stay with you?”

“It was serendipity.”

In the summer of 1979, six months prior to the 1980 Winter Olympics, my mother received a telephone call from the Swedish Embassy in Washington. They wanted to rent my mother’s parents’ home on the outskirts of Lake Placid for the King and Queen of Sweden to stay in during the Olympics. My mother’s parents had passed away, and the house was just sitting there, fully furnished, with no one in it. But my mother had already promised the house to another family. Sadly, the answer was no.

A few days later, the embassy called back and asked my mother whether she and my father would consider hosting the King and Queen at our house instead. My mother had to think about it for about a millisecond. So we had King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Sylvia staying with us for twelve days. It was a fascinating experience. When their entourage pulled away from our house for the last time, my parents stood by the front door waving them off. Tears streamed down my father’s face. He realized that the apex of his life had just gone by.

Julia and I talk for three hours. The coincidences and similarities between our lives are surprising. It’s beginning to seem like we were bound to meet sooner or later.

“You must be getting tired,” she says, “You’ve had quite a bit of adventure for one day. I’m going to fix you breakfast in the morning, and then we’ll throw our fates to the wind.” After a pause, she says, “I’m so glad I finally met you.” She gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek, and we go our separate ways.

I’m lying in bed, dumbfounded by my good fortune. I’m hesitant to go to sleep because I don’t want to miss anything! I also don’t want to wake up and discover this is all a dream. Julia is beyond beautiful. She’s one of the most extraordinary women I’ve ever met, and we seem to have made a nice connection. My brain is still buzzing from our conversation.

I replay the evening in my mind. One moment in particular stands out. I recall two words Julia said when we first arrived at the house: welcome home. Not welcome to my home, or welcome to our home, but just, welcome home. I don’t mean to read too much into this, but it seems like she may have meant something by it.

I’m awakened by a narrow beam of sunlight piercing the curtain. The clock says 8:05. Outside, the crows chatter. I faintly hear the sound of running water. Julia must be in the shower. I throw on my clothes, including the freshly laundered jeans, leave a note for Julia on the kitchen counter, and step outside the front door. The cool morning air is rich with oxygen.

I hear the sound of someone raking the grass. I step away from the front porch, and there he is: a man in green coveralls. He stops what he’s doing, smiles, and heads in my direction. “Good morning, Mr. Lockwood. I’m Gus, your caretaker. If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“My pleasure as well,” I say reflexively.

Stunned, I step back inside. Julia is preparing breakfast.

“Good morning, handsome. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes, it was lovely … but I just met Gus, and he knew my name.”

“Oh, that. I just like to make sure he knows who’s on the property.”

“But he acted like I own the place,” I say.

Julia just smiles. “Where shall we go today? I want to be your copilot to nowhere in particular.”

Sunday. “First thing we need to do is feed the pilot,” Julia says, referring to me. A lovely coffee aroma fills the kitchen. “It’s my favorite blend,” she says. To my amazement, Julia’s taste in breakfast options perfectly aligns with my own: stone cut oatmeal, dried fruit, walnuts, plain greek yogurt, blueberries, and butterless scrambled eggs.

I take in a long breath and let it out in a satisfied sigh. “This is wonderful,” I say, “but there is just one thing.” I stand closer to Julia and take her hands into mine. “As I see it, either we can kiss right now, or drive each other crazy for the rest of the day.”

“But if we do kiss right now,” Julia replies, “we’ll spend the rest of the day anticipating the next kiss.”

“That actually sounds like the better option. We can always work in a refresher kiss here and there.”

“I can see that,” she says. I feel the heat rising between us.

“There’s also the issue of my arms.”

“What about your arms?” Julia replies, never taking her eyes away from mine.

“They’ve been wanting to hold you ever since we met. I think it’s got something to do with physics.”

“Well, we could initiate a study.”

“Would that be a double-blind study?” I ask.

“I hope not. I prefer to approach things with eyes wide open.”

“My preference exactly.”

Julia pulls my hands around her waist and slides her arms over my shoulders. We’re standing as still as deer. She’s radiating like a furnace.

This kiss isn’t just a kiss. It’s a dance in the negative space surrounding the kiss. Our lips barely touch. We’re communicating. Sending bucketloads of neural data back and forth, validating our compatibility. It feels as though two long-separated tribes have finally reconnected. We hold each other for a minute, tears of joy rolling down our faces.

“Well then, about that breakfast,” I finally say.

“Yes, you never know when you might need some extra energy.”

After getting our fill, we head out the front door. The morning sky is indigo, dotted with cotton clouds. Julia waves to Gus the caretaker, as we approach the Tesla. “Have a great day, Mr. Lockwood,” Gus calls.

“Thanks, Gus.” The Tesla’s door handles pop out to greet us. “Huh. I don’t remember the car being this clean yesterday.”

“That would be Gus,” Julia says.

“That’s amazing.”

We roll through the tall pines out to the main road. “It’s your choice,” Julia says. “Left or right?”

“I’m going to defer to my copilot today.”

Julia reaches into her purse and pulls out a quarter. “Heads we turn left, tails we turn right.” She tosses the coin and catches it. “Heads it is!”

At each fork in the road, we allow the coin-toss to decide our fate. At first, the road follows the lake shore, but eventually we are carried deep into rural New Hampshire, similar to the area I explored on Saturday.

We come upon a young couple standing by the side of the road. They’re wearing small day packs on their backs. “What to do think?” I say, as we approach them.

“Absolutely!” Julia says. I pull up next to them, and Julia lowers her window. “Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular,” the young man replies.

“We just got married, and we’re out seeking adventure,” the girl says.

“Well, this may be your lucky day,” Julia says. “We’re doing the same thing. Care to join us?”

“I don’t think we could pass up a ride in a Tesla,” the young man says. They climb into the back seat, and off we go. His name is Jack and her’s is Caroline. They’re from the Boston suburbs.

After another twenty-five miles and several coin tosses, we find ourselves on a dead end road, but Julia has a hunch about it, so we keep driving. The gently rolling country opens up into a beautiful vista, with a calendar view of the White Mountains. There’s a parking area off to the right, so we pull in. There’s not another car in sight.

“I have a good feeling about this place,” Julia says. “Let’s walk around a little.”

We get out of the car and walk toward a rise in the field ahead. The view is stunning. Julia is the first to reach the top of the rise. She just stands there smiling at us. When I reach the top and look down the other side, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a substantial executive helicopter, parked and waiting.

“Well, what do you know!” Julia says. Jack and Caroline are stunned. We follow Julia down the other side.

“Hi Julia,” the pilot says. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Care to get get behind the controls today?”

“No thanks. I’ll stay aft with my friends.”

The four of us climb aboard, and before we know it, we’re zipping around the summit of Mount Washington, close enough that we can almost reach out and touch it.

After an exhilarating helicopter ride, Julia and I drop off the newlyweds at the next village. “No one will ever believe this!” Caroline says. “Thank you so much for including us.”

“Congratulations to both of you,” Julia says. “You make a beautiful couple.”

Julia and I get back on the road. I have lots of questions for her, but I’m not sure where to begin.

“Julia?”

“Yes.” She stares out the passenger window.

“It’s about those coin tosses.”

“Lots of things are possible in my life,” she says, “I just have to think of them. Meeting you has inspired me.”

“But how did you…?”

“Okay. The helicopter belongs to my family. We also own the land out there where it was parked. It was a little tricky getting you to drive there and to show up on time, but I managed. We were actually running a little bit early, so I had you driving around in circles for a while.”

“You are so wonderful,” I laughed. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“You’re pretty special, yourself,” Julia says. “After sharing stories with you last night, I knew you could handle this.”

“How do you mean?”

“My history with bringing men into my life has not been good. Once men see the way I live, the way my family lives, they have one of two reactions: either they are threatened by my financial position, or they get dollar signs in their eyes.”

“What about men from circumstances similar to yours?”

“In my experience, men from similar situations to mine are boring and predictable. I’m completely uninspired by them. Do I really want to park myself at an exclusive country club all day? That is not my idea of a rewarding life.”

“Well, I’m reasonably sure that I’m not in your league financially, but that’s because I haven’t made wealth a priority in my life, nor did my parents. We were comfortably upper-middle-class. For us, money has been a means to an end, not the end itself.”

“You are a very unique man. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Most people in your situation would be hesitant to stray from the herd. You allow your muse to guide you.”

“My legacy goes back several generations. My mother’s father was the breadwinner. He was raised in Wisconsin with a strong German work ethic. He never finished college, but his entrepreneurial drive brought him great financial success. His success has made it possible for over thirty members of our extended family to go to college and to pursue their dreams thereafter.”

“He sounds like a gifted man,” Julia says.

“And a really nice man, too. He resisted the temptation to meddle in our affairs, even though he wished we’d followed his path more literally. When I was studying photography in college, dreaming of becoming one of the world’s great portrait photographers, he took me aside and told me that he had connections at Leica and could help get me in the door there.”

“So his idea of a photography career was to make cameras,” Julia says.

“Exactly. Bless his heart, he only wanted what was best for me. He couldn’t fathom that someone could make a real living as a photographer, or an artist or writer for that matter. He didn’t move in those circles. It’s ironic. He could have easily afforded to have original Picasso’s and Monet’s in his beautiful homes, but he considered fine art a waste of money.”

“What about your grandmother?”

“She was the Yin to his Yang. She was college educated, raised middle class and was the daughter of a Philadelphia illustrator named Frank Guild. He was a contemporary of N.C. Wyeth, and they knew each other well. Like Wyeth, Frank Guild’s art never crossed over into the fine art world. At the turn of the century, there were artists and there were illustrators. You couldn’t be both. Guild painted many magazine covers in his day. One of his most iconic images is the rabbit portrait he did for the 1903 Easter issue of The Ladies Home Journal.”

“So it sounds like your grandparents were sending conflicting messages to you.”

“In a way, they were, but their marriage was very inspiring. It was a classic case two very different people coming together to create something beautiful and extraordinary. They frequently wrote poems to each other and planned elaborate surprises for one another. Each of them completed the other.”

I glance over and notice that Julia’s eyes have welled up. Something about that last part has struck a chord in her. “It’s such a sweet story,” she says, “when two people from different circumstances fall in love and create something bigger than themselves.”

“One of the odd side-effects of my grandfather’s legacy was the way we disregarded the value of higher education. Both of my parents dropped out of college, as did my older brother and me. I stuck around college for four years because of the military draft, but I went to classes only sporadically. I had more important things to do.”

“Such as?”

“I wanted to get to work. I’d been doing serious portrait photography since I was sixteen. With my grandfather’s help, I had the opportunity to take it to a higher level. But yes, my grandparents’ competing legacies did cause confusion for many years. I knocked myself off my creative path many times, trying to make businesses out of artistic endeavors. Had I simply focused on producing great art, my dream might have been realized.”

“You seem to have a very clear perspective on your life. Most people never never get a handle on it.”

“It’s taken me decades to figure it out. I’ve learned that these two legacies can co-exist. Creating art is a luxury. Most major artists today did receive some sort of help to launch their careers. It might be family money. It might be grant money. It might be support from a patron. The opportunity to create without compromise is a wonderful thing.”

“Yes it is. In my work, too,” Julia says. “For years, I had to fight to be taken seriously, not just because I’m a woman, but because of my family’s wealth. People thought I must have been cheating. She couldn’t be that smart, they said. She’s too rich and too pretty. That put a fire under me and made me work twice as hard.”

“So your Nobel must have been a huge validation for you.”

“Yes, I suppose it was, at least in the minds of the scientific community. I found it kind of funny. I already knew I was doing great work. After that, I made a point of dressing to kill and expressing my femininity. I’m done with validation.”

“That’s fantastic! You must be driving them nuts.”

Julia looks at me with a knowing smile. “But until yesterday, something else was missing.”

She touches my hand again. No more words are necessary. The Tesla glides down the road in whispered silence. I haven’t felt this way in years, that sense of being in perfect sync with your destiny, of everything being right in the world.

“Maybe we should start thinking about lunch,” Julia says.

“Got any ideas?”

“Let’s just drive until we find something. I could use a restroom too.”

The road narrows and follows the edge of a small lake. Cottages dot the shoreline. A man in a canoe casts his fishing line. “Let’s try the next left,” Julia says. The road steepens and winds through an airy forest. Up and up we climb, zigging and zagging, until finally the road levels out.

A lone stone cottage sits in a stand of trees to our right. Julia nods toward the house. “What do you say,” she says. “Let’s roll the dice.” I steer into the driveway. This has got to be another one of her surprises, I’m thinking. We climb out of the Tesla and approach the front door. Wildflowers surround us. Julia clacks the knocker, and the door opens. A weathered man with curly black hair stands before us, round spectacles perched on his nose.

Julia smiles at him. “Hi. We’ve been on the road for a few hours and I wondered whether I might be able to use your bathroom.”

The man gazes at the two of us, then smiles. “Of course you can. I just made some carrot soup and a big salad, if you’d care to join me.”

“That would be lovely!” Julia replies. “I’m Julia, and this is Todd.”

“RJ,” he says, reaching out to shake our hands. “Come on in. Make yourselves at home. Nice to have some company.”

The home is warmly decorated. And I can’t help but noticing—there’s a half-dozen gold and platinum record albums hanging on the wall.

“The bathroom’s right down the hall,” RJ says.

“Thank you so much,” Julia replies.

“Nice place you have here,” I say.

“I don’t get too many visitors up here, but I guess that’s the point. Where abouts are you headed today?”

“Nowhere in particular. We’re letting the fates decide for us.”

“Whoa. Road warriors! I didn’t know there were any left.”

“In the age of virtual everything, I think there might be a road renaissance on the horizon,” I say.

“I’ve been on the road my whole life. Millions of miles. I’ve got a few stopping-off points like this place, but I feel much more natural when I’m moving. I guess I’m more like a fish that way.”

“A fish always know’s which way is up,” I reply.

RJ smiles. “I see from your license plate, you’re from Vermont. Nice place.”

“Yeah, landed there after throwing a dart at a map in seventy-seven. Julia’s from Boston.”

“I could have sworn you two were married.”

“Actually, we just met yesterday.”

“I must have been seeing the future. I have a nasty habit of doing that. It’s got me into a whole lotta trouble over the years.”

“So far, so good,” I say.

“Well, just between you and me, it’s gonna happen,” he says, nodding his head. “Definitely.”

Julia returns from the bathroom and places her hand on my shoulder. “What a lovely spot you have here,” she says.

“My friend Karen deserves most of the credit. She keeps an eye on the place for me. Todd tells me you’re a couple of road warriors. The way you two come off together, I think you could open any door.”

Julia smiles. “That’s very kind. I sense that you’re no stranger to adventure, RJ.”

“It comes in waves, and I try my best to ride them. Sometimes I get bucked off, sometimes I don’t, but like a fool I keep going back for more.”

“I can see it in your eyes,” Julia says, “the wanderlust.”

“Oh, she’s a keeper,” RJ says to me. “How about some soup!”

Julia follows RJ into the kitchen. “Let me help with the salad.”

I’m taking in the details of the living room. The vast library at one end, the beautiful stone fireplace, artifacts from who-knows-where, the cozy patterned furniture, and a Bible. But I’m still not sure exactly who this RJ guy actually is, and it appears that Julia doesn’t know either. I don’t want to be so obvious as to go over and study the gold and platinum records.

On the coffee table, I notice a red, leather-covered box, eight-inches-square, one-inch-tall. On it’s lid, in gold letters, is the word NOBEL. Then I put it together.

I join Julia and RJ at the kitchen table. “This is my kind of lunch,” I say. “The soup smells like heaven.”

“I’m not sure what heaven smells like, but I plan to find out!” RJ says with a wink. “Karen grew those carrots right out back. It always seems to taste better when you grow it yourself.”

“Amen to that,” Julia says.

“I’m going to be heading up your way on June 20th, to Shelburne,” RJ says. “Got a gig up there.”

“You don’t say,” I replied.

“If you like, after lunch I’ll play you one of the new ones I’ll be playing there.”

“Sure, we’d love to hear it,” Julia says.

“I always like to give things the living room test before going live.”

We finish our soups and salads and follow RJ into the den, just off the living room. I count seven guitars, and there’s a baby Steinway grand. Julia and I take a seat on the couch, and RJ settles on a stool. He grabs a nearby guitar, removes his spectacles and slowly works his way into the song. As soon as he begins singing, the sweet gravelly voice is unmistakable.

Tears are streaming down Julia’s cheeks.

It’s a love song about finding love later in life, part hymn and part ballad, as only Bob Dylan can do it.

So much has happened and the day is only half over. Julia is in a daze. I can’t believe our incredible luck. There are times when you have to wonder if it’s more than coincidence, whether divine intervention has something to do with it.

Ten years ago, just a few months after my mother died, I was sitting at the dinner table with my three children. The conversation covered the usual territory: school, weekend plans, the next vacation. Then, completely out of the blue, my thirteen-year-old daughter blurted out, “Dad, you should start shooting portraits again.” It was a shot across the bow.

I hadn’t taken a portrait in thirty years, having retired my camera in 1977. How my daughter would have even known about that era of my life is a mystery. But I had a pretty good idea where it came from.

My mother always loved my portraits, perhaps because she was my original inspiration. She took beautiful black & white portraits of the five of us kids in the early years. She had a natural sense of composition and light with no formal schooling in photography. It was the legacy of her grandfather, Frank Guild, coming through, along with her art school training.

It felt as though my mother was reaching out to me through my daughter. I didn’t act on her suggestion right away, but when I did a few months later, I began creating the best work I’d ever done, beginning with a portrait of my ten-year-old son who is now a U.S. Marine.

“When did you realize it was him?” Julia says.

“Dylan?”

“Yeah.”

“When you were helping him get lunch together, I spotted the box for his Nobel.”

“Of course. I nearly forgot about that.”

“Kind of wild to think, there were two Nobel winners in that kitchen today.”

“I imagine he feels pretty much the way I do about it. He certainly didn’t need the validation,” Julia says.

“I was impressed that the Nobel folks even thought of him, and for literature, not music. I read his autobiography a few years ago. He’s every bit the oracle of the world’s great novelists.”

The Tesla whispers down the road, paralleling the path of a rushing stream. If I was a trout, I might be in this very same time and place, I’m thinking. But then I wouldn’t have met Julia.

“How do you…?” Julia pauses and starts over. “Where does your drive come from? What makes you keep pushing and creating?”

“Obviously, in my instance it’s not a matter of putting food on the table or being motivated by my competition. I think it’s more a case of survival.”

“I’m trying to imagine you in high school,” Julia says. “What did that look like?”

“Terrifying. I was at an all-boys boarding school where the most important thing in life was being a good athlete. I was the pencil-neck geek on sidelines at the athletic events, taking pictures for the school newspaper. There I was, actually helping promote the athletic myth while being the brunt of their jokes.”

“I can relate,” Julia says. “I was the gangly, awkward girl whose only claim to fame was straight A’s in math and science. But since I was a girl, that innate ability wasn’t encouraged. I was at a private girls school where the goal was to create cultured wives.”

“Cultured wives. It sounds like a reality TV show. I began shooting portraits because I loved doing them, and it gave me an excuse to delegate the sports photography. Then I got a big break when the movie “Blow-Up” came out. It was about a sexy London fashion photographer. The whole school walked over to the village movie theater to see it. Overnight, I became a bit of a celebrity on campus, simply because I knew how to use a camera.”

“But that drive must have been coming from someplace deeper, like it was for me,” Julia says.

“Indeed it was. Over the years, I’ve found the biggest motivators to be pain and tragedy. In 1987, two years after my recording studio opened, my youngest brother died in a tragic work accident in Burlington. He was twenty-seven. We were best friends, and he helped build the recording studio.”

Julia places a hand on my shoulder. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“That loss lit a fire under me. I took on projects that I probably wouldn’t have thought of doing. Several months after his funeral, I dreamed up a recording project that he would have loved.”

“What was it?”

“I invited Bernie Sanders to come into the studio to record his favorite songs. We backed Bernie up with a hand-picked rhythm section and a chorus of twenty-five singers from all over Vermont.”

“I have that album!” Julia says. “I love Bernie Sanders.”

“Many people misunderstood the album and got hung-up on Bernie’s lack of musical ability. But my brother would have loved it.”

“I also lost a sibling,” Julia says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, my sister died of lymphoma when I was a junior in high school. It was a terrible loss for our family, completely out of the blue.”

“That is so sad. You must have been crushed.”

“I was. And it was particularly difficult for my parents, who were used to being able to fix anything with their wealth and connections. I decided right then and there that I was going to go into nuclear medicine. Had that loss not happened, I might not have even thought of going to MIT.”

“Wow. Look where your life has gone instead. Just extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” Julia whispers.

“Two years after my brother died, when the dust had finally settled and we were moving on with our lives, my telephone rang in the middle of the night. A United DC-10 had crashed in Sioux City, Iowa, and my sister and two of her boys were on it.”

Julia grips my hand.

“My sister didn’t make it, but thankfully her sons did, three and six years old. She was thirty-six. Her husband had flown on the very same airplane the day before with the younger one’s twin brother.”

Julia begins to cry. “Now I know what our connection is,” she says. “I need you to stop the car. I need to hug you so badly.”

Losing my sister was emotional whiplash. The grieving process, which had finally reached a state of calm after the loss of my brother two years earlier, came roaring back. The same feelings of shock, loss and helplessness started all over again. At least this time I knew what was coming. There’s no speeding up the grieving process. There are stages to it, and you have to pass through them. The closer you are to the person you lose, the deeper the feelings of loss drill into your soul, and the longer it takes for them to dissolve.

It’s impossible to calculate what my parents went through. Imagine losing two adult children in the span of two years, one of whom is your only daughter. To their credit, my parents did get through it. They grieved and they memorialized, but they didn’t dwell. Life is too precious for that.

After my sister died, I went to the movies for the first time in a long while. I needed to be transported into another world, if only for a couple of hours. The movie was “Field of Dreams.” I knew it had something to do with baseball, but that’s about it.

Fifteen years prior to this, a friend gave me a copy of Richard Brautigan’s novel, “The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966.” I loved Brautigan’s whimsical, romantic stories.

The Abortion is a gem of a story. It describes a weird little library in San Francisco, a library that only accepts unpublished books. The very idea of it made me smile. I made a point of re-reading The Abortion every year, and each time I read it, I wondered why someone hadn’t brought this fictional library to life. It seemed like such a compelling idea.

So there I was, watching Field of Dreams on the big screen, becoming spellbound by the film’s magical baseball field, when it hit me: the library in Brautigan’s novel is my magic baseball field. If I build it, people will come. I’d never felt so sure about anything in my life, even something as crazy as this. The very next day, I began calling friends to serve on a board of trustees. Every one of them said yes. Six months later, in April 1990, The Brautigan Library opened in a modest space in downtown Burlington. The national media quickly took notice.

Manuscripts began flowing in from all over North America, and readers showed up from all over the world. The books provide a unique window on American life, not found in a bookstore or public library. The very existence of The Brautigan Library caused a news sensation that lasted for years. It was a bit of hopeful, magical news in an otherwise dismal news cycle. Had my sister’s plane not crashed, I’m not sure whether this ever would have happened. Grief can be a springboard.

Incidentally, six months after the Brautigan Library opened, my first child was born, named Foster after a character in The Abortion. His name has served him well.

A conference of crows awaits as I pull into a Tesla Supercharger station in Lincoln, like they they’ve been expecting us. I’ve felt an affinity for crows all my life. Groups of them often show up at pivotal moments in my life.

“How long will it take to charge?” Julia says.

“Just long enough for us to get thoroughly tangled up in the front seat.”

“Oh, I like the sounds of that.”

The other five bays at the station are empty. We’ve got the place to ourselves. I climb out, plug in the charging cable and climb back in. Julia has unfastened her seatbelt and turned sideways on the seat. “I love being with you,” she says. “Even when we don’t say a word to each other, we seem to be communicating.”

“Alright. What am I thinking about?” I say. My hand finds Julia’s hand, and our fingers weave together.

“You’re thinking about kissing me.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Our hands warm up like a little reactor. “You know, if we halve the distance between our lips, and then halve it again, and so on, we will never actually kiss. We’d be stuck here forever.”

“There’s a way around that,” Julia says. “You just need a little adder in there. It doesn’t need to be very large. Even a millimeter would do it.”

We’re moving closer to one another, so slowly, it’s barely perceptible.

“I get it. So that would be X minus Y over 2 plus 1, right?”

“Something like that,” Julia says. I can feel heat radiating from her face. Her other hand finds its way up my arm to the back of my neck.

“Algebra was never one of my strong suits.”

“I can teach you,” Julia says.

“How about right now?” Our lips are barely an inch apart.

“I think we’ll just start at infinity and work back from there,” she says, and she pulls me toward her that last little bit.

Satisfied that everything is under control, the crows adjourn their meeting and fly off.

The Tesla chimes to let us know the charging is done. I unplug the cable, and navigate back to the highway. There’s a young boy standing near the entrance ramp with his thumb out. He looks about ten, wearing a backpack. Julia’s face tightens in concern. “We should stop,” she says.

I pull onto the shoulder and park a few yards from the boy. We both get out.

“Hey, young man. What’s your name?” I say.

“Billy.”

“Where are you trying to go?”

“Down to Plymouth.”

“Where’s your parents?” Julia says.

“They’re in the hospital. Got in a car accident.”

“Do you live in Plymouth?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing up here then?”

“I had to come up get my dad’s paycheck, cause he doesn’t have any insurance for the hospital.”

I look at Julia. “What do you think?”

“Well, we’re driving right past Plymouth.”

“Okay, Billy. We can give you a ride, but you shouldn’t make a habit of this. It’s not safe for a young boy to be out here alone.”

“Thank you,” he says. Julia opens the back door for him.

I merge onto the highway and head south. “Wow. What kind of car is this?” the boy asks.

“It’s a Tesla. Have you ever heard of one of those?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s super quiet.”

“That’s because it’s electric.”

“How are your parents doing?” Julia asks. “Were they hurt bad?”

“My dad’s got some broken bones. So does my mom.”

“Was there another car in the accident too?”

“Yeah, but they were ok.”

I’m watching the boy in the rearview mirror. “So who are you staying with in Plymouth?” I ask.

“My grandmother, but she can’t drive.”

Julia and I look at each other. This is one of those situations where you want to help, but how can we help? The rural poor just have their own way of doing things, their own standard of risk. They have no choice.

“Well, I’m sure your grandmother will be happy to have you back safe and sound,” Julia says.

I glance in the rearview mirror and I see blue flashing lights. “That’s weird. We’re getting pulled over. I’m only going seventy two.”

I pull onto the shoulder and roll down my window. The officer approaches, eyeing the exterior of the car. “License and registration,” he says.

“Is anything wrong, officer?” I say.

He studies the registration. “We had a report of a stolen vehicle matching this one.”

“A Tesla?”

“Yessir.” He peers into the back seat. “Is that your boy?”

“No. We’re just giving him a lift to Plymouth. He was hitchhiking at the Lincoln ramp. It didn’t look safe to us, a young boy out there, so we gave him a lift. His name is Billy.”

The officer looks at the boy. “Is that where you want to go, Billy? Plymouth?”

“I never said I want to go to Plymouth. They forced me into the car, officer.”

Terror arrives without warning. There’s no time to prepare. One minute everything is just fine, and the next minute life as you knew it is gone.

Julia and I are under arrest for child abduction, a Class A felony. Our hands are handcuffed behind our backs. We’re locked in the back seat of a New Hampshire State Police car. The seat belts keep us separated. How I would love to hold Julia’s hand right now. Less than thirty minutes ago, we were in each others’ arms.

The view from the police car is surreal, as a tow truck operator attempts to pull the Tesla onto his flatbed. Clearly, he’s never encountered a Tesla before. The state trooper comes by periodically to ask me questions about the car. How do you start it? How to you get it out of park? How do you open the doors if the door handles don’t extend? I would gladly assist them with getting the car safely onto the flatbed, but no, that’s not an option.

Julia looks worried. The boy has been taken away in another trooper car. We have no idea what he’s saying to the police. It’s his word against ours.

Finally, the tow truck driver gives up and winches the Tesla up the ramp with its parking brakes on, tires squealing every inch of the way. The crows watch from a nearby tree.

The trooper climbs back in and begins to fill out the paperwork. “Just for my edification, officer. Where are you taking us?” I ask.

“You’ll be getting booked at the Plymouth Police Department. That’s the first department with a holding facility, heading south. I hope you have a good lawyer.”

Julia stares out the window. She appears to have a lot on her mind. I really don’t think we have a thing to worry about. We’re obviously innocent. Unfortunately, Julia and I are not in a great place to discuss our options, with the trooper’s ears just a few feet away. The fact that we got stopped in the first place is perplexing. I certainly didn’t report my own car stolen. I would call my brother in Manchester right now if I didn’t have these handcuffs on. My cell phone is right there in my pants pocket.

The moment we step inside the Plymouth Police Department, Julia is greeted by a pinstripe-suited lawyer. He never even looks at me. Julia and I get booked separately, but I can see her through a plate glass barrier. She and the lawyer speak to an officer at a desk for a few minutes. The police chief joins them. There are handshakes and smiles all around.

Julia and the lawyer stand up and walk toward the exit. The lawyer opens the door for her. Julia stops and turns toward me, a faraway look in her eyes. The lawyer puts an arm around her and turns her toward the doorway. They’re gone.

I’m trying to comprehend the situation. Panic is setting in—not for my own well-being, but for my future with Julia. I feel like I accidentally stepped onto a subway train going in the opposite direction from hers. I haven’t even asked her for her cell phone number yet. I desperately cling to the feeling of our arms around each other. Whatever you do, don’t lose that!

The officer I’m in front of me has some questions. “So, Mr. Lockwood, could you explain for me why you reported your car stolen?”

“I didn’t,” I say. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“The call came into 911 from your cell phone.”

“They record those calls, don’t they? I’m sure it’s not my voice on there.”

“I’ll have to check on that,” the officer says, making note of it on his computer.

“As I’m sure you know, there are apps out there that allow a cell phone to impersonate another number.”

The officer nods. “Tell me about your encounter with the boy.”

“Julia and I had just left the Tesla charging station in Lincoln. As we approached the southbound Interstate ramp, we noticed this young boy standing there with his thump out. So I pulled over, and we got out to talk to him. It seemed a little odd, such a young boy out there by himself. He said he was trying to get to Plymouth, so we offered him a lift. We were on our way back to Wolfeboro and were going right by Plymouth.”

“You didn’t pressure him?”

“Not in the least. The boy said that his parents are in the hospital due to a car accident and that he went to Lincoln to pick up his father’s paycheck because his parents don’t have any health insurance.”

“Did he mention where his father works in Lincoln?”

“No, he didn’t. When the trooper pulled me over, the boy concocted this weird story about being forced to go with us.”

“Did you have any contact with the boy’s backpack?”

“No, none at all.”

The officer continues typing. “How long have you known Ms. Jennison?”

“Who?”

“Julia Jennison.”

“Oh, Julia. We just met yesterday.”

“And how did you happen to meet her?”

“We met at a restaurant in Wolfeboro.”

“And why were you in Wolfeboro?”

“I was just out for a drive and happened to end up there.”

“All the way from Burlington?”

“It was a nice day, and I felt like doing some exploring.”

“Did you intend to spend the night in Wolfeboro?”

“Not really. If I hadn’t met Julia, I probably would have driven back to Burlington after dinner.”

“She invited me to come to her family’s home to use the washing machine.”

“The washing machine?”

“Because I accidentally peed on my pants in the men’s room.”

The officer gives me an incredulous look. “So you spent the night there.”

“Yes, in one of their guest rooms.”

“That’s all I need for now,” he says.

“What about my car?”

“It’s in our impound lot out back.”

“I need to call my brother in Manchester, so he can arrange for a lawyer.”

“We’ll give you a chance to do that in a moment.” The officer looks me squarely in the eye. “Are you sure you never had any contact with Ms. Jennison prior to last night?”

“Quite sure. I certainly would have remembered her.”

“We’re going to be holding you overnight while we check on a few things. I suggest that you arrange for your lawyer to show up at 9 am.”

I’m escorted to a processing room. The handcuffs are removed. The officer in charge allows me to retrieve my brother’s telephone number from my cell phone. Then everything in my pockets, including my phone, goes into a large manilla envelope. I change into a one-piece orange jumpsuit. If this were a lesser charge, the officer tells me, they wouldn’t bother with the change of clothes.

In all of my decades of living, it’s the first time I’ve seen the inside of a jail cell. I once knew a Burlington restaurant owner who was out on bail, awaiting trial on federal drug charges. A new minimum-security federal prison had just been completed over in the Adirondacks, and they were having an open house so the public could see how their tax dollars were being spent. The guy actually went over and took the tour, knowing full well that he might end up being a resident there himself. I guess he wanted to lessen the blow.

It’s a bit intimidating being in jail, even when you know you’re innocent. It’s not exactly a cozy atmosphere. The design is institutional to the max, function over form. There are four cells here. The others are empty, so the place is devoid of any human sounds, but it is far from quiet. The whir of the ventilation system and the buzz of the florescent lights combine with an electrical hum coming through the wall to produce a chord. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a D-Minor chord, exactly the musical backup one would use in a horror film. It’s the sound of dread.

Monday morning. Memorial Day. A police officer approaches my cell. “Your lawyer has arrived and will meet with you now,” he says. I’m taken to an interrogation room, where a husky man in a dark gray suit awaits.

“Good morning, Mr. Lockwood. I’m Peter Simmons.”

My brother is a miracle worker. To get one of New Hampshire’s top criminal defense lawyers to show up at a local police department at 9 am on a legal holiday is no small feat. Peter Simmons’ reputation is legend among law enforcement and criminal courts throughout the state. It’s a case of mutual respect. Simmons is quick to give credit where credit is due, but he also doesn’t hesitate to hold law enforcement to the letter of the law. His very presence has raised the quality and depth of police investigations in New Hampshire.

“Let’s see if we can get you out of here,” Simmons says. “First, I want you to give me a rundown of your activities with Julia Jennison, starting with when you first met her, right up to the point of your arrest. I already have a copy of the police interview you did yesterday, so there’s no need to repeat that information.” He places a small recording device on the table and presses the record button. “By the way, anything we say in this room is protected by attorney-client privilege.”

“Before I get started, there’s one thing I’m curious about.”

“What’s that?”

“When the trooper brought us here, Julia’s lawyer was already here waiting for her. How did that happen?”

Simmons smiles. “If you lived around here, you’d know why. The Jennison family carries a lot of weight around these parts. You can be sure that calls went out the moment the trooper radioed in your names. The Jennisons live in a protective bubble whenever they come to Wolfeboro. They operate in a rarified world. This police station was built with a donation from the Jennisons.”

“Well, that explains it,” I say.

“So just to confirm, the very first time you met Julia was on Saturday evening at a restaurant in Wolfeboro.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And you arrived there first?”

“I did.”

“And you went to the men’s room and accidentally pee’d on your pants.”

“The officer who interviewed me found that part hard to believe.”

“That it was accidental?”

“Right. I think he thought that I did it on purpose, as a way of getting Julia to take me to her house. But she wasn’t even sitting at the bar when I left for the men’s room. I hadn’t even seen her yet.”

Simmons makes a note of it on his legal pad.

I describe the rest of the events of the past twenty-four hours: the evening at the Jennison’s home, the helicopter ride with the newlyweds, and our lunch with Bob Dylan.

“That’s quite an extraordinary story,” Simmons says. “Are you willing to state all of it in a courtroom if necessary?”

“The only detail I would be reluctant to reveal is Bob Dylan’s identity. I’m sure he’s gone to great lengths to protect his privacy, and I wouldn’t want his name to end up in the public record. That would blow his cover.”

“How about if we just refer to him as a man who called himself RJ?”

“That should work.”

Simmons opened the door and signaled to the officer outside that we were ready to have the Chief of Police join us. “I don’t anticipate any problems,” Simmons says to me. “As you can see, there’s more going on here than just a child abduction complaint.”

The police chief enters the room and takes a seat opposite from Peter Simmons and me.

“A pleasure to see you again, Bill,” Simmons says.

“So, what have you got for me, counselor?” the chief says.

“There’s insufficient evidence to hold my client on the charge of child abduction. The boy’s statement to the trooper, by itself, does not constitute grounds for a hearing. No supporting evidence has been presented. Mr. Lockwood has no prior criminal record and is a well regarded member of his community. Retaining Mr. Lockwood beyond this point would provide grounds for an unreasonable incarceration lawsuit.”

“We have checked Mr. Lockwood’s record in Vermont, and indeed it is pristine. I have to admit,” the chief says, “the only thing we have to go on is the boy’s statement to the trooper, and we now have reason to question the validity of it. I just want to confirm one thing with Mr. Lockwood.”

“Be my guest,” Simmons says.

“Mr. Lockwood, are you quite sure that you had no contact with the boy’s backpack?” He stares me straight in the eye while waiting for my answer.

“Absolutely. I never touched it.”

“We were pretty sure that was the case. Your prints didn’t show up on it, or on any of the contents.”

“What was in that backpack?” Simmons says.

“A half-pound of methamphetamine.”

“I think we’re done here,” Simmons says.

“Mr. Lockwood, you’re free to go.”

I change back into my own clothes, retrieve my belongings and sign the discharge paperwork. My brother greets me in the outer lobby. “I owe you one,” I say to him.

“All in a day’s work,” he replies. “I just want the movie rights.”

I say good-bye to Peter Simmons and accompany a police officer out to the impound lot to retrieve the Tesla. Miraculously, the car appears to have survived the ordeal unscathed.

I pull out onto the road and take a deep breath. Julia is on my mind, front and center. I ask the Tesla’s navigation system to guide me to Wolfeboro. It’s not far. I pray that Julia will be home, that we’ll be able to pick up where we left off. I’ve missed her so much.

When I get to the entrance to her family’s home, I slow down.

The entrance gate is closed, and a Wolfeboro Police car is parked next to it. Without Julia’s phone number, I’m feeling helpless. I’m tempted to stop and speak to the officer, but instead I just roll by. Perhaps, she’s already left for Boston. I really don’t have any options.

So I drive into the village of Wolfeboro. I pull into a convenience store and get out of my car. A man has just exited the store, and I recognize him. It’s Gus, the Jennison’s caretaker. “Hey Gus,” I call to him. He glances in my direction for an instant, then looks away. I shout his name again, louder this time. He picks up his pace, jumps into his truck and drives off.

This convenience store is packed with crap food. I scan the shelves. Everything in sight is loaded with sugar and salt, and who knows what else. After some searching, I locate a bag of unsalted almonds, a banana and an apple.

“How are you today?” the woman behind the counter says.

“Fine thanks,” I reply. She doesn’t really mean the question, and I don’t really mean the answer. I am anything but fine. I have no idea where Julia is and no way of getting in touch with her. I feel marooned.

I hand the woman my credit card. She glances at my name on the card and looks up at me with a sympathetic smile. “Such a waste,” she says, shaking her head, “such a waste.” I reflexively smile back at her, but I’m not sure what she’s getting at.

“You mean, Julia?” She ignores the question and runs my credit card.

“Have a nice day,” she says.

I step out the door and I notice there’s a county sheriff parked next to the Tesla. The sheriff sits pensively in the driver’s seat, looking as if he’s waiting for someone. I walk past his open window, and he says, “Nice looking car you’ve got there.”

“Thanks.” I wonder whether this is a just a friendly sheriff, or is it something more.

“I’ve been following Tesla for some time,” he says. “They look like great cars.”

“A lot of fun to drive.”

“When they come out with a patrol car, you can bet I’ll be trying to sell the county on it.”

I’m feeling better about this guy. “If they look at the fuel and maintenance cost, it would be a no-brainer for the county.”

“Do you mind if I take a peek at the interior?” he asks. “I’ve never seen one up close.”

“Not at all. Why don’t you hop in the passenger seat, and I’ll show you some of the features.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m Sheriff Joe Johnson, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Todd Lockwood.” We climb into the Tesla.

“Well, this is certainly a fine-looking rig,” the sheriff says. “This would make quite a patrol car.”

“The way it drives is the best part. One-hundred percent torque all the time. Let me show you some of the touchscreen features.”

“You know, just one guy to another, I want to give you some friendly advice.”

“Regarding?”

“Julia Jennison.”

Oh boy, here we go, I’m thinking.

“This is all unofficial, off-the-record, if you get my drift. I just thought you should know a few things, so you don’t head back home with a lot of lingering questions.”

I nod.

“Julia is not what she appears to be. A lot of men have fallen into her web over the years. I’ve seen it over and over. Now you may think it was a coincidence that you met her at the bar Saturday night, but she planned the whole thing. She’d probably been on your trail for days before that. For her, it’s like a sport.”

I’m stunned.

“She might have spotted your face online somewhere, perhaps on Facebook, and she went to work planning and executing an elaborate rendezvous. That’s what she does. It’s her M-O. She has no intention of getting into a real relationship. For her, it’s all about the conquest. Over the years, she’s left of trail of broken hearts.”

“It’s going to take me a moment to get my head around this,” I say.

“You seem like a nice guy. I just hate to see someone like you getting punched in the gut like this.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And one other thing. If you have a change of heart about our conversation, be aware that the Jennison family does not take stalking lightly. More than one of Julia’s suitors has found themselves with a jail sentence and a criminal record.”

“Understood,” I say. We shake hands.

“Have a nice drive back to Vermont,” he says and climbs out of the Tesla.

I pull onto Main Street and begin retracing the route I took to get to Wolfeboro in the first place. I feel like I’m pulling away from a demented magic kingdom. Thank God for the sheriff. Otherwise, I might not have figured out the truth about Julia until things were much more serious. No question, there were some nice moments, but how easily love can be blinded by its own beauty.

The Tesla winds through the countryside, occasionally illuminated by a shaft of sunlight piercing the cloud cover, as if a divine message is being transmitted to the car and its driver from above.

I’m on a straightaway, and I see a man standing on the shoulder in the distance, next to a lone mailbox. Something about him looks familiar. He’s facing me, but he doesn’t have his thumb out. I slow down a bit, and he smiles. Then I recognize him. It’s the ex-banker, the guy who moved to New Hampshire and changed his name, the guy I went to boarding school with. I stop and roll down the passenger window. “Well, well. Small world. How about a lift?”

“If you don’t mind, that would be great.” He climbs in.

“Actually, it’s perfect timing. I could use some company. My brain is about to explode.”

“What’s been going on?”

I chuckle. “Oh, you have no idea!”

“I’m all ears.”

“After I last saw you, I pulled into Wolfeboro and stopped to get a bite to eat. Long story short, I met the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve met in years. She simply blew my mind. Over the next twenty-four hours, we shared some incredible moments together.”

“That sounds nice.”

“But everything came crashing down yesterday afternoon due to unforeseen circumstances. As it turns out, the entire thing was a ruse the woman had been planning before I even got there. I just learned that part from a county sheriff.”

The banker shakes his head. “Joe Johnson.”

“Yeah, it was Joe Johnson. How did you know that?”

“Because I’m the person who hooked you up with Julia. Whatever the sheriff told you is bullshit. He has his own designs on Julia Jennison, and he’s on the family payroll.”

“Wait a minute! So you arranged for me to meet Julia?”

“After you gave me a ride on Saturday, I got thinking. I owed you. Not just for the ride. You got a raw deal at boarding school, and I was part of the problem. I was weak then, just another upperclassman bully. I was a senior and you were a freshman in 1965. For decades I’ve regretted the way I treated you. I just assumed that I’d never see you again.”

I can barely believe what I’m hearing. It’s been more years than I can count.

“When you picked me up on Saturday, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was being given one chance to make things right. When I saw what a fine person you’ve become, the first thing I thought of was Julia. I’ve known her for years. She’s had the worst luck finding the right man. I had this intuitive sense that the two of you would be perfect together. And now I believe it even more.”

Time has a way of setting things straight. By the time I arrived at college, the boarding school bullying seemed like ancient history. It hadn’t occurred to me that my social isolation actually had some benefits: my photography had come a long way, especially my portraits. When I showed my high school portfolio to my college photography professor, he told me I’d be wasting my time there.

I had to stay in college to keep from being drafted, so I stuck around. My professor got me started on an independent study program. Each semester, I’d come up with an idea for a photography project, and I’d show the professor my progress every couple of weeks. That’s the way I learned for the next four years.

One of those photography projects raised eyebrows all over campus. It was surreal. Early in my sophomore year, the telephone rang in my dorm room. I picked it up, expecting to hear my classmate Irving on the other end. Instead, it was an executive from a major publishing house in New York. An author had recommended that they hire me to shoot a photograph for the cover of his new novel—the front cover. The novel was expected to be a major best seller. I was nineteen years old.

The executive couldn’t tell me who the author was because the book was being published using a pseudonym. “You’ll be hearing from the author shortly,” she told me. Indeed, I did hear from the author an hour later. He was a longtime family friend. He was also an Olympic-level athlete.

When I was sixteen, he introduced me to his family’s fifteen-year-old au pair, a beautiful girl from Montauk. Our summer romance led to my first serious portrait, a haunting woodsy portrait that stopped me in my tracks.

One day, he took us waterskiing on Lake Placid. I was a competent waterskier, but he was a hard act to follow, especially with the au pair watching from the boat. Afterward, I think he realized his mistake. When the book cover project came my way three years later, it occurred to me that this might be his way of making amends.

He sent me a copy of the manuscript, so I could familiarize myself with the story. The text was breathtaking. It was built around a collection of love letters between him and a young woman. I could understand why the publisher was so confident about it. This was clearly going to be the next Love Story.

We arranged a photo shoot on a private island on Lake George. Two actors were brought in from New York, about the same ages as the lovers in the novel. I shot a series of black and white motion studies of the two of them prancing through the woods, naked. My slow shutter-speed gave the images a painterly look and kept them from becoming too graphic, sexually. After all, it was 1970. The publisher loved the photographs.

A few weeks later I received the sad news that the young woman who co-authored the book decided that she didn’t want to publish, even using a pseudonym. For me, it was like waking up from a beautiful dream. I was sorry not to see the book come to life, but the experience of creating those images is one I’ve savored for years.

I continue retracing my route, right back to the three-barn country store. “Let me buy you lunch,” I say to the banker.

“That would be very nice.” We go inside, select a couple of boxed lunches and bring them back out to the Tesla.

“The thing you have to know about Julia,” he says, “is that her parents are hyper-protective of her. I swear, as wealthy people get more wealthy, their anxiety level goes up proportionately. They worry that their lives may be jinxed, and that perhaps they don’t deserve what they have.”

“In Julia’s case, that seems ridiculous. She’s obviously incredibly accomplished. Good God, she won a Nobel Prize!”

“Within families, it’s often hard to find the logic in it. In Julia’s parents’ eyes, she is still their little girl, even in her forties. While she does live independently of them most of the time, they still exert a lot of parental pressure.”

“I wonder what would break that cycle?” I say.

“That’s where you come in. Julia needs a strong man in her life, but not strong in the usual sense. She needs someone who can provide the emotional platform she requires. Over all these years, her parents have been providing it. For a long time, they’ve wanted her to settle down with someone, but then they keep preventing it from happening.”

“We got off to such a great start.”

“That’s the easy part. Now you’re going to have to figure out a way to inspire Julia to come to you. Reaching out to her will be much too risky. The family watches her like a hawk.”

“So, what the sheriff said about stalking is true?”

“I’m afraid it is. You’ll figure out another way to do this.”

“What if you talk to her?”

“I actually tried calling her this morning, just to find out how things went. I got a recording saying that her number had been disconnected, and there was no forwarding number.”

“That’s weird. Why would she do that?”

“The family lawyer probably advised her to do it following the arrest, just to prevent any further repercussions.”

“From me?”

“Good question. I think they’re just being extra careful about her.”

I shake my head. “If it wasn’t for that ten-year-old boy, Julia would be in my arms right now.”

“Yes, she would.”

“And what do you make of the boy?” I ask. “Do you think he could have been put in our path on purpose?”

“I seriously doubt it. I also doubt that he knew about the drugs in the backpack. If he had known, he would have kept his mouth shut. I think he was being used as a mule.”

“Good point. Hey, can I take you somewhere from here?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just pick up a few goodies from the store and grab a ride back to the house.”

“We need to stay in touch.”

“That would be nice.” He hands me a scrap of paper with his cell number on it, and I give him my card.

“It’s been a real pleasure,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Same here. And don’t give up.”

As I head up the highway toward Vermont, I feel the distance growing between Julia and me, and conversely, the shrinking odds that I’ll cross paths with her again. I cling to the memories of our time together, like snapshots in an album. Unfortunately, those snapshots are two-dimensional, whereas life itself includes the dimension of time. If I only had one molecule of assurance that we’re on the same page right now, that would be enough to sustain me. Please Julia, if you’re reading this…

The only thing I have to go on is RJ’s vision—that Julia and I were destined to be together. I am a believer in destiny, the idea that certain things in our lives are simply going to happen, no matter what. I can think of many examples of destiny playing out in my life. It feels as though I’ve lived all of this before, as if this life is an echo, so powerful is the feeling of déjà vu.

By the end of my sophomore year in college, I was well on my way. I had found my voice through the lens of my camera, and I had a wonderful array of friends. I could see my future laid out in front of me.

That summer I headed off on an adventure. My Lake Placid friend, Rob, had bought a 1936 fire engine at an auction in Port Henry for $900. We put a new set of rubber on it and hit the road. We had a vague plan of driving to Denver, but the destination wasn’t the point, the trip itself was. I saw it as an opportunity to discover rural America through my camera lens.

The firetruck had a top speed of 45 miles-per-hour, so Interstates were out of the question. Instead, we stayed on the back roads, passing through scores of small towns. I had pretty long hair at the time, but people looked beyond it. They saw two young guys having the adventure of a lifetime. The truck made everyone smile.

The fire engine was a pumper, and it came equipped with fire hoses, nozzles, helmets, rubber boots and fire coats. We quickly learned that when entering a small town, the best plan of action was to drive straight to the local volunteer fire department. There’d always be a warm reception awaiting us.

We camped at public campgrounds, sleeping under a tent that attached to the back of the truck. At each campground, we’d fill the truck’s 300-gallon water tank and put out the word that kids should get their bathing suits on. Then the spraying would begin!

One morning, after one of those fun evenings, we were headed down a country road in Ohio, still carrying about 100-gallons of water in our tank, when we came upon a grass fire by the side of the road. We stopped, donned our fire-fighting gear, and began dousing the flames.

A country sheriff rolled up behind us and got out of his cruiser, dumbfounded. The truck’s New York license plates made it all the better. After we got the fire out, the sheriff invited us to a regional fireman’s jamboree about ten miles away. He gave us a police escort with his blue lights ablaze. We were the guests of honor at the ten-department event.

A few weeks later, while attempting to drive up a mountain pass in Montana, the truck’s engine seized-up. We very carefully coasted back to the dusty town of Red Lodge. By sheer luck, the gentle incline of Main Street carried us all the way to Whitcomb’s Garage. Byron Whitcomb, the proprietor, took one look at us and the truck, and he said, “I like you guys already.”

“I’m pretty sure we toasted the crankshaft,” I said, “trying to get over the pass.”

“Have you ever rebuilt an engine?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, I’m going to teach you how. You can use my tools, and I’ll show you what to do, but you guys are going to do the work.” So began our education in engine rebuilding.

While we waited in Red Lodge for replacement engine parts to arrive, Rob and I witnessed a timeless American ritual, right in front of Town Hall. A pickup truck pulled up and parked, followed by an Oldsmobile. A young man in a clean cowboy shirt and jeans climbed out of the pickup, accompanied by an older man carrying a shotgun. A teenage girl in a dress and a woman who appeared to be her mother got out of the Oldsmobile. The four of them marched into Town Hall. It was an authentic shotgun wedding.

With the engine rebuild complete, I turned the key for the first time, and the engine sprang back to life. To us, it sounded like a symphony.

A few days later, we pulled into Denver and posed for a photograph in front of the state capitol. Our odyssey had come to an end. I had to get back to school. Rob and the firetruck stayed in Denver.

In the spring of my junior year in college, everything changed. I mean everything. A trust that my grandfather had established in my name when I was born, similar to the ones he created for his other nine grandchildren, made its first distribution directly to me. By law, it had to. My parents had nothing to do with this trust. They couldn’t have stopped this from happening if they wanted to.

Literally overnight, I became financially independent, no longer reliant on my parents for anything. This completely altered my relationship with them. They had no choice but to begin treating me as an equal, a concept that would not come easily to my authoritarian father.

What is more important though, is how this new reality would affect my life, a life that already showed promise. My creativity, my friendships, and my future were about to change in ways that I couldn’t imagine.

There’s someone new at Starbucks this morning. Everyone notices her, and everyone pretends they don’t see her. She’s encamped at one of the outdoor tables.

A wheeled cart overflowing with bags of worldly possessions stands next to her. The remaining tables are empty, even though it’s a nice warm morning. On any other morning, those tables would be occupied.

Homeless and needy are a common sight in Burlington. I encounter them almost daily. Perhaps it’s because Vermonters take a more sympathetic view of them than in other parts of the country. Especially in summer, it’s not hard to understand why a homeless person might spend their last twenty dollars on a bus ride to Burlington, Vermont.

Something about this woman is different though. She’s older than the typical homeless person in Burlington, who tend to be in their twenties or thirties. And there’s something else about her that has me mesmerized from the safety of my table inside: this is not a woman who came from a hard life. I can see it in the way she holds her head high while customers pass. She has a cultured, educated look about her. I can easily imagine her socializing at the local country club. My God, I wonder what her story is? Could this be the scenario that wealthy people have nightmares about?

Maybe she’s mentally ill. That must be it. Crazy as a bat, and she burned through all her money. Incapable of working a regular job. But then again, take away the bags and put her in a nice sundress, and she’d fit right in. I notice that she’s attempting eye contact with every person who passes by. She has a very attractive face. But everyone is having the same gut reaction: fear and trepidation, that even acknowledging this woman could pull them into a vortex from which they might never escape.

So what can I do, I wonder. I need to get back to the house and continue writing. That’s what I need to do. But something occurs to me. Since I’m on the way out, I could do something on the fly. That way I wouldn’t be trapped in a conversation with her.

I grab my half-finished coffee and head out the door. “Good morning,” I say to her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“How kind of you,” she says.

“How do you like it?”

“Just a little bit of whole milk.”

“Coming right up.”

I return with the coffee, and she says, “Thank you so much. You’ve made my day.” The sound of her voice startles me. It’s the voice of a woman from Greenwich, Connecticut, educated at Vassar or The Sorbonne.

There, but for the grace of God, go I, I’m thinking.

I stay with my plan and keep moving. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” I say.

“I will. Thank you.”

I head for my car.

When my ship came in, in March 1972, I did exactly what any twenty-one-year-old guy in my situation would do: I bought a cool car. My grandfather had bought me an Opel Kadette station wagon to get me through college, but now the possibilities were limitless.

I bought a Mercedes-Benz 280SL convertible. From the moment I first drove the Mercedes onto the campus, it was the subject of intrigue. It didn’t exactly blend-in in the student parking lot.

One day I found a hand-written letter on the windshield that began, “Dear Beautiful Car Owner.” It was signed by two girls, Amy and Pamela. They said they’d love to get a ride sometime and suggested that if I wanted to meet them, I should come to the College Union desk “Noonish on Wednesday.” I showed up at the appointed time, keeping an eye out from a safe distance. They must have been doing the same thing because I never saw them.

Driving such a car at a young age affects everything. It generated in me a sense of success and accomplishment that I hadn’t really earned yet. It was case of putting the cart well before the horse. Ironically, most people were captivated by my illusion of success and treated me as though the success was real. That made me begin to believe it myself, and I began to dress for the part.

So, you can well imagine how inconvenient it was for me to receive a notice to report for my army draft physical in the fall of 1972. At that point, my future was so bright, it was blinding. Going into the military was not high on my priority list. I had a low draft lottery number, which pretty much guaranteed I’d get drafted after college if I passed the physical. So, I went to see a draft counselor in Rochester.

He was the quintessential Jewish hippy lawyer, his office walls adorned with activist posters and peace symbols. The instant I walked in, he said, “Wow, how tall are you?”

“Six foot four,” I told him.

He yanked open a file cabinet and pulled out a chart. “How much do you weigh?”

“One-fifty-five, last time I checked.”

“You’re only eight pounds from the 147-pound minimum,” he says. “I recommend you drop ten pounds, and you’re out!”

For most people, dropping ten pounds is no big deal. But when you’re skinny to begin with, it’s a serious undertaking. I had two months to pull this off. My friend Irving was my coach, and his roommate, a fourth-year medical student at the University of Rochester, was my medical advisor.

Everything was going fine with the diet and exercise regimen until two weeks before the physical, when my weight leveled out. My medical advisor determined that I’d been drinking too much water. I had to cut back. The last ten days before the physical was the most difficult physical challenge I’ve ever experienced.

I drove myself from Rochester to the draft board building in Ticonderoga, where a chartered bus awaited. We were taken to an army facility in Albany for testing. The very first thing they did was check height and weight. I weighed 144-pounds. I was out. My life could resume.

Conquering the draft physical strengthened my resolve. I was determined to stay in touch with my creative self and not simply retreat to a country club existence, surrounded by people in similar situations. I had a lot going for me prior to this windfall, and I wasn’t about to leave it behind.

I drive back to the house, trying to think of a way to get Julia’s attention, to reach out to her in a beautiful but indirect way, so that only she knows it’s from me.

It’s amazing the way distance can give you perspective on a place. Every time I leave Vermont to visit another state I’m reminded of Vermont’s progressive thinking and individualism, which I love, but I’m also reminded of Vermont’s limitations.

When I first moved here in 1977, I noticed that an unusually high percentage of the people I met were psychotherapists. So I asked one of them why, and she said, “It’s very simple. People move to Vermont to heal or be healed.” I’ve never forgotten that. Forty years later, it still applies.

Vermont is a state of refugees, and I’m not referring to the international kind. Vermont’s transplanted population is largely composed of people who came here to get away from something—a dysfunctional family, a failed career or an unwelcoming community. They’re not political refugees; they’re emotional refugees.

Vermont is not a state you would move to in search of a high-paying career. It is a state with a healthy, outdoorsy lifestyle, and for many, those benefits outweigh the state’s income limitations. But for those who arrive with their own source of income, there are no limitations—at least on paper—and that’s the group that keeps the psychotherapists particularly busy.

Vermont ranks second in the country for unearned income. That’s income from trusts and stock dividends. But unlike a place like Connecticut, Vermont’s wealth is kept well hidden. Well almost. You don’t have to search far to find a funky Vermont farmhouse with a ninety-thousand-dollar Range Rover parked in the driveway.

Somehow, that particular vehicle gets a pass—probably because there are so many of them. It’s all the more ironic, because Vermont ranks 48th in the nation in per capita donations to charity. Transplants with hidden income are reluctant to do their part, lest they might be found out.

Meanwhile, the rest of the transplants and the native Vermonters try to eek out a living in the state’s limited economy. The only professions that fare reasonably well are medicine, real estate, and law. But at the other end, you’ve got the tattooed cashiers, those self-proclaimed misfits who’ve been abandoned by their families.

There’s a grand dance of denial going on in Vermont, and it affects everything. What appears to be an open, nonjudgmental society is actually quite narrow-minded, especially among the transplants. Men and women alike have blurred their sexuality to the point where sexual roles have been replaced by ideology. What has evolved is rigid social-political correctness driven by the prevailing wind. It’s like a cult without a leader.

I come upon a rally in Burlington’s City Hall Park. It’s a new group who call themselves The Windies. I park the Tesla nearby and walk over to see what they’re about.

Two dozen activists in Windies t-shirts congregate on the steps of City Hall. An audience of about fifty people looks on. A young woman approaches the podium.

“Hello everybody. Thanks for coming out.” Her female partner stands close by. “We are The Windies, and we believe that the wind is sacred. In these times of environmental upheaval, the wind is our last remaining hope. We believe that we should all be doing our part to defend the wind from the forces of mankind.”

I’m trying to get a grasp on where she’s going with this.

“That’s why, beginning today, we are campaigning against wind energy in Vermont. Those huge wind turbines hurt the wind by taking away some of its natural power, power that should be allowed to reach forests and fields. We need to get nature back in balance.”

Huh?

“Likewise, we are calling for a moratorium on sailing. Those who ignore us, may find their sailboats flagged and identified in the media.” The speaker and her partner grin at each other.

“If you drive a car, be sure to check our web site for the prevailing wind direction before you get on the Interstate. Our goal is to get the majority of Interstate traffic moving with the wind, not against it.”

“Bicyclists, as well, are encouraged to ride windward routes. Look at it this way. If you move with the wind, you are actually helping the wind. And that’s a good thing.”

I scan the crowd, to get a sense of people’s reactions to this. There are a lot of blank faces, but I’m not sensing much resistance.

“We have an e-mail signup right here, and t-shirts are fifteen dollars. Are there any questions?”

I glance around at the crowd and raise my hand.

“Yes?”

“Has this idea been run by the University of Vermont Science Department?”

The speaker’s face wrinkles. “We’ve done a lot of research on our own.”

“And what are your qualifications?”

The speaker’s partner whispers something in her ear. “I don’t think I need to answer that,” the speaker says.

Someone in the audience yells out, “What are you? Some sort of troublemaker?”

The speaker nods in agreement, and the crowd erupts in slights against me.

“Get that guy out of here!” someone yells.

“I guess we’ll know who to blame when the wind stops for good,” someone else says.

“Yeah, why don’t you go back to your perfect world,” another person shouts. The crowd emits a baritone affirmation.

I’m feeling a bit threatened by this crowd. I glance in the direction of the Tesla, just to make sure I’ve got a clear path between here and there. There’s a man standing by the car, looking it over. I recognize him, but I’m not sure from where. Then it clicks. It’s Joe Johnson, the sheriff from Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, but he’s out of uniform. I wonder what he’s doing here?

I bolt toward the Tesla, but when I get there, he’s gone.

There’s a white envelope attached to my front door. I notice it when I drive up. My name is written on the front of it. Inside, I find a neatly written note…

Dear Todd,

I’m in town and I’ve been trying to find you. Unfortunately, I don’t have your number. I really want to see you! If you get this in time, please meet me downtown at the corner of Church and College at 2. I miss you like crazy.

Love,Julia

My God! Julia’s in Burlington! So she did track me down, after all. I knew it. I knew those feelings were real, and they must have been real for her, too. This is amazing. Fantastic news! I read the note again, savoring each word. Her handwriting is quite lovely, and I can see her confidence shining through. There’s no ambiguity here!

I pull out my cell phone to check for messages. There’s an alert that someone had approached my front door. That must have been Julia. My doorbell button has a video camera built into it that records every visitor, even if they don’t ring the doorbell. I press the playback button, but it’s not Julia in the video. It’s the sheriff, Joe Johnson. He attached the envelope to my door.

I look at the note again. I’ve never seen Julia’s handwriting before, so, I can’t be sure it’s authentic. There’s only one way to find out. I’ll go to the corner of Church and College at two o’clock. I do have one thing going for me: Joe Johnson doesn’t know what I know—that he left the note.

It’s noon. I’ve got two hours before the rendezvous, and I’m starving. So I roll down to Healthy Living Market for lunch. The cafe is bustling. A music duo gleefully strums and sings at the top of their lungs. They’re really enjoying themselves, but the harmonies are grating and the vibe is annoyingly saccharine. I feel like I’m being entertained against my will.

The duo has brought a small audience with them who clearly believe this duo can do no wrong, but my former record producer self knows better. It’s another recurring theme in Vermont: artists who operate in a bubble and have no idea how pedestrian their work is. Artists don’t get tested enough in Vermont.

I recall a similar disconnect on the event of my father’s 70th birthday. My mother organized an elaborate dinner at their home on Lake Placid. Movers removed all of the furniture from the grand living room and replaced it with dinner tables and seating for forty people. My mother put me in charge of the entertainment.

For years, I’d been going to a Burlington café where Sam the proprietor was quite the jokester, a master teller of classic bar gags. So I thought, there’s an idea: I’ll get my siblings to send me funny bits of information about my dad, and I’ll have Sam work them into his standup routine. I convinced my mother that Sam would have everyone in stitches.

Everything was set to go, when Sam arrived just before showtime and informed me that he couldn’t use any of the family anecdotes. “I don’t really know your dad, so I’ll just go with my usual repertoire.”

From Sam’s very first joke, the formally-dressed audience went into apoplectic shock. To describe this audience as conservative would be an understatement. Those who actually got the jokes were reluctant to laugh, so the room remained in stony silence. Sam’s response to this was to take it up a notch and make the jokes even bluer.

I looked over at my mother. Her face was the color of beet soup. My father forced a smile that he maintained for the entire performance, but he wasn’t laughing.

Only one person laughed, my fire engine friend’s mother. But she wasn’t laughing at the jokes; she was laughing at the absurdity of the situation. After each new zinger, she’d simply exclaim, “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Eventually, my brother gave Sam the shepherd’s hook and moved the party along. Afterward, I asked my mother if she had the check for Sam, and she said, “You mean we actually have to pay him?”

I’m standing in the buffet line at Healthy Living, and a woman approaches me. It’s Stephany, someone I’ve seen occasionally at Starbucks. She’s in her mid-forties, a single mom, has the physique of a twenty five year old. She flashes a mischievous smile and parks herself a foot away from me.

“Hey Stephany,” I say. “How have you been?”

She puts an arm around me and whispers in my ear, “I been thinking about you.”

“Well then,” I say. I’m lost for words, as there’s no basis for what’s happening here.

“What have you been up to?” she says.

“Oh, nothing much.”

“Well, I have to run right now, but we should get together.”

“We’ll touch base at Starbucks,” I say.

Stephany plants a soft kiss on my cheek, and off she goes. Five minutes later, I notice she’s having a similar conversation with another man, ending with the same kiss on the cheek.

In recent years, my dating experiences in Burlington can be summed up like this: women love the idea of dating me, but they have no interest in actually committing themselves to it. When I do date, the commitment is so tentative, I feel like I’m at the bottom of their priority list.

Does anyone actually talk on the phone anymore? The last few Burlington women I dated never answered their phones. All communication was conducted from the safe distance of texting. It’s an indication of how anxiety has affected even the simplest of human interactions. My God, if people can’t even have a conversation on the phone, how will they ever be able to live under the same roof with someone? Psychotherapists must be having a field day.

It’s two o’clock. I’m on the third level of the College Street parking garage, across from City Hall Park. I have a bird’s-eye view of the Church and College intersection. There, at the southwest corner, stands Joe Johnson. There’s no sign of Julia.

From my perch in the parking garage, I keep my eye on the sheriff. Being out of uniform, he blends right in. A few minutes pass, and he’s joined by another man. This guy looks familiar, but I can’t place him. I’ve seen him somewhere in the past few days, that I know. It must have been in a very different context. Then I remember. It’s the Jennison family lawyer, the guy who whisked Julia out of the Plymouth Police Department.

Now, this is getting interesting. These guys are expecting me to show up in response to the note from Julia. But what if I don’t show up? That would tell them that I already know where Julia is. Clearly these guys are searching for Julia, not for me. They must have reason to believe that she’s in Burlington. I’ll call their bluff and stay out of sight.

There’s a mass of humanity moving down Church Street. It’s the Windies again. This time they’ve got signs. Someone out front calls out the cadence, and the whole platoon joins in: WIN-DEE, WIN-DEE, W, I, N, D … WIN-DEE, WIN-DEE, W, I, N, D …

The sheriff and the lawyer become engulfed by the Windies. It’s a perfect opportunity for me slip away unnoticed. I zip down to Main Street in the Tesla and head home again.

While I do live a charmed life, I’m no stranger to calamity. On New Years Day, 2008, I broke my neck. In all my years of living, I’d never broken a bone before. I started at the top. Those words, “broke my neck,” can stop a conversation dead in its tracks.

I did it skiing. Predictably, it was my last ski run of the day. The mountain had gotten six inches of heavy powder the night before, and by the afternoon there were still deep patches of virgin snow. I skied into one of those patches while zipping down a steep trail, which wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t turned fifty yet. Fifty is a magic number in the skiing world—forty-five for women.

When my skis plunged into that patch of snow, my upper body lurched forward—nothing I couldn’t handle, except for the unexpected click emitted by both of my ski bindings. The skis parked themselves, and I took off like a rocket, landing head-first, some twenty feet down the hill. On impact, I heard a crunching sound from inside my head. I fractured C5 and C6.

Several months later, I came to understand why this accident happened, and why my being over fifty had everything to do with it. I was skiing on a new pair of skis, my first new skis since turning fifty, seven years prior to this.

All ski shops in North America use the same formula for adjusting ski bindings. It’s based on your skiing ability, Level 1, 2, or 3, along with your height and weight. Unknown to consumers, however, is an additional factor in the formula that reduces the binding tension for skiers over fifty-years-old, or forty-five for women. It’s in there to compensate for loss of bone mass as people age. The objective is to prevent injuries caused by ski bindings that don’t release easily enough when you fall.

The formula is derived by collecting injury data from thousands of skiers. It’s not perfect. I’m in the rare category of people who got injured because my bindings released too easily.

There is a way around the problem. There’s a hidden skier ability level called 3-plus. It’s used by ski instructors and ski patrol who are over fifty, and it eliminates the age factor. For liability reasons, ski shops don’t openly advertise it. You have to know to ask for it—but only if you’re an expert skier, of course.

My guardian angel deserves a lot of credit. The outcome of this accident could have been much more dire. I healed up with absolutely no lingering after-effects. And once the neck brace came off, I had a new lease on life.

There’s someone at my front door. I open it to find a corpulent woman and a stick of a man. He’s carrying a clipboard and she, a handful of photocopies. Both of them look as if they’ve seen better days.

“Yes?” I say.

“We’re with Truth Vermont,” the woman says. “I’m Ezelda and this is Ronald. We’re in the neighborhood to raise awareness on two very critical issues for Vermonters: Chemtrails and Vaccines.”

I feel my teeth beginning to clench.

“Are you familiar with Chemtrails?” she says.

“Yes, quite familiar. It’s complete nonsense.”

“Apparently, you haven’t read these articles,” the woman says. “There is substantial evidence that Dow Chemical and the United States Government are in cahoots with the airlines to change our environment.”

“The airlines.”

“Yep, that’s right. Only the pilots know about it, and they’re sworn to secrecy. There’s big chemical tanks buried in the belly of every passenger jet.”

“Really.”

“Groups like ours are still trying to figure out exactly what they’re spraying and why, but we’re getting close.”

“What do you think it is?”

“We’ve got it narrowed down to two possibilities. Either it’s something to allow the atmosphere to hold more CO2, or it’s a mind control agent.”

“A mind control agent?”

“Yes, something that would placate the masses and make us forget about the destruction of our natural resources.”

“I see. And you’re campaigning about vaccines too?” I say.

“Yes, absolutely. Vaccines are destroying the human gene pool. Autism is only the tip of the iceberg. The government is creating vaccines to cause large segments of the Earth’s population to become extinct, as a way of dealing with overpopulation. It’s hidden in those shots that babies get.”

“You don’t say.”

“To continue our work, we need all the financial support we can get. Would you be able to make a donation to Truth Vermont?”

“Have you spoken to any real medical doctors about these vaccine theories, including the connection to autism?”

“They’re all part of the conspiracy, right along with the CDC. Why would we talk to them?”

“They might have a little bit more knowledge than you. What are your qualifications?”

(silence)

“That’s what I thought. Please stop frightening people with these idiotic theories. You could be doing a lot more good by helping fight a real problem, like global warming. Good bye now.” And I close the door.

Again I gaze at the note, supposedly written by Julia. Now I’m even more convinced that it’s bogus. If Julia is in town, she’s keeping herself well hidden. She can’t be at a hotel. That would make it too easy for the sheriff to find her. She must be holed up at someone’s home. But then again, she may not be in Burlington at all. She may have sent the sheriff and the lawyer on a wild goose chase.

I glance out the front window. There’s a pickup truck parked down the street that I don’t recognize. There appear to be two men sitting inside it. And, oh yes, it has New Hampshire license plates.

I pick up the phone and dial the Police Department. “I’d like to report a suspicious vehicle on my street.”

Today is beginning to feel like a game of chess, and I’m a knight on a grand chess board. Julia is the queen, and the sheriff is the joker. He doesn’t even belong in this game.

The doorbell rings. I open the door and find two local cops on my doorstep.

“Are you Todd Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“You called in a suspicious vehicle complaint?”

“Indeed I did.” I glance past the cops to the street. The pickup is still there. Two other policemen are speaking with the driver whom I now recognize: it’s the sheriff.

“What made you suspicious about the vehicle?”

“This is a quiet, dead-end street. It’s rare that anyone parks here, unless they live here. I saw those two men sitting in that pickup with out-of-state plates. It looked to me like they might be casing the neighborhood.”

One of the policeman writes on his notepad. “Do you recognize the driver?” he says, nodding toward the pickup.

“Actually, now I do recognize him. He’s a sheriff from Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. His name is Joe Johnson. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a New Hampshire lawyer in the passenger seat.”

“Do you think they’re watching you?”

“Sort of. They’re looking for a woman named Julia Jennison. They both work for her family.”

“Why would they have reason to think she’s here?”

“Because Ms. Jennison and I became acquainted over Memorial Day weekend in Wolfeboro.”

“The sheriff said the two of you were arrested down there.”

I felt a pang of guilt wash over my face like a primordial rainstorm. I grew up with an irrational presumption of guilt, particularly around authority figures, a concept as thin as a paper bag. I take a deep breath and punch my way out of it.

“Yes that’s correct, and all charges were dropped. It all started because someone called in a fake stolen car report about my car. They never figured out who called it in, but I have an idea who it might be,” I say, looking at the pickup truck.

“When did you last see Julia Jennison?”

“When her family lawyer escorted her out of the police station in Plymouth, New Hampshire on Sunday.”

“Do you have any idea where she is now?”

“No idea. I wish I did. I didn’t know she came to Burlington until I saw the sheriff in town, and I’m still not convinced she’s actually here.”

“When did you first see the sheriff in Burlington?”

“Earlier today. From a distance, I saw him peering into my car. By the time I got there, he was gone.”

“Do you mind if we take a look around your house?”

“Not at all. Be my guest.”

The cops take a walk through the house and return to the front door.

“And there’s one other thing,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“This morning, the sheriff came by my house when I wasn’t home.”

“And how do you know that?”

“My video doorbell picked it up. He attached a letter to my front door. It was from Julia Jennison, but I think it might be a fake.”

I show the letter to them. “I think the sheriff’s interest in Ms. Jennison may go beyond what her family had intended, if you get my drift.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a photograph of that letter,” the cop says. “And I’d appreciate it if you could email me a copy of that video. Here’s my card. If anything else comes up, don’t hesitate to contact me, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Will do. Thanks for your help.”

I close the front door and reach for my wallet. There’s a scrap of paper with a phone number scratched on it.

“I wondered how long it would take you to call,” the voice on the other end says.

“Things have gotten surreal since I got home. The sheriff and the family lawyer have been sniffing around Burlington.”

“Oh boy, here we go,” he says.

“Do you think Julia could actually be up here?”

“Anybody’s guess. She has lots of options when it comes to transportation. I suggest you hang tight. Give the sheriff time to give up or get himself in trouble. We had a saying at the bank: It’s always better to let a big shot make a mistake.”

“Good advice, thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Bye.”

My friends Roger and Karen ask me to join them for dinner downtown. Due to a heavy sky, it’s unusually dark for this time of day. A regiment of crows stands at attention on either side of the driveway, watching the Tesla roll by like mourners at a funeral.

I notice fireflies are out for the first time this year, blinking out their glowing love messages. If it were only so simple. Even with all the technology I have at my disposal, I still can’t send a simple message to Julia. She’s vanished. It’s only been a couple of days, but time becomes distorted when your heart aches. The worst part is not knowing what she’s feeling. Doubt lingers in the margins.

Roger and Karen greet me with warm hugs. Such nice people, and lucky too—having found each other later in life. He, the left-brained accountant, and she, the right-brained dreamer perfectly fill the voids in one another.

“Roger and I have been following your story every day,” Karen says. “It’s gotten to the point where we can’t wait for each new chapter.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I say.

“But you have to tell us one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Is Julia a real person?”

“Julia is the most important person in my life right now. Meeting her has changed everything. I know that some of the events surrounding us seem far-fetched, but that’s the reality she lives in. The possibilities seem limitless when we’re together.”

“So you actually spent the night in jail?” Roger says.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, especially since I had the place to myself. A big city jail would have been a lot more intimidating. My biggest fear was the loss of control. But once I got a hold of my brother, I knew things would work out.”

“And you really have no idea where she is now?”

“No idea. During our twenty-four hours together, I neglected to exchange contact info with her. Everything was happening so fast, it just didn’t occur to me to ask for her phone number or give her my card.”

“But then she changed her phone number, right?” Karen says.

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like she didn’t want to hear from you.”

“I can’t imagine why. It just doesn’t add up.”

The waitress comes by to take our order. “Hey, you’re Todd Lockwood aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m completely addicted to your Facebook story. I can’t wait for you to bring Julia in here for dinner. The whole staff is dying to meet her.”

“Thanks,” I say, “I look forward to that myself.”

We have a very pleasant dinner. Karen says that she looks forward to spending some one-on-one time with Julia, that she and Julia have lots in common. “You haven’t looked this happy and charged-up in a long time,” she adds. “It’s pretty obvious that this is someone special.”

“Next time, we’ll get the four of us together,” Roger says. “In the meantime, I’ll start boning up on physics.”

“Good plan, Roger,” I say, “but Julia is also surprisingly normal.”

“You mean, no thick glasses?”

“Exactly. She’s really the ultimate secret weapon. I bet the CIA would love to get their hands on her.”

I arrive back at the house and pace the kitchen. I am determined to find Julia and get us out of this holding pattern. I’m dying to get my arms around her. The muscle memory is still there. The smell of her skin. The sensation of her hand on the back of my neck. Her kiss.

But most of all, I miss her easy smile and her tears. That’s where we are completely on the same page, members of the same emotive tribe.

Julia! When are you going to show me a sign? I can’t believe that letter was really from you. I might have been fooled, were it not for the way it was delivered. What is holding you back? Damn, I wish I knew where you are right now!

I reflexively pull open the refrigerator door, looking for something sweet to nibble on. Then I open the freezer side. Huh. There’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s that I don’t recall buying. I haven’t bought ice cream since 2009 when my heart stents were installed at the hospital.

I stare at it for a moment. Oh, what the hell. I’ll just have one spoonful to satisfy my tastebuds. I skipped desert at the restaurant anyway. I take a spoon from the drawer and pry off the ice cream lid. Inside, instead of ice cream, is a scrunched-up zip-lock bag chocked full of what appears to be crystal methamphetamine.

I take a step back from the counter. Holy crap! How did this get in here? How did it get into my house?

I glance at the top of the refrigerator. The security camera that usually sits there is gone. I run into my office and log onto the security web site, where footage from the web camera is stored. Sure enough, the camera detected activity in the kitchen while I was at dinner. I playback that section of the video…

A man walks into the kitchen. He’s carrying a small paper bag. I recognize him. It’s the sheriff. He reaches into the bag and removes a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Then he opens the freezer and places the carton inside. He looks up and notices the security camera. He grabs the camera, and the video goes black.

I find the card the police officer gave to me and dial the number.

“Officer, there’s been a development here. My home was broken into tonight while I was having dinner downtown. The perpetrator left a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in my freezer. When I opened it, the carton was brimming with what I believe is crystal meth.”

“How do you know it was left while you were downtown?”

“Because I have security webcam footage of the entire incident.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?”

“Yes I do. It was Sheriff Joe Johnson from New Hampshire. The video quality is quite good. After putting the carton in the freezer, the sheriff noticed the security camera and removed it. I’m willing to bet you’ll find it in his truck.”

“Don’t move anything. I’m going to bring an investigator right over.”

The Starbucks bag lady is back. Same table. Same wheeled cart brimming with worldly possessions. Her demeanor has changed, though. The pleasant eye contact is gone. Her body language has taken a turn. She stares at the table. The other outdoor tables are vacant.

I see there’s no coffee in front of her, so I go ahead and buy her one when I buy my own, and I add a little whole milk to it.

“Good morning,” I say. “I saw that you didn’t have your coffee yet, so I went ahead and got one for you.”

She perks up. “Oh, thank you so much. You’re very kind.”

It’s clear that she’s lost the sparkle she had yesterday. I consider whether to carry this conversation beyond the subject of coffee. At this point, I can use all the good karma I can get. What the hell, there’s no harm in talking to her.

“You seem a little sad today. Is everything okay?” I say.

“It’s very nice of you to ask. Actually, yes, I’m worried because I’m going to be losing my room at the Y.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They need to make room for someone else. The Y is considered temporary housing. There’s a limit on how long someone can stay there.”

“So what will you do?”

“Well, being that it’s summer, I’ll probably camp somewhere.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not. That would be lovely.” She straightens up and primps her hair.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Katherine. Katherine Lane.”

I reach out and shake her hand. “I’m Todd. Todd Lockwood.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure, Mr. Lockwood.”

“I have a feeling that your previous life was nothing like the one you’re living now.”

“Oh, you have no idea!” she says. “I was living like a queen.”

“I can imagine that.”

“My late husband and I were at the top of social register in Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“What happened?”

“Narcissism. My husband was a narcissist.”

“You mean like Trump?”

“Yes, except Trump manages to keep himself afloat. My husband Paul lost everything.”

“How did it happen?”

“Paul was quite successful. He made many millions. But in spite of it, he had a very low self-esteem. The only way he could enjoy his success was through the eyes of others. He knew how to make money, but impressing people was always his first priority. He would spend any amount to make people admire him.”

“It almost sounds illogical, to be successful but not be able to appreciate it yourself.”

“Paul had a damaged soul. When he was a young child, his parents withheld their love whenever he didn’t act the way they wanted him to. They permanently damaged his ego.”

“So it eventually led to financial ruin?”

“Yes, on a grand scale. We both had inherited wealth from our families as a fallback, but he burned through all of it. We had the largest home in Greenwich with a fleet of luxury cars, too many to count. We had equally impressive homes in Palm Beach and Palm Springs. Paul had recurring nightmares that his admirers would turn against him. That just made him spend more.”

“So sad, that he couldn’t help himself.”

“I was really conflicted. At times, I actually helped him with his admiration mission, because it brought us together. But I could also see our financial ruin on the horizon. He refused to see it and would just get angry whenever I’d bring it up.”

“So here you are. How did you end up in Burlington, Katherine?”

“Vermonters are very kind people, generally speaking. I feel safe here. So it was a logical choice. I live week-to-week. When I was younger, the adventure of it would have been appealing, but not so much now.”

“How much longer do you have at the Y?”

“Just one week.”

“Well, I’d like to give you something to make your week go a little bit better,” I say, reaching for my wallet. I expect to find a few twenty-dollar bills in my wallet, but instead there’s only one bill: a one-hundred. I pause for a second, but then I realize, I could spend a hundred dollars in a day without even noticing it. I fold the bill to hide the denomination and hand it to Katherine.

“That’s terribly kind of you,” she says.

“Well, your story has meant a lot to me, Katherine. I’ll never forget it.”

Katherine smiles and looks me in the eye. She seems like she could be an old friend from my past, but I know that’s not the case.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to continue the conversation on another day,” I say.

“I hope so.”

“Well, I should get off to my work.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Lockwood.”

I smile and stride over to the Tesla. As soon as I close the door, Bob Dylan’s “You Gotta Serve Somebody” begins playing. I sit there for a minute and listen, occasionally glancing over at Katherine. She’s staring at the table again. Can you imagine, I’m thinking, having such a fine line between a roof over your head and homeless?

I could just drive away right now. I might never see her again. I already did my part. Or did I? My capabilities could go way beyond a handout, and I still wouldn’t be sacrificing anything. I listen to another verse of Dylan. Oh, what the hell. I climb out of the car and walk back over to Katherine’s table. She looks up.

“You know, I just realized something,” I say. “I’ve got a solution for you.”

“Yes?”

“You can stay at my house. I have a very nice guest room with its own bath. You’re welcome to stay until you get your feet on the ground.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

“I insist. It’s absolutely no problem for me. My three children are on their own now, but I’m sure they would enjoy meeting you when they come home to visit.”

Katherine wipes a tear from her cheek. “You are a very special person, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Please, call me Todd.” I hand her my card. “Let’s stay in touch over the next few days, and we’ll figure out the best day for you to move from the Y.”

“You have no idea what a relief this is. I will do everything I can to pay you back.”

“No need to worry about that. Life has a way of creating its own rewards.”

“Indeed it does,” she says.

“You just made my day,” a voice on the telephone says. “It’s all over the papers down here: Local sheriff arrested in Vermont. Wow.”

“It couldn’t have been better if I planned it myself,” I say.

“Julia will be relieved to have him out of her life.”

“I wonder whether she knows yet?”

“She’ll find out soon enough. What else is going on?”

“It’s not related, but I had an extraordinary encounter with a homeless woman at Starbucks this morning. I met her there yesterday, and then she showed up again today. Her story is mind-blowing: from American royalty to homeless in a matter of a few years.”

“That right there would be every wealthy person’s ultimate nightmare scenario,” he says. “At the bank trust department, we called them fatals.”

“I’m going to help her out, let her use my guest room. She seems like a nice person, and her story is interesting as hell.”

“Nice of you.”

“Not a big deal. Easy for me to do. Plus, I can use the karma,” I say.

“Here’s to karma. It’s never let me down.”

“After she gets settled in, we’ll have to get you up for a visit. Her story will blow your mind.”

“I’d like that.”

“Talk soon.”

“Bye.”

I really can’t take credit for the sheriff’s demise. He did it all by himself. On the fingers of one hand I can count the number of times I’ve outwitted a bully in my lifetime. As a kid, I was an easy target for bullies. Their predator instincts could detect my vulnerability from a mile away.

Growing up, I was taught never to talk back to authority figures. That would include parents and teachers, among others. If someone posed as an authority figure, such as a bully, it was only too easy to slip into submission.

These assaults were most often verbal and intended to humiliate me in front of other kids, particularly girls. More than once in grade school, I committed the ultimate social faux pas of breaking down in tears in front of the class. When the teacher took me aside to ask what was wrong, I became mute, following the rules I’d grown up with.

For decades, I dreamed of having the perfect comeback ready to launch at the slightest verbal provocation. But that skill has eluded me. I wished that I could stop time just long enough to come up with a perfect one.

Eventually, I learned to trust that time takes care of everything. All souls eventually find their place. All good deeds eventually get their due.

My phone rings. “Todd, it’s Katherine Lane.”

“Hi Katherine. Is everything okay?”

“I mentioned your kind offer to the director at the Y, and she said that the best option for them is to have me move today, if that’s possible. I don’t want to create any inconvenience for you.”

“Absolutely not a problem, Katherine,” I say.

“The Y has a van to move me and my stuff over there. I don’t have much, so don’t concern yourself with that.”

“No worries.”

“How about if they bring me by around 2 o’clock this afternoon?”

“That would be fine,” I say.

“I’m looking forward to getting settled in, and I’m ready to take on any household tasks that you need done.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you around 2.”

As 2 o’clock approaches, I keep an eye on the street, waiting for the Y’s van to round the corner. I’m feeling really good about this. Hell, it’s really not that big of a deal. She seems like a very nice woman.

A large Mercedes sedan is coming down the street. The side windows are tinted. Huh. They must have made a wrong turn, I’m thinking. The Mercedes parks in front of a neighbor’s house.

The doorbell rings. I open the front door and time stops.

There, standing in front of me, are Katherine Lane and the ex-banker. He’s wearing a subtle smile. Katherine is wearing a lovely sundress. Her hair looks just done and she’s got makeup on.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“I believe you’ve already met my sister, Katherine,” the banker says.

My perplexity gives way to laughter. “Oh my God. You have got to be kidding me.”

The banker holds onto his deadpan smile. Katherine is a different person, confident and poised.

“Please, please, come inside. Clearly, you two have some explaining to do.”

The three of us sit down in the living room.

“So Katherine,” I say, “I’m willing to bet that you’re not actually homeless.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Far from it,” the banker says.

“I’m a broadway actor,” Katherine says. “When this opportunity presented itself, I knew I had to be part of it.”

“What opportunity?”

“You see, I’m a very old friend of Julia Jennison. We went to school together. As Julia may have mentioned, she’s had a terrible history with men—choosing the wrong ones, that is.”

“Yes, I did hear about that.”

“When you came along, thanks to my brother, you were such a perfect match that she couldn’t believe it was real. Frankly, you seemed too good to be true.”

I’m straining to get my head around this.

“So, we devised a little test just to see what you’re really made of. You passed the test when you gave me the hundred-dollar bill. When you came back and invited me to come live in your house, you hit it out of the park. You got me crying for real!”

I’m speechless.

The doorbell rings again. “Probably somebody selling something,” I say.

I go to the door and open it.

Rivers of tears stream down my face. A laugh erupts from deep inside me, pushing its way through the tears. It’s Julia, in all her glory, standing on my doorstep. And she’s crying too.

“Welcome home,” I say through the tears.

“That’s my line,” Julia says. I take Julia’s hands and draw her across the threshold. The door closes with an authoritative clunk.

Our arms quickly find the place where they left off on Sunday, as if only a few hours had passed. I pull her close. The feeling of Julia’s body is both familiar and dazzlingly unfamiliar.

“Now, I’m going to kiss you for real,” Julia says. “Everything before this was hypothetical.”

She’s right. The kiss is different. There is not one molecule of her being that’s somewhere else right now.

“I hope you realize I’m not going to let go of you,” I say.

The banker clears his throat. He and Katherine are standing a just few feet away from us. “We’re going to run along and let you two catch up. I made dinner reservation for us at Hen of the Wood for 7 o’clock. We’ll meet you over there.”

“And it’s on me,” Katherine says. “I found a hundred dollars!”

“Perfect. We’ll see you there,” I say.

Julia reaches over and grasps the banker’s arm. “Thank you,” she says.

“Anything for a friend,” the banker says, and he and Katherine head out the door.

Julia and I are still holding each other. The house is stone quiet. We close our eyes and drift into the silence. The word perfection is inadequate. There is something absolutely right about this feeling. Call it chemistry, synchronicity, whatever. Clearly, Julia’s atoms and my atoms were intended to commingle.

“Okay,” I say. “But first we need a debriefing.”

“Excellent idea, but I wonder what the second thing will be,” she says with a smile.

“We’ll just have to figure it out.”

I pour a couple of glasses of wine, and we settle in. “Let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “How did you happen to sit next to me at the bar in Wolfeboro?”

“When our friend the banker first called me, I was sitting in my car on Main Street. He told me to keep an eye out for a white Tesla. He said the driver was an old friend that I must meet. He was adamant. So I glanced in my rearview mirror and there you were, heading down the street. I followed your car into the restaurant parking lot and parked nearby. I let you go inside first. When I went in, I didn’t see you. So, I asked the bartender if a tall guy with silver hair had just come in, and he pointed to your seat. You were in the men’s room.”

“And then we had the infamous asparagus incident.”

“I fell in love with you right then and there. I’ll never look at asparagus the same way again.”

“You had me at nuclear physics,” I say. “Then there were those words of yours when we walked into your family’s house: welcome home. What was that about?”

Julia is quiet for a moment. “I had this powerful feeling that you were supposed to be there, and those words just popped out. It was like I was seeing the future for a few seconds.”

“And Gus was being incredibly welcoming, talking to me like I was the new owner of the place.”

“I asked him to be nice to you. I told him you were someone special.”

“But he gave me the cold shoulder on Monday as I was leaving town.”

“That’s probably because the sheriff got to him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. What do you make of the sheriff? Pretty wild, huh?”

“He’s getting exactly what he deserves. I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”

“The banker gave me some insights about the sheriff before I came back here, so I was prepared. But then there was the note from you attached to my front door.”

“I know I didn’t put it there.”

“The sheriff did. My video doorbell button caught him in the act, but he didn’t know it.”

“What happened to that note?”

I retrieve it from the dining table, and Julia studies it.

“That’s weird. It seems as if I could have written it, but that’s not my handwriting.”

“Of course, I hadn’t seen your handwriting yet. If it wasn’t for the doorbell video, I would have assumed it was real. Apparently, the sheriff was trying to trick me,” I say.

“I think he had this silly idea that I might be interested in him. That might explain why he was hell-bent on getting you out of the picture.”

“My mind was in such a confused state when we were in the back of the trooper car. I wanted so badly to hold your hand. Right after we arrived at the Plymouth Police station, I realized that I didn’t have your phone number.”

“I feel terrible about what happened there,” Julia says. “As soon as the trooper called in our names, my family sprang into action. Since they really didn’t know anything about you yet, they left you to deal with it on your own. Erasing the family name from the police record was the top priority. I should have put my foot down.”

“And then you changed your phone number?”

“The family lawyer recommended it. I knew you didn’t have the number, so, it didn’t seem to matter. Of course, I forgot about our friend, the banker.”

The missing puzzle pieces are falling into place. “Did you hear about the boy? His backpack?”

“No, what about it?” Julia says.

“There was a half-pound of meth inside it.”

“Oh my God. Somebody was using him.”

Julia and I enter Hen of the Wood restaurant, and the staff snaps to attention. I’ve been going there regularly for several years, always solo, and the staff members who know me are startled to see a beautiful woman at my side. All that time, I must have seemed like an unfinished puzzle to them.

Burlington reminds me of Disney’s Magic Kingdom. Its young, healthy population never seems to age. That’s because a new crop arrives every fall to fill the colleges, and most of the graduates leave to seek opportunity elsewhere. For those who stick around for a few decades, life in this idyllic place can become a slow-motion descent into loneliness. For a single guy over fifty, life in this magic kingdom can be a cruel joke.

I’m not sure which scenario is worse: being so out of practice in meeting women that the prospect intimidates, or having young women respond when they have no intention of getting involved.

While we wait for the hostess to seat us, an attractive woman passes by and smiles at me. It’s not someone I know, but I’m struck by the realization that Julia’s presence is the reason. Had I been standing here alone, the woman probably would have avoided my gaze altogether.

Likewise, just knowing that Julia is in my life re-energized something in me. I feel like I could approach any woman I want without intimidation. It’s one of the great ironies of being in love: when you are least available you are most eligible. A person in love is a lot more attractive than a person in the throes of loneliness. Perhaps that explains why my married male friends are so envious of my singledom. They’d love to be in my shoes. But they’re not seeing the whole picture.

Julia is glowing. Her presence is being felt throughout the room. I can feel it.

“I can seat you now,” the hostess says.

I follow Julia through the dining room to a table on the far side. The restaurant is packed. Every eye in the place is on her, men and women alike. Julia neither gloats on the attention nor ignores it. She knows exactly who she is and seems completely at ease offering this message of beauty and confidence.

We order a couple of drinks and the hostess reappears with Katherine and the banker. “Well, I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Katherine says.

“Not at all,” Julia says with her eyes on me. “We’ve been filling in the missing pieces for each other.”

“And what a saga it is,” Katherine says.

“I think this calls for a little celebration,” the banker says. He orders a bottle of Champagne.

The glasses are poured, and I make the first toast. “Here’s to lives fully lived and friends not forgotten.”

The banker counters with a toast of his own. “Here’s to karma.”

“You know, Katherine,” I say. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to this version of you. Your homeless performance was so authentic.”

“Thank you. It was a fun challenge.”

“I’m curious about the life story you mentioned about your late husband losing everything to narcissism. Where did that idea come from?”

“Oh that. An old friend of mine went through it. Same situation. Lost everything.”

“Maybe we should take a look at the menu,” the banker says.

A man approaches our table and reaches out to shake the bankers’s hand. “Hey Don, it’s Jim Wheeler!”

The banker’s face is frozen. “I think you must be mistaken,” the banker says.

“From Boston,” the man says.

The banker shakes his head. “No, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Wow, you’re a spitting image of him. Sorry to bother you.” The man goes back to his table.

Katherine and Julia stare at one another.

“Now where were we?” the banker says. “Ah yes, the menu.”

The car whispers its way toward home. RJ is singing “Just Like a Woman.” Julia looks beautiful in the passenger seat. We’ve barely said a word to each other since leaving the restaurant, but it doesn’t seem to matter. We both luxuriate in the moment.

Julia breaks the silence. “I just want to say one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to be sleeping with you tonight.”

As much as I try to suppress it, I can’t help but grin at this announcement. Our hands find each other between the seats. Julia leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I’m glad you had a nice, healthy, dinner,” she sighs.

We step into the house. Julia immediately takes my hand and guides me up the staircase. There’s no point in more wine or conversation. Not right now. We have a date with destiny. The orchestra is tuning their instruments.

I find an unused vanilla candle in the bathroom vanity. There was no need for it until tonight. I place it on the bedside table and light it. This concert will be lit by one candlepower.

Julia slides out of her dress with the finesse of a cellist. Gravity takes care of the rest. The concertmaster takes his position. The conductor takes a bow.

The concerto begins.

The cellos open with quarter note triplets. They are joined by the basses. Then the violins bring in the counterpoint, and the woodwinds, texture.

The sensation of skin against skin is one that I haven’t felt for a long time. I forgot how fundamental it is. Our hands are studying, searching, and memorizing. There is so much to know.

Julia’s long arms and legs mirror my own. Her body responds to mine, which responds to hers, which responds to mine… in an ever-intensifying circle of understanding. I note the similarities and differences in our physical vocabulary, and I get to work with my internal thesaurus. The language of love is easily translated, so much of it is universal.

The concerto grows in magnitude. Julia’s heartbeat keeps time. The concertmaster now owns the melody on his solo Stradivarius. The brass comes in.

I’m getting drunk on Julia’s pheromones. The smell of her skin and the taste of her breath seem so right. Our kisses are tantalizingly delicate.

“I want you.” Julia whispers, three words that need no translation.

The entire orchestra is involved now. The tympani booms its mark, and a french horn exalts in gratitude.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…

We’re soaring.

Julia and I are awakened by a cacophony outside the open bedroom window. Dawn has arrived. I climb out of bed and open the wooden blinds. A murder of crows encircles the house, rejoicing at the top of their lungs. Apparently, they have something to celebrate.

“I think this is for us,” I say.

“Let’s go see,” Julia says.

I slip into my bathrobe and hand another one to Julia. We glide down the staircase and step out the back door onto the deck. One by one, the crows land on the grass in front of us, until they’ve formed a large semicircle with Julia and me at the center. We step to the railing, like a king and queen at a public greeting. The crows stand quietly.

“This is so beautiful,” Julia says. “We love you,” she shouts to the crows.

“I think they’re waiting for something,” I say. I take Julia into my arms and we share a lingering kiss.

The crows react in a chorus of appreciation and take to the air. They circle the house twice more and disperse in all directions. The convocation is over.

I first became curious about my connection with crows in 1980. That’s the year I started a music recording studio in my carriage house apartment in Burlington. I needed a name for the studio, so I gave myself a two-week deadline to come up with one.

A few days later, I happened to be driving south on Interstate 87 in New York, when the perfect name presented itself. I came upon an albino crow standing next to a guardrail. This crow was nearly as white as a gull. The idea that a streetwise bird such as a crow would be black made perfect sense, but a white crow would be a very special bird indeed. I had my name.

I built the studio to record my own songs. Songwriting was my primary focus at the time. Eventually, bands in the area heard about my studio and came calling. I told them, “Sure, come on over. I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing, but let’s try recording something.” It was trial by fire.

I felt comfortable around the technology—an echo of my childhood interest in all things electrical, combined with my musical background. Three years into this venture, a real estate investment I’d made in Colorado paid off, and I found myself in the position to take the studio to a higher level.

I rented a warehouse space in the Pine Street neighborhood of Burlington and hired an architect. We discovered an original set of plans for the building, dated the same day I was born. That’s when I realized that this was probably meant to be. By 1990, White Crow was recording national acts from around the country.

From the beginning, I wanted the studio to be about more than just music. I wanted it to be a storytelling platform, a place that would inspire musicians to allow their work to serve a higher purpose. Large black and white portraits adorned the walls, but they weren’t portraits of musicians; they were portraits of writers, actors and other personalities.

A giant airbrushed image of a beautiful running woman covered one wall in the main studio. It was based on a photograph I took of a friend in Lake Placid in 1970.

Julia and I are showered and dressed. The doorbell rings. It’s Katherine and the banker. “Good morning,” I say. “How about some coffee?”

“That sounds lovely,” Katherine says.

“Sounds good to me, too,” the banker says.

“So, how’s your morning going so far?” Katherine says.

Julia shakes her head. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. I experienced one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Todd seems to have a way with crows.”

“They came to see you, Julia,” I say.

“Crows are smarter than people realize,” the banker says. “That’s why you rarely see a dead one. They also stay with the same mate for life.”

“They’ve probably been getting a bad rap because people confuse them with ravens,” Katherine says.

“So, do you have to go back home today?” I say.

“We need to head back, but perhaps Julia can hang around,” Katherine says.

Julia puts an arm around me. “If he’ll have me.”

“Now there’s a tough decision,” the banker says.

“Well, there is that pottery club mixer,” I say.

Julia gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Cancelled!” I shout. “Let’s get that coffee going.”

The coffee is finished, and Katherine and the banker have left. Julia and I sit in the silence of the house, gazing at one another. I’m still feeling a bit dazed from our lovemaking, but also more relaxed than I’ve felt in years.

“Really nice people, Katherine and the banker,” I say.

“Yes, they are.”

“That was a weird moment last night. In the restaurant, when that guy came over and thought his name was Don.”

“Actually, Todd, his name is Don. You deserve to know.”

“Really? Why would he want to cover it up?”

“He just wants to forget that period of his life. A lot of things happened that he’d rather not remember.”

“But you can’t just change the channel and expect your past to disappear. You have to grow out of your past. It takes time.”

“I know.”

“What does Katherine make of it?” I say.

“She understands.”

“I think it would be a little weird to have a sibling behaving like that.”

“But here’s the thing.” Julia says. “Katherine is not Don’s sister. She’s actually his wife.”

There are certain coincidences in life that defy explanation, where the term serendipity is insufficient. At times, it feels as though an intelligent being, perhaps a deceased friend or relative, is manipulating reality back here in the mortal world. I experienced numerous examples of this when the Brautigan Library was in its heyday in the 1990’s.

As I mentioned, the film Field of Dreams, based on William P. Kinsella’s novel, Shoeless Joe Jackson Comes To Iowa, served as the catalyst to begin creating the Brautigan Library.

In the spring of 1991, after the library had been open for about a year, I received a letter from Seattle’s Bumbershoot Book Festival, the largest book fair in the country. They wanted to know whether we would consider transporting the entire library—books, shelving, everything—from Burlington to Seattle for the week-long Bumbershoot Festival. They offered to pay all expenses, including a plane ticket and accommodations for me. A replica of the library would be created there, and I’d be the official tour guide. The Brautigan Library board thought it was a splendid idea.

On the first day of the festival, while showing visitors around the library exhibit, a man with a warm smile approached me and said, “Hi. I’m Bill Kinsella.” I was stunned.

“You have no idea what a coincidence this is,” I said. “Without your magic baseball field, this library might never have happened.”

Kinsella smiled. “Well it might interest you to know, that were it not for Richard Brautigan, I never would have written that book. Brautigan is the reason I began writing fiction.”

“And the circle continues,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. Say, I’m going to be interviewed on a Seattle radio station this afternoon. Why don’t you join me. We’ll go on together.”

“I’d love to do that.”

“I’ll come by and pick you up here at 2:30. Pleasure meeting you,” he said. Bill Kinsella and I stayed in touch for years afterward.

Another extraordinary example of this magic occurred back in Burlington. The library received a collection of short stories from a lady in Louisiana. As was our normal procedure, the book found its way to the librarian’s desk, where the volunteer librarian on duty gave the book a perusal—just to see if it might be worth highlighting for the news media. Other than that, there was no judging going on at the Brautigan. Every book sent to us was given a space on the shelves regardless of quality or content.

While looking over this particular book, the librarian found one of the woman’s short stories to be oddly familiar. It was about a bald-headed family. She read the story through, and then it hit her: it was remarkably similar to a published short story by Burlington author, Joseph Citro.

She grabbed the telephone directory, found Joseph Citro’s number and called him. Citro was curious enough to come down to library and take a look for himself. The woman’s story was an exact copy of his story, except that all of the character names had been changed.

Now, what are the odds that this woman in Louisiana would send her plagiarized short story to the very town where the author lived, and that he would find out about it? It defies reason. It seemed as though the late Richard Brautigan had been pulling some strings here, and probably getting a big kick out it, too!

I gave Joseph Citro the woman’s telephone number. Imagine her surprise when she received his call.

“How did you first meet Katherine,” I ask Julia.

“I was in my late twenties. We were both summering in Wolfeboro. It was just a matter of time before we’d get to know one-another. She was like an older sister to me.”

“And she was already married to Don at that point?”

“Not quite. She married him about five years later. He was a very different person then. You would barely recognize him from the person he is now.”

“How so?” I say.

“Don was larger than life. Everything he did was taken to the max. He was obsessed with his public image. He had to be the best at anything he did. He had to have the biggest house and the longest boat. Every time a new house of any size broke ground in the area, he’d have aerial photos taken to insure that it wasn’t bigger than his.”

“He sounds like an egomaniac.”

“Actually, Don’s ego was at fault, but not for the reason you might think. His ego was seriously damaged when he was a child. In spite of appearances, he had a very low sense of self-esteem. His only recourse was to rely on admiration from others to pump up his damaged ego. It’s called Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

“Katherine told a similar story when she posed as the homeless woman.”

“Her story may not have been that far from the truth.”

“So he really did lose everything?”

“Don got so obsessed with being perceived as omnipotent, he spent himself right into bankruptcy. It was pretty scary to watch. He would not listen to reason. Not for a minute. When things got bad, the bank let him go.”

“Did Katherine manage to hide some of her own money?” I say.

“Katherine inherited some money a few years after the bankruptcy. Her assets are protected. She supports Don at this point.”

“Don seems like a pretty normal person now. He must have gone through quite a transformation.”

“Years of therapy,” Julia says, “But the biggest catalyst has been the lack of cash to exercise his whims. His hands are tied.”

It is startling to think that Julia is talking about the banker, the same sweet guy that arranged for Julia and me to meet. I need to process this information for a while. I have a feeling that it’s not the end of Don’s story.

Julia looks beautiful sitting there on my couch. “I’m yours today,” she says. “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you.”

There’s part of me that doesn’t want to stray too far from the house, or more specifically the bedroom, while Julia’s here. But I would like to show her my roots. “I want to take you over to the Adirondacks,” I say.

“Let’s go!”

We hop into the Tesla and head north on Interstate 89. The car navigates us to the ferry crossing at Grand Isle. New York’s Adirondack mountains rise in quiet splendor on the far side of Lake Champlain. I pull up to the ticket booth. The lady in the booth appears to be in shock. She’s motionless, just staring at the ferry dock.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “A young man just pulled out of line in his jeep and gunned it. He went right through the gate and out into the lake. It just happened a minute ago.”

“Oh my God. This is terrible,” Julia says, staring at the vacant ferry slip.

There’s no sign of the car. No sign of the driver either. People begin congregating on the gravel next to the ferry slip. I park the car and we join them.

Two ferry dock workers jump into the lake, but apparently the car is lost in the deep, murky water. They can’t see it. Someone has called the rescue squad. A rabbi explains to his three young children that this is what death looks like, that it is sad, but in this case not an accident.

“What do you suppose?” Julia says.

“Looks like a suicide. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. This would be a guy who built his whole life around the girl who just walked out on him.”

“Or maybe he never met her in the first place.”

“Yeah, that could be, too,” I say.

“So sad.” Julia takes my hand in hers, and we walk back to the car.

The rescue truck arrives, and a diver emerges from the depths with the young man’s body. The ferryboat pulls into the adjacent slip and we drive onboard.

As the ferry pulls away, a group congregates at the stern and gazes silently toward the dock. Julia and I join them. She holds me tight while the rabbi recites a prayer. Such an unexpected event in an otherwise lovely day. We walk to the other end of the ferryboat.

“When you cross this lake, it’s like going back to a different era,” I say. “New York State could be a thousand miles away from Vermont, the two cultures are so different.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, most of these upstate New Yorkers have lived here for generations. There’s not a lot of transplants around. When I was twenty, most of my friends wanted to get away from here. A lot of us went to Colorado.”

“So what’s the attraction for you now?”

“There’s something solid and time-honored about it—less of the politically correct inclinations you find in Vermont, but not overly conservative either. Somehow, people just seem more authentic over here.”

“Why didn’t you move back here after Colorado then?” Julia says.

“Because of a girl I never met.”

“Please do tell.”

“When I moved back from Denver, I didn’t know where I’d end up. I figured it would either be in Vermont or Upstate New York. So I put everything in storage in Albany and spent the summer checking out various areas in my VW Beetle. I had a suitcase and my ten-speed. That’s it.”

“So where was the girl?”

“In Hanover. She worked at a bookstore there, in the children’s book department. She was stunningly pretty. Every time I got near her, my heart started racing, and I’d get wrenched with anxiety.”

“Why didn’t you just strike up a conversation with her?”

“In a different context, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but I had no business hanging around the children’s book department which was on a separate floor.”

“It sounds like you were smitten!”

“Yeah, I suppose I was. But there was a disconnect. I don’t think she had any idea of my interest in her.”

“I’ve had a few of those, too, where I was infatuated with someone who had no clue,” Julia says. “Unrequited love can be tough.”

“I imagine you’ve been the object of some infatuations, too.”

Julia smiles. “Oh yeah. That too. So you ended up settling in the area because of her?”

“It was more by coincidence than intention. I happened to stop at a diner in Woodstock. Just out of curiosity, I opened the local paper to the rental ads, and there it was: a furnished, three-bedroom cape on forty acres with sixty head of Scotch Highland cattle, for $350 a month. It included a caretaker who maintained everything. It was a writer’s paradise, and I’d been thinking about getting more serious about writing.”

“So, what happened to the girl? Did you ever get to meet her?”

“Well, sort of. I got myself a Golden Retriever puppy to keep me company in Woodstock. I named him James after the James Taylor song, Sweet Baby James. I took him over to Hanover one day when he was still quite little, tied him to a parking meter and zipped into a coffee shop to grab a coffee to go.”

“I know where this is going,” Julia says.

“When I came outside, there was the girl from the bookstore, crouched down and fully engaged with James. I said, I think he likes you. She replied with a cynical comment about the “cliché red bandana” I’d tied around his neck. I realized right then and there, I’d completely misread this girl.”

Julia nods knowingly. “The mind is a very powerful thing, especially when the heart gets involved. I always suspected that I’d meet the right man without any intention at all, completely by surprise.”

“Years later, I learned that she’d been the object of many young men’s infatuations in Hanover. I wasn’t alone. Perhaps she’d become hardened by all that attention, making her less likely to be open to a dreamer like me.”

Lake Placid beckons.

Lake Placid feels different with Julia, like I’ve finally arrived as my own person. My parents, and particularly my mother, had such a big presence in this town. I was always “one of the Lockwood sons” when I’d come to Lake Placid, even into my fifties.

The view up Main Street from the original traffic light has barely changed in fifty years, with the notable exception of the Olympic Field House—the place where a miracle occurred during the 1980 Winter Olympics.

Norm’s Barber Shop still occupies the same little building it did in 1965. North Elba Town Hall is unchanged. Lake Placid High School looks exactly the way it always did. Various buildings along Main Street have been renovated or repurposed, but the overall feel is the same. The stone churches hold their own. The Palace Movie Theater stands frozen in time.

“I want to show you an authentic Adirondack watering hole,” I say.

“You mean a bar?” Julia says.

“Yeah, but they have pretty decent soups and salads there as well.”

We find a parking space, and I slide the car in.

The sidewalk bustles with tourists. It looks like there might be a convention in town. “You’re gonna love this place,” I say. “It’s been here since the sixties.”

I see a familiar face coming our way, a hotel owner in town. “Welcome, Mr. Lockwood,” he says.

“Hi George, nice to see you. This is my friend Julia.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Julia. Well, Todd, you certainly haven’t lost your taste for beautiful women.”

“You’re very kind,” Julia says.

“So, what brings you over here today?”

“I wanted to give Julia the inside scoop on the area.”

“Well, you’re the right man for the job,” he says.

“Great to see you, George.”

“Pleasure meeting you,” Julia says.

Julia and I continue walking. “That was interesting,” I say.

“How so?”

“I’ll explain when we get to the bar.”

The bar’s interior is classic sixties-rustic, with booths along one wall. We slide into one of them. A painted motto above the bar reads, You Only Live Twice. It’s a subtle reminder that for eons this village has been alcohol-fueled. In 1969, the word alcoholic was not in the local lexicon. Such people were simply described as “not being able to handle their booze.” There was no local AA chapter. There was only the town jail.

There’s a couple of guys in matching blue windbreakers at the bar, with some sort of insurance logo on the back. Must be here for a convention. I order a bottle of sparkling water, two wine glasses, and lunch menus.

“So, what was so interesting about that encounter outside?” Julia asks.

“The fact that he called me Mr. Lockwood. It may have been that he simply forgot my first name, but for me it has special meaning here in Lake Placid.”

“How so?”

“In 1977, during the period I lived in Woodstock, I came back to Lake Placid for Thanksgiving. I was twenty-seven. My dad and I were sitting in the living room reading magazines when the telephone rang. I’d been expecting a call from a friend in Colorado, so I sprang up to answer it.”

“There was an operator on the other end. She said she had a person-to-person call for Mr. Todd Lockwood. I said, this is Mr. Lockwood, and she connected us. I spoke to my friend for ten minutes or so. When I returned to my seat, my dad looked as though his head was about to explode. He let loose in a fury. There is only one Mr. Lockwood in this house!”

“Wow. How did you respond to that?”

“I just let it go.”

“It’s amazing that you didn’t end up in a loony bin somewhere?”

“Nothing that a few years of therapy couldn’t fix. But actually, I never went for help. My rich imagination saved me, and the childhood experiences of being bullied may have helped too. Deep down, I had a very solid constitution. I always knew who I was.”

“So you like being called, Mr. Lockwood?” Julia says.

“I’ve never felt like I needed that, the way my father did. But when I’m in Lake Placid, it does have special meaning for me.”

I get up to use the men’s room. “I’ll be right back. Damn, you’re beautiful.”

Julia smiles.

When I return from the men’s room, things have changed. The two insurance dudes appear to have invited themselves to our booth. One of them is sitting next to Julia and the other across from her. They’ve brought a bottle of champagne and four glasses with them. “Hey, come join the party,” one of them says.

“I don’t think so, guys.”

Julia presses a finger against her lips, as if to say, no, just let this go.

I sit down in the remaining spot. One of the guys begins pouring the champagne, spilling half of it on the table. The other guy, the one next to Julia, reaches over to give me a handshake. “I’ve been wanting to meet you,” he says. Then he puts an arm around Julia and says, “And I’ve REALLY been wanting to meet you.”

I’m about reaching my limit, when Julia signals someone at the entrance to come over. It’s two Lake Placid Police officers. “Did you contact 9-1-1, ma’am?”

“Yes, I did. These two strangers in the blue jackets have been acting inappropriately. We’d appreciate it if you would remove them.”

“You’re Mr. Lockwood, aren’t you, sir?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience.” The officers escort the two men out the door.

“How in the heck did you do that?” I say.

“It’s always good to be prepared for the unexpected,” Julia says.

My friend Kirby lives on a seldom travelled road on the outskirts of Lake Placid. A mailbox cobbled together from acoustic guitar remnants is the only thing you see. I steer into the gravel drive through a stand of white pines. Kirby’s one-room cabin sits as testament to the irrelevance of time.

The cabin door swings open, and Kirby steps outside with his usual infectious grin. His lanky frame and shoulder-length hair haven’t changed in decades, but his face appears more chiseled. “Well, what do you know!” he says.

“Hey, Kirby. How the hell are you?” There’s a warm handshake. “This is my friend, Julia. We met recently in New Hampshire, and I’ve been dizzy ever since.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “So what brings you to Placid?”

“I thought I’d bring Julia over here to get a taste of the old Adirondack charm.”

“Hah! I guess we’ve still got some of that left.”

“It’s a beautiful spot you’ve got here,” Julia says.

“Thanks. I’ve been here more years than I can count. I figure, if your life isn’t broken, then there’s no point in replacing it.”

Julia smiles.

“Come on in. I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

The cabin is crammed with unframed oil paintings, many of them half-finished. An old typewriter sits on a table by a window, a three-inch-tall manuscript stacked next to it.

Julia studies one of the paintings. “Kirby, you seem to be a very prolific artist.”

“Oh, it’s just something I’ve been grinding away at. I’ve sold a few over the years, but it’s mainly a way to keep my brain occupied.”

“That looks like a pretty serious manuscript,” I say.

“I’ve got eleven years in that one. It’s similar to the one I did before it. All four-hundred pages are one continuous sentence. The only period is the one at the very end. I had to restart it a couple of times, because I’d written myself into a corner. That happens.”

“What’s it about?” Julia says.

“The absurdity of life.”

“That’s a big subject.”

“I’ve become sort of an expert on it,” Kirby says with a grin.

“Can you elaborate?”

“Back in sixty-nine, we all had big dreams. Todd and I, and a lot of our friends, moved to Colorado. I was writing lots of poetry back then. We truly believed there was a better way. Our spiritual guidance came from people like Crosby, Stills and Nash.”

“Even John Denver,” I say.

“So anyway, I took a hike up in the hills outside Boulder, looking for inspiration for another poem. I got lost. I didn’t bring any food or camping gear with me, and I was getting a little freaked out.”

“That sounds scary,” Julia says.

“So I start following this logging road. Eventually, it opened into a clearing, and up the hill I see a house. So I hike up toward it. The front door opens, and a guy in sunglasses steps out onto the porch with a rifle. He says, this is private property. So I tell him I’m lost and I just need some water, a little food and directions back to Boulder. He stands there for a minute, and then he invites me in.”

“The house was full of guitars. The guy is pulling food out of the fridge for me. I still hadn’t seen his face up close. He turns around, and it’s Stephen Stills, one of my all-time heroes.”

“It sounds like that was meant to happen,” Julia says.

“That’s what I thought too. I ended up spending three days there, playing guitar with him and sharing my poetry. He liked one of my poems enough to make a song out of it, and it appeared on one of his next albums. As payment, he gave me a 1930 Martin guitar.”

“Yeah,” I said. “When Kirby returned to Lake Placid with that story, nobody believed him. Then he pulls the guitar case out of his car with Stephen Stills name printed on it. Blew everybody’s mind.”

Kirby continues, “So, I went back to Colorado again. I played that guitar every day and was getting pretty good at it. I was living at a friend’s house and owed him a favor. So, I helped him split some firewood. He rented a hydraulic log splitter to make it easier. We worked as a team on the splitter and talked about music the whole time.”

Julia notices the two truncated fingers on Kirby’s left hand. “Oh my God, please stop.” A lone tear slides down her cheek.

“Well, that was the end of my music dreams. I sold the Stephen Stills guitar. I couldn’t bear to have it around. My own guitar got turned into a mailbox, something I can actually use. Sorry, it is a sad story.”

“Those are the most important stories to tell,” I say. “Hey, how’s Hank doing?”

“He’s good. Let’s go around back, and we’ll introduce him to Julia.”

We follow Kirby to the back of the cabin. There’s a large chickenwire cage resting on a couple of sawhorses. Kirby slides a leather glove onto his right hand, opens the cage door and emerges with a strapping red-tailed hawk. The bird is wearing a leather cap that covers its eyes. Kirby gently removes it with his free hand.

“There’s another glove there that you can put on, Julia. Just keep your hand in a fist.”

Julia dons the glove and takes one step closer. “He’s magnificent!”

“Hank, this is Julia.” Julia raises her gloved hand and Hank climbs aboard. He cocks his head, studying Julia’s face.

“Nice to meet you, Hank,” Julia says.

Hank screeches.

“Now, raise him up a little higher.” Kirby emits a kissing sound, and Hank launches himself in a flurry. He climbs quickly to the height of the treetops and circles above them. “There’s no place he’d rather be than up there.”

Kirby cups his hands like a megaphone and lets out a high-pitched screech. Hank dives toward the ground, swoops in front of us, and soars back up to the sky.

Julia’s eyes are welled up again, and mine are too. “So beautiful,” she says.

Kirby has Hank repeat the maneuver several more times.

“Raise your hand again, Julia.” Kirby lets out a loud whistle. Hank circles down, wings spread, and flaps to a gentle landing on Julia’s hand.

“I’ll never look at a hawk the same way again,” Julia says.

“Enjoy your visit,” Kirby says.

“Our next stop is with the Strategic Air Command,” I say. “Julia thinks I’m joking.”

He looks like he just stepped out of a 1920’s spy thriller. Black fedora, pinstriped suit, and body language from a bygone era. His name is Victor Higgenworth, and he’s one of the most unique individuals I’ve had the pleasure to know.

He reaches out to shake Julia’s hand. “Todd said he wanted me to meet the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the world. You must be Julia.”

“Yes,” Julia giggles, “but Todd is prone to hyperbole at times.”

“Indeed a pleasure. I’m Victor Higgenworth.”

“What a beautiful place you have here,” Julia says. “The building is gorgeous. Reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright.”

“Thanks. It started with a moment of divine inspiration a few years ago. My friends and family thought I’d lost my mind—except for a few like-minded souls like Todd. But now that it’s ready to unveil, I’m glad I stayed the course.”

Julia nods. “Those inspirations are rare gifts. It’s important to follow them.”

“What sort of work do you do, Julia?”

“I’m a physicist. I develop systems for nuclear medicine.” The words roll off Julia’s tongue like she’s describing a recipe.

“Wow. You don’t say.”

“How ‘bout yourself?” she says.

“I’m a concert musician and composer. When I was a kid, my family summered in Lake Placid. Todd and I met there when we were ten years old. We didn’t realize it at the time, but this facility was being constructed that same year—with the exception of this new building of course.”

“What sort of facility is it?” Julia asks.

“Allow me to show you.”

Victor leads us through the glass doors and into a spacious atrium. A receptionist greets us, and we follow Victor into an elevator. Down, down we go. The elevator door reopens, and we step into a large circular room with a hardwood floor. Beautiful paintings grace the walls.

“Okay, I give up,” Julia says.

Victor smiles. “You’re inside an Atlas Intercontinental Ballistic Missile Complex, built in 1961, just prior to the Cuban Missile Crisis. A dozen of them were built in a circle around the Plattsburgh Air Force Base, including two in Vermont. This would have been the launch control room. Now it serves as our lounge.”

“Fascinating,” Julia says. “How long was it in service?”

“Only four years,” Victor says. “The Air Force shut them all down in ’65, because the Atlas had a dubious safety record. Several Atlas missiles in other parts of the country exploded in their silos during routine refueling tests. Fortunately, the nuclear warheads didn’t go off.”

“How did you happen to acquire this one?”

“In the early seventies, the government auctioned these complexes off to the general public, after removing any sensitive equipment, of course. They sold for about one-tenth of one percent of their original cost. People bought them mainly for their scrap metal value. I’m the fourth owner of this one.”

I can see that Julia’s curiosity is cranked up to ten. Victor leads us through a tunnel-like passage and into cavernous circular space. The ceiling is several stories above us. “Step right up to the railing,” Victor says. “The view is breathtaking.”

Julia peers over the railing and grabs my arm. “Oh my God!”

“This is where an Atlas missile once stood. It’s fourteen stories to the bottom and fifty-two feet in diameter. I’ve made it into a vertical concert hall. We named it, The Adirondack Vertical Theater.”

Julia’s mouth is agape. Thirty feet below us, a cantilevered stage juts out over the vast space. A concert grand piano stands at its center. Off to our left, a pair of glass elevators extends down the silo wall.

We board one of the elevators and glide down to the stage level. Rows of audience seating rise to our right.

“You’ve come a long way here, Victor,” I say. “The place looks remarkable.”

“Thanks. It’s been a lot of work. We designed it to accommodate a variety of musical styles. Musicians can be placed above or below the stage level, making them sound very close or way off in the distance. It’s an effect unique to this hall. We’re also pushing the envelope with the use of lighting and effects.”

“Has anything like this been done before?” Julia says.

“Not that I’m aware of. When I first came into this space and heard the sound of it, it’s the first thing I thought of. Then it just became a matter of figuring out how to do it. There are several composers writing pieces for this hall right now.”

“I’d love to hear something,” Julia says.

Victor smiles. “Well, you’re in luck. Several of my musician friends are here today. We still have some finishing touches to do before the first public performance, but we’d be delighted to play something for you.”

A man and two women emerge from the second elevator. “Allow me to introduce Mark Fisher on French horn, Marilyn Oaks on violin, and Sarah Richards on cello.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julia says. “We’re honored to be here for a preview.”

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Victor says. “We just need a moment to take our positions.” Julia and I take our seats in the front row.

Victor, Marilyn Oaks, and Sarah Richards make their way around the silo on a steel catwalk, while Mark Fisher rides the elevator down to the bottom. The cavernous space is eerily quiet. Victor takes his seat at the piano, Marilyn and Sarah on nearby chairs.

The house lighting slowly dims, and the stage lights come up. Victor leans toward the microphone. “This is one my original compositions. It’s titled, Tsunami.”

From far off in the distance, we hear the unmistakable sound of the French horn like a call in the wild.

Victor starts in on the piano. A proud melody emerges, suggesting an earlier time. Marilyn Oaks picks up the melody on her violin. Sarah joins in with a half-note counterpoint on the cello.

The composition grows more complex. Marilyn shifts into a minor key on the violin, while Victor holds firm. The piano and the violin tug at one another. Sarah propels the piece forward on her cello. The tempo picks up, and the battle becomes more fierce. Back and forth, the piano and the violin fight for dominance.

All at once, stage goes dark and the music ceases. We’re sitting in total darkness. The silo begins to rumble. Red light advances up the silo walls from below. The rumble grows more and more intense, until we are enveloped by the roar of a tsunami.

The roar fades away, and a pool of light encircles Victor. He gently begins. The new melody is melancholy, and haunting in its simplicity.

The silo walls have disappeared, replaced by a starry sky that goes on forever. Shooting stars zip past us.

Marilyn and Sarah join Victor with a beautiful harmonizing counterpoint.

Julia’s tears glisten in the stage light. “This is so beautiful,” she whispers. My tears are flowing too.

The French horn signals a shift to a major key. Melancholy is replaced by hope. Another wave of emotion washes over us. Victor guides the way.

“I hope you liked the performance,” Victor says.

I shake my head. “I’m just blown away. Such a unique experience.”

“My goodness, Victor. It was extraordinary!” Julia says. “That piece, Tsunami. Is it about the state of the nation, by any chance?”

Victor nods. “You nailed it, Julia.”

“Say, do you two have any plans for dinner?” Victor says.

“Nothing that’s cast in stone,” I say.

“There’s a nice spot in Saranac Lake called Left Bank Café. It’s quite good.”

“I’m game,” Julia says.

“It’s right there on Broadway, next to the river. You can’t miss it. I’ll make a reservation and meet you there in forty minutes.”

“Sounds good, Victor,” I say.”

Julia and I make our way to the lounge and take the main elevator up to the new building.

The drive to Saranac Lake is dreamy. Route 3 feels like glass. There’s not another car in sight. This route harkens back to the days before Interstates, when majestic two-way roads meandered through the countryside but didn’t trample it.

Julia and I are in a daze, still comprehending the experience we just had. Of course, for Julia the impact is even greater, since it was her first visit to a nuclear missile silo.

“Quite extraordinary, isn’t it,” I say, “that these nukes were just sitting out here in the Adirondack countryside?”

“Yeah, without a care in the world about the people who live nearby. It’s hard to comprehend the engineering behind it. Thousands of people must have been involved, all merrily working toward a theoretical goal.”

“Victor’s created a wonderful blend of history and art. Every concert in that hall will be affected by the nuclear elephant in the room. That’s gotta be a good thing.”

“Yes it is. I’m so glad you took me there. I’ll be thinking about this for a long time.”

The Tesla navigates us into the village of Saranac Lake. Left Bank Café is right there on Broadway, just as Victor said.

The café has a timeless Adirondack air with Victorian post and beam construction. Knotty pine wainscoting covers the ceiling. A baby grand piano stands near the bar.

“We’re with the Higgenworth party,” I tell the hostess.



“I reserved our best table for you,” she says. “Right this way.”

Moments later, Victor comes in the door. Marilyn Oaks, the violinist, is with him, her violin case in hand. Victor’s presence generates some curiosity among the other diners, though the staff seems to know who he is. It must be the hat. The hostess shows them to our table.

“So glad you could join us, Marilyn,” Julia says.

Marilyn smiles. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Quite a classic looking place,” I say. “There’s nothing that would tell you this is a new restaurant.”

“It’s all in the attitude,” Victor says. “The owners are old school in the best sense of the term.”

“I like the reading section,” Julia says, pointing to the well-stocked bookshelves across from us. “Clearly, they’re not adverse to solo diners.”

“That is something,” I say. “To even think of doing that is remarkable.”

Julia and Marilyn discuss each other’s careers, and Victor and I throw around ideas about the Adirondack Vertical Theater.

Our waiter brings a complementary bottle of wine, and fills our glasses. Victor invites the owner to come over and meet us. After the introductions, Victor lifts his glass.

“I’d like to make a toast. When Todd told me that he met the woman of his dreams, I thought he was using a figure of speech. But after experiencing the two of you together, I knew I was seeing the future. Here’s to many happy days together.”

“That’s so sweet,” Julia says. “I can see why you two have been friends for so long.”

Victor stands up from his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse Marilyn and me for just a minute.” Marilyn grabs her violin case, and the two of them head for the piano. Victor takes a seat at the keyboard, and Marilyn removes her violin from its case. There’s a pause while she tunes her instrument. Then Victor begins playing.

It’s Edward Elgar’s Salut d’amour, one of the most romantic melodies ever written. Elgar wrote it for his wife as an engagement present. Marilyn owns the melody all the way through. It’s a breathtakingly restrained performance. The high notes are so delicate, even the waitstaff is frozen in place. There’s not a dry eye in the café.

It’s 10:35 pm. Julia and I make the turn onto my street. I’ve made that turn thousands of times in the past fifteen years, but this time is different. Simply knowing that Julia and I will be nestled in my bed in the very near future changes everything.

The driveway approaches. I remove the day’s mail from the mailbox and roll toward the garage. Julia’s looking at me. She doesn’t say a word, but her lovely grin hints at things to come.

Once inside, Julia heads for the powder room, and I scan the incoming mail pile, dropping most of it into the recycling bin. There’s one small envelope in the pile with my name written on it, nothing more. I open it and remove a folded note.

Dear Todd,

There’s a lot more to this picture than you realize. Julia and Don are more than just friends.

—A concerned bystander

I stuff the letter into my jacket pocket while trying to quickly assess its meaning. Julia emerges from the powder room and wraps her arms around me.

“That was such an wondrous day,” she says. “You have some extraordinary friends. Victor is a sweetheart and so is Kirby.”

I respond with a smile, but my brain is too busy to muster a reply. Who on Earth would have put that letter in my mailbox, and what are they referring to?

“Everything okay?” Julia says.

“Oh yeah. I’m fine. Just having a pensive moment.”

Julia studies my face. “One thing about you, Todd, you wear everything on your sleeve. It’s one of the things I love about you. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”

“Oh hell. Better now than at three in the morning.” I lead Julia over to the couch, and I pull the letter out of my pocket. “I just found this in the mail. Someone left it in the mailbox.”

Julia unfolds it. She’s motionless. A single tear slides down her cheek.

“Who do you suppose?” I say.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do they mean…about you and Don?”

Now the tears have turned into streams. “I’m so sorry that you had to hear about this.”

“So it’s true?”

“It was a long time ago, ten years at least.”

“Don and Katherine were already married, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you and Katherine were good friends, weren’t you?”

“We were. Very good friends.”

“I don’t understand. How could you let this happen?”

“There were forces at work. Looking back, I feel like I was propelled into it. Don’s charisma was very powerful back then.”

“Did Katherine ever find out?”

“No. She’d be devastated if she knew.”

“How long did this go on?”

“For a few months, sporadically. There was no one else in my life at the time.”

“And why would someone want to bring this to light now?”

“Perhaps to frighten you, I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”

I put my arms around Julia. This is going to take some time to digest.

It’s times like this that my rational mind is my savior, balancing the romantic side, putting things in perspective, injecting a dose of reality. I’m sitting at a downtown breakfast café. Julia’s in the women’s room.

The revelation about her affair with Don the banker, has shrunk to a baby elephant in the room. When I think of some of the ignoble things I’ve done over the years, what right do I have to hold Julia to a higher standard? Hell, it was ten years ago. I think she may be more troubled by my knowing about it, than I am about what she did. People change. The best thing I can do right now is to stay in the present and pay attention. If this is an act she’s putting on, it’s a damn good one.

Julia returns to the table. Her demeanor has changed since she left, like she just encountered an unexpected adversary.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“I just had the strangest encounter in the women’s room. I was washing my hands, when the woman at the next sink says, You’re not from here, are you.”

“I told her I was from Boston. Then she says, well you’d never survive around here looking like that. I didn’t know whether to thank her or punch her.”

I shake my head. “Welcome to Burlington. I’ve heard this before from other women. There’s an unwritten standard that women are expected to follow but not exceed. If they do, they’ll pay a price. It’s like they’re saying, how dare you look better than the rest of us. This would never happen over in New York State.”

“It’s just the opposite of what we have in Boston. There’s lots more competition down there. Beauty and confidence can open doors. Of course, it helps to have smarts to back it up.”

“Men do the same thing as women up here. Everyone’s letting it slide: putting on extra pounds, dumbing-down their appearance. Every guy’s worst nightmare is to be the best dressed guy in the room. When young men from Montreal come to town for a weekend, you can spot them a mile away. They actually have style.”

“Don’t you think it’s just a result of being a college town?” Julia says.

“I used to think so. But actually, many of the students bring a sense of style with them from home. It’s after college that the Vermont yardstick comes into play. I think it has more to do with the transplants, the ones who bring their own money with them and disguise themselves as ordinary Vermonters—whatever that is. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep their secret from being exposed.”

We hear the sound of drums in the distance. They’re playing a marching cadence. It’s getting louder. I peer out the window to see what’s going on. There’s a mass of people marching up the street, with a police cruiser out in front. A little bit closer now, and I recognize the chant: WIN-DEE, WIN-DEE, W, I, N, D…

It’s The Windies again, but this time they’re numbering in the hundreds. A huge banner flies in front: STOP THE TRUCKS – SAVE THE WIND

“Looks like they’re going after the eighteen-wheelers on the Interstate,” I say. “Those trucks represent a big wind disruption.”

“A big what?” Julia says.

“It’s a local protest group called The Windies. I encountered them downtown recently. They believe the wind is sacred, and that anything that depletes the wind’s energy should be outlawed. That includes wind turbines and sailboats, among other things.”

“It doesn’t sound like science has much to do with this.”

“What’s science? We deal in postulation.”

Julia shakes her head. “What is the world coming to?”

Julia reaches over and takes my hand. “I hope you’re able to get beyond Don and me. I know it must be a shock. After all these years, I still don’t understand how I got involved with him. It wasn’t like me, but once it started it was difficult to stop.”

My intuition is cranked to the max. Julia really does seem sincere. I don’t detect a scintilla of deception here. There is the question of Julia’s reliability, but on the other hand she wasn’t in another relationship at the time.

“It’s going to take more than an old war story to scare me away,” I say. “I mean what I’m saying, but I’d still like to know how it started.”

Julia lifts my hand and kisses it. “I’m so glad I finally met you,” she says. They’re the same words Julia used at her family home in Wolfeboro.

“Were you expecting to meet me?” I ask.

“I was hoping I would meet someone like you, someone who sees the world the way I do. I want so badly for this to work. I just hope I haven’t messed it up.”

“No worries. Let’s just take it a week at a time. We’ve got some building to do.”

“Yes, we do. I want to introduce you to my parents. I have to go back to Boston for a few days, then we can meet up at the Wolfeboro house. My parents should be there this time. I think you’ll like them.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’m ready to start with a clean slate in Wolfeboro.”

I drop Julia at the Civil Aviation terminal at Burlington International where the Jennison family helicopter awaits. Julia will fly herself home while John the pilot looks on.

My friend Arthur has a habit of showing up unannounced at my home, but almost without fail, these visits lead to a revelation that makes me very glad that he did. Arthur is a clinical psychologist, and a good one. We’ve been friends for years.

“So, what’s the latest with you and Julia,” Arthur says.

“Somebody, I’m not sure who, tipped me off that she had an affair with her best friend’s husband ten years ago. And Julia acknowledged it.”

“That’s a bit troubling.”

“I guess it is. I know the husband and wife, not well, but I’ve met them. They seem fine together. Very nice people, actually. Julia says the wife never found out about it. The affair lasted for a few months.”

“How long have they been together?”

“At least twenty years.”

“What’s he do?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. The guy was president of a bank in Boston. Apparently, he had a narcissism streak that got way out of control. He was spending like a maniac on houses, cars, boats, you name it. The bank ended up letting him go, and then he spent himself right into the ground.”

“That’s a pretty classic trajectory for someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, especially if they have access to money. Common sense goes right out the window.”

“The guy seems pretty normal now, although his wife keeps him on a very short leash, spending wise. She’s the one with the money now.”

“And these two were together right through his downfall?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s unusual. Most women would bail out of the marriage before hitting bottom. There are exceptions.”

“Why would women stick around in a situation like that?” I say.

“It could be that they’re severely co-dependent, or in rare instances, they could be what’s called an inverted narcissist.”

“An inverted narcissist? What’s that?”

“Well, since narcissists are generally men, an inverted narcissist is a woman who makes herself into a mirror image of her man. Her behavior supercharges his behavior. They work as a team to satisfy his need for admiration.”

“What’s in it for her?”

“She feeds off his power. Sometimes, women in this situation will go so far as to set up affairs for their husbands, resting assured that they will be the ultimate beneficiary, not the other woman. Plus, they have the advantage of being able to choose the woman for the affair—often someone they know and trust.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s a bit of a juggling act, but if such a triangle was maintained over a number of months, the wife’s position in the marriage could become dominant.”

My mind is spinning. Could this be what happened with Julia? But she said that Katherine didn’t know about the affair. Could Katherine have engineered this without Julia knowing that she was involved? That’s the clincher, right there.

“Well, as usual Arthur, you’re a font of knowledge. I’m going to have to do a bit more checking, but thanks for this. I never would have imagined it.”

The questions swirl like buzzards. Of the various people I could ask about the events of ten years ago, one person in particular floats to the top: Don the banker.

I can hear his phone ringing.

“Hey, how are the love birds doing?” he says.

“Hi, Don.”

“Huh. So I guess the name’s out of the bag now.”

“Julia told me. She also told me something else,” I say.

“What was that?”

“About the events of ten years ago.”

“Oh shit. Why did she have to do that?”

“Someone tipped me off, so I asked her about it.”

“Damn, Todd. I’m really sorry you had to find out about this. I’ve had high hopes for you two since I first ran into you, and everything seemed to be going so well.”

“It is a bit disconcerting. Julia’s main concern, other than losing me, is that Katherine doesn’t find out about it.”

There’s silence on the line for a few moments.

“Katherine’s known all along,” Don says.

“Really?”

“She helped arrange it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You have to understand, Katherine and I were both very different people at the time. We had serious mental issues. Julia was vulnerable, and we took advantage of her. We’ve been trying to make amends to her ever since.”

“So Katherine must have been conveniently out of the house when necessary.”

“Not exactly,” Don says. “She was in the next room listening to us. That’s how sick she was.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But Katherine went to great lengths to keep Julia from finding out about her involvement.”

“The irony in that,” I say, “is that Julia has spent the past decade feeling guilty about having an affair with her best friend’s husband. I think Julia deserves to know the truth about Katherine’s role in it.”

“Do what you must, but Katherine doesn’t need to know about this. There’s nothing to be gained there.”

“Agreed.”

“Katherine and I only want the best for the two of you. You’re both fine people, and you deserve one another. I hope you can get past this piece of unfortunate history. It is certainly not who Julia is.”

“Thanks for that, Don. I appreciate it. We’ll talk soon.”

“Bye.”

My psychologist friend Arthur has a favorite truism that goes like this: “Nothing is an accident in my line of work.” — meaning that all human behavior, even the most unsavory behavior, can be explained. Arthur says there is a growing belief in the field of psychology that free will is a myth, that our actions and decisions are driven by the neural wiring in our brains, wiring that changes as we learn and grow and experience.

Arthur elaborates. “The implication is that, as human beings, we all possess the potential for beneficent and abhorrent behavior, given the right circumstances. What we think of as self-control is simply one neural pathway overpowering another. And quite often, the winner in those battles is something deep in the wiring, like fear or love.”

Given the latest revelations, I need to speak with Julia face-to-face. Don has given me just enough information to know what questions to ask. Julia had mentioned that Don had Narcissistic Personality Disorder. She probably heard that from Katherine, after Don and Katherine began getting therapy. Don’s behavior must have changed dramatically since then. That’s not always the case with NPD. I wonder whether Katherine’s behavior has changed too?

I’m in Julia’s Boston condo on the 30th floor of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. It’s my first visit. The place is bright, modern, and warm. A bird’s-eye view of the State House and the Harbor makes it feel as though we’re flying.

“Quite an impressive spot you’ve got here,” I say.

“It’s a work in progress,” Julia says. “I don’t like being pressured to buy furnishings all at once. I wait for things to reach out and touch me. I’m always on the lookout for another painting or another chair.”

We settle onto the couch with a bottle of wine.

“I’ve been thinking more about Don and Katherine,” I say.

“Yes?”

“I’m still trying to get a picture in my mind of what they were like ten years ago. You already told me about Don. What was Katherine like? How has she changed since then?”

“Oh, Katherine was very different. For one thing, she worshiped Don. She was right onboard in his fictional world, even as crazy as it was. She cheered him on. In front of him, she was his number one fan.”

“What about when it was just you and Katherine?”

“It was strange. She would still defend Don, but at the same time, she’d put herself down, calling herself a loser. She was terribly self-deprecating. I’d try to pump her back up, but she’d be right back in the same place the next time I’d see her.”

“Did she ever bring up the idea of Don having an affair?”

“Yeah, actually she did, well before anything got started between Don and me. I’d forgotten about this. She said Don deserved to have an affair because of her. It was more of her self-deprecation talk.”

“Did she ever mention it again?”

“Yeah, she’d occasionally throw out a shorthand version of it. She’d say, Don deserves to have another woman. I heard that one many times.”

“Do you think that influenced you?”

“I don’t think in any conscious way, but it could have added something when Don approached me. I was in a very impressionable state at the time, and Don was like a powerhouse. I’m just glad that Katherine never knew about it.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I spoke to Don yesterday. He said that Katherine not only knew about it, but she helped plan your rendezvous.”

Julia’s stunned. “Oh, my God.”

“You thought she was away from the house, but she was actually there every time. It was part of her self-punishment.”

“I just can’t even believe this.”

“Don was very forthcoming after I told him I knew about the affair. He had just one request. He said there’s nothing to be gained by telling Katherine that you know about her involvement. Not at this late date. I think he’s right. It was a long time ago, and everyone has changed for the better. As far as I’m concerned, that affair never happened.”

Tears stream down Julia’s face. “I love you,” she says.

“Good evening, Mr. Lockwood and Ms. Jennison.” Somehow, the maître d’ already knows my name.

We’re at L’espalier, one of Boston’s most highly-rated restaurants. Fortunately, I brought appropriate attire with me. Julia looks stunning in a floor-length red dress. It’s my first visit to this legendary eatery. The decor hints at what’s to come: it’s warm and elegant. The oil paintings look as though they were borrowed from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

We arrive at our table to find two of my oldest friends sitting there, Steve and Susan Jordan. “Wait a minute,” I say. “You actually know each other?”

“A little bit,” Julia says. “This is our first time meeting in person.”

“Well, allow me to introduce you then! This is my friend Julia Jennison.”

“Hi Julia,” Steve says.

Susan grins. “So nice to finally meet you.”

Julia and I take our seats. “So, when was this connection made?” I ask.

“Not long after we met,” Julia says. “You mentioned Steve and Susan in our first conversation at my parents house. With all that history, I thought they’d be a good resource. So I tracked them down.”

“We were dying to tell you, Todd,” Susan says, “but Julia thought it would be better if she told you.”

“Too much,” I chuckle.

“They spoke highly of you,” Julia says. “It meant a lot to hear that from friends who’ve known you for so long.”

“Yeah, we’ve been through some interesting times together,” I say. “I actually knew Steve and Susan before they knew each other.”

“We used to run into each other at the same little café in Vermont,” Steve says. “In those early days before Todd got married, he’d bring the girlfriends by to meet us.”

“I just thought Steve and Susan might see something that I couldn’t see,” I say.

“That’s what friends are for,” Julia says.

After dinner, we go to a jazz club. A special table for four has been held for us right down in front near the stage. “The artist is an old friend of mine,” Julia says. “She’s playing here tonight to return a favor to the Berklee College of Music where she studied jazz. It’s a fundraiser for their scholarship program. Everyone here tonight was personally invited.”

The lights go down, leaving only a single spot on the grand piano. A silhouetted figure steps out from backstage and takes a seat at the piano. From the instant she begins singing, it’s unmistakable: this is Diana Krall.

Her performance is sultry and mesmerizing. After one long set, she thanks the audience and steps down from the stage. “Ladies and gentleman,” an announcer says, “please remain seated while Ms. Krall greets a few special guests.”

Diana Krall comes straight to our table. “Lovely to see you, Julia.”

“What a beautiful performance, Diana,” Julia says. “Allow me to introduce my friend Todd Lockwood and his friends Steve and Susan Jordan.”

Diana shakes my hand. “I think we may have met before,” she says.

“And hopefully we’ll meet again,” I say.

“Thank you all for coming.” She floats off to another table.

“You’ve met her before?” Julia says.

“Backstage at the Flynn Theater in Burlington a few years ago. She had a terrible cold that night but still managed to pull off a stunning performance.”

We part ways with Steve and Susan outside the club and grab a taxi back to the Ritz.

“I’m fascinated that you reached out to Steve and Susan.”

“From the way you spoke about your history with them, I thought it would be helpful—just to fill in the spaces between your stories.”

“Of course. I’m flattered that you went to the trouble. Steve and I have had ringside seats in each other’s lives for years.”

The Ritz building stands aglow against the night sky. I thank the driver, and we head up to Julia’s condo. It’s a nice place to come back to. All of my previous Boston stay overs have involved hotel rooms. This place really feels like a home. Julia and I settle in on the couch.

I can’t help but notice the array of magazines on the coffee table: Scientific American, WIRED, Popular Mechanics, a technical publication I’ve never heard of and Vogue.

“I rarely watch television,” Julia says.

“Nor do I, except for an occasional movie.”

“I love to cook.”

“I do too, although I’m sure I could learn a few things from you.”

“I actually like cleaning,” Julia says. “I come up with some of my best ideas while I’m cleaning, like the one that got me the Nobel.”

“I hope you mentioned that in your acceptance speech.”

“No, but I should have.”

“When you keep the motor cortex occupied,” I say, “creative thought really comes into its own. It happens for me in the shower, or when cruising down the highway early in the morning.”

“I always start my morning with a cup of Starbucks coffee,” Julia says.

“Yeah, I do too. After that, it’s oatmeal, blueberries, yogurt and scrambled eggs. And don’t forget the walnuts.”

“I like the sounds of that.”

“I take power naps when my brain gets tired,” I say.

“We have special pods at work for that. They’re great.”

“I eat salmon four times a week.”

“Me, sometimes five.”

“I’ve been eating lunch at the same place for years,” I say.

“When you find something that works, it makes sense to stick with it. Albert Einstein had five identical suits in his closet. He’d wear one of them each day of the week. He didn’t want to waste any of his creativity deciding what to wear in the morning.”

“Brilliant.”

“I love taking things apart to see how they work,” Julia says.

“Where were you when I was twelve years old!”

“Are we sleepy yet?”

“Check.”

“Follow me.”

On the way to bed, I peer into one of the other bedrooms. I’m shocked. The room has been converted into a high-tech workshop, with all sorts of tools and instrumentation. There’s a digital camera in a hundred pieces on the workbench.”

“That’s my playroom,” Julia says. “Just in case I get inspired in the middle of the night.”

“If I get inspired in the middle of the night, it might be for a different reason.”

The Starbucks girls are all a grin. They’re trying not to stare at Julia and me. “Good morning, Julia,” one of them finally says. She’s wearing a knowing smile. Apparently, Julia hasn’t shown up here with a man in a while.

“Hi Patty. This is my friend, Todd. He’s a Starbucks connoisseur.”

“Oh, that’s our favorite kind of customer. Nice to meet you, Todd. What will it be today?”

“Make it a tall Pike Place Clover, Patty.”

“Did you know the Clover coffee machine was an MIT thesis project?” Julia says. “The two students involved sold it to Starbucks for a cool seven figures.”

“That was a smart move on Starbucks’ part. No other brewing method comes close.”

We take a table near the front window. It’s early. The downtown traffic is still sleepy. Morning sunlight kisses the tops of the buildings.

“Are you really this early of a morning riser?” Julia asks.

“Oh yeah. Particularly when I’m working on a project. I’ll often get a great idea when I’m in that half-asleep state, just before waking up. If I don’t jump out of bed I might lose it.”

Julia smiles. “I can’t believe we met each other. It’s uncanny.”

“It makes me want to be cautious. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“It’s going to go where it’s going to go. You have to trust it.”

“I never imagined being with a woman like you, with your analytical brain. I always thought it would be someone wired just like me with an artist’s brain.”

“In my scientific world, opposites attract one another because they make up for each other’s missing pieces. Maybe that’s what’s happening with us. We are somewhat extreme examples of left-brain and right-brain orientation.”

“But our emotional underpinnings seem quite similar.”

“I think that’s our common language,” Julia says. “That’s what makes this matchup work. Being physically attracted to one another doesn’t hurt, but by itself, I don’t think it’s sustainable.”

“Wow. You’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“I’ve learned a lot by experiencing relationships that didn’t work. I owe Don for bringing you and me together. He understands my emotional side very well. Ironically, I don’t think he would have that insight if things hadn’t transpired between us ten years ago.”

“And he might not have felt compelled to introduce us if he hadn’t bullied me at boarding school.”

“Life has a way of sorting itself out,” Julia says. “Eventually, those hens come home to roost.”

“We have an unusual offer this morning,” Julia says. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Our driver pulls up in front of a nondescript government building in the heart of downtown Boston. Inside, a guard at the security desk greets us. “Good morning. Photo ID’s please.”

The guard scans his list and hands our ID’s back. He writes a four-digit number on a post-it note and hands it to Julia. “This passcode will expire in ten minutes. Use either of the last two elevators. Enter the passcode into the keypad inside the elevator and press OK.”

“Thank you,” Julia says.

We do as the guard instructed. Instead of going up, the elevator goes down. According to the readout, ten stories down. The elevator door opens, and we’re in another world. It looks like an NSA intel operation. Three people are here to greet us. I recognize the Mayor of Boston.

“It’s an honor to have you here, Julia,” the mayor says. “And you must be Mr. Lockwood. Pleasure to meet you, sir. Allow me to introduce Amy Stetson, Director of this facility, and my assistant, Roger Barrows.

“A pleasure.”

“Welcome to B1,” the director begins. “This facility is the eyes, ears, and brains of the city of Boston. Some of the technology employed here didn’t exist a year ago. We learned a lot from the Boston Marathon bombing. We assembled a task force and worked in conjunction with MIT to develop capabilities we wouldn’t have dreamed of a few years ago.”

“So, this is more than just data acquisition,” Julia says.

“Indeed it is. We have robust artificial intelligence capabilities here at B1. The many thousands of audio and video feeds coming into this building can be analyzed in real time, giving law enforcement a powerful advantage. The system can even predict crimes and other problems that haven’t occurred yet.”

“That’s extraordinary,” I say.

“Allow me to show you around.”

We follow the director through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and down a hall. Through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, awash in blue light, we see a cluster of five-foot-tall monoliths twinkling with activity.

“This is a Shasta series Cray supercomputer. Officially, it’s not even on the market yet. This is the first one to be utilized in a real-world context. Now, if we go back to the Observation Center, I’ll show you a bit of Shasta’s magic.”

In the Observation Center, several dozen people sit at computer terminals. In front of them, four giant video screens display highlights of traffic, fire & ambulance activity, and police movement throughout the city. There’s even a live high-resolution satellite view.

The director continues, “MIT’s engineers developed a new kind of time-lapse technology that allows us to see patterns within complex motion, such as a crowd of people or a jumble of traffic. They call it The David Peters Effect.” She signals one of the computer operators to bring it up on one of the giant screens.

The live satellite view of Boston is replaced by a new version. Now the morning traffic is moving in beautiful, geometric patterns, as though the city is unknowingly participating in a grand dance.

The image changes to a throng of people on a downtown street. With a single keystroke, they’re moving in a beautifully choreographed pattern.

“It’s simply beautiful,” Julia says.

“I think we have discovered the heartbeat of the city,” the mayor says.

I’ve seen this before, I’m thinking. The director demonstrates a few other capabilities related to utilities and communication across the city.

We say our good-byes, and Julia and I head back up the elevator to the street level. Once we’re outside, she says, “That was the most extraordinary thing I think I’ve ever seen, that David Peters Effect. It’s going to take me a while to get my head around it. The city, and probably mankind, is participating in something we can’t see, something absolutely beautiful.”

“I know. You’re not going to believe this, Julia, but I invented it.”

“Huh?”

“The idea came straight out of my 2011 novel, Dance of the Innocents. David Peters is the protagonist of the story. I sent a copy of it to an engineer at MIT a few years ago after seeing his TED talk. I thought he might be able to bring the idea to life, but I never heard back from him.”

Julia is speechless.

“What is more amazing to me, is that you brought me here today. What are the odds of that?”

“Yeah, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” Julia says.

I take Julia into my arms. “I hope you realize, I’m never going to let you out of my sight. We have clearly been brought together for a reason.”

It’s the midday hustle on Newbury Street. Art dealers, restaurants and boutiques vie for attention. The sidewalks teem with tourists, students, dreamers and a few serious shoppers—the ones ready to shell out twenty-thousand dollars for a painting they really love.

Julia and I sip iced tea at an outdoor café.

“Newbury Street is a blueprint for biological diversity,” Julia says. “Survival of the fittest. What’s interesting is that bigger is not necessarily better on Newbury Street. Lean and efficient is what works here, and satisfying a need. The traditional rules of economy of scale don’t apply.”

“Interesting that you would see it that way,” I say, “not as biological diversity being a blueprint for Newbury Street.”

“We tend to think of ourselves as the center of everything. And sadly, that may be where we’re headed, as more and more species get wiped out. A thousand years from now, we may have to look at places like Newbury Street to remember how the natural world was once organized.”

“This is a different side of you,” I say.

“I didn’t want to scare you off, so I’ve been holding back on some things.”

“No need for that,” I chuckle.

“Well, tell me then. How on Earth did you arrive at the David Peters Effect?”

“It started with one of those lightbulb moments in the shower. The initial idea went something like this: What if you had a city of a million people, all moving about in their daily routines. But unbeknownst to them, they were all participating in a grand pattern of movement, like a huge dance?”

“I was inspired by developments in big data analysis, where trends hidden in big data can be made visible by converting them to abstract colors and shapes—something the visual cortex can deal with quite easily. I wondered if I might be able to come up with a time-lapse version of this concept, as a way to see order within the chaos of daily life.

Julia is locked onto my every word.

“To help me visualize the idea, I imagined shooting a video of a wall clock with a sweep second hand. The video is shot at a rate of thirty-frames-per-second. This means that every eighteen-hundredth frame would show the second hand pointing straight up. Got it so far?”

“Yep,” Julia says.

“Now, imagine what would happen if we replace the other seventeen-hundred-and-ninety-nine frames during each minute with new ones created using video morphing software. We’d use the adjacent pairs of remaining frames—the ones showing the second hand pointing straight-up—as the beginning and end of each morphed section. When the video is viewed, the second hand would stand still, while the minute and hour hands would still move at their normal rate.”

“Yes, I get it.”

“Potentially, it would allow us to see fundamental motion within a chaotic scene. Anything moving quickly would disappear, leaving only the parts you want to see. By varying the length of the interval, the software could be tuned to match the particular situation. In my novel, David Peters gets a chance to try it on a Cray supercomputer. With that much processing power, the effect could be viewed in realtime.”

“I believe that’s what we just saw,” Julia says. “This is unbelievable. I’ve read PhD dissertations that were less consequential than this.”

“But it’s what David Peters discovers with this technique that’s really mind blowing: a mystical connection between Mother Nature and hidden patterns of human movement across the planet.”

“I need to read your book.”

“Oh and by the way, David Peters’ wife’s name is Julia.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a high school science teacher.”

“What does she think of his discovery?”

“She thinks he’s nuts, but that’s because she allows their financial difficulties to influence her thinking. David’s been unemployed for a while.”

“So David is you?”

“More of an alter-ego. I can certainly relate to his passion for discovery, but my circumstances are quite different than his. If I was flat broke, and I made a world-changing discovery but nobody believed me, then I’d be David.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if MIT is collecting royalties for the David Peters Effect,” Julia says.

“Really?”

“It’s probably just going into an escrow account. I’ll do some checking for you.”

Julia’s long fingers move across her computer keyboard like a concert pianist, and I have the best seat in the house. I’m standing behind her desk chair. My hands rest on her shoulders. At each pause, her left hand rises and touches mine as if to say, yes please, that’s exactly where I want your hands to be right now.

She’s deep inside the MIT web site. A password here, a cryptic prompt there. Clearly, we’re in an area that a casual visitor would never wander into.

“As an MIT board advisor, I have access to some areas that many other insiders don’t.”

A window opens with the title, MIT Royalty Recipients. Julia enters “David Peters” into the search criteria. A single entry appears…

Date: March 1, 2017

Recipient: Escrow

Description: David Peters Effect

License Amount: $1,250,000/year

“Well, congratulations Mr. Lockwood. It appears that MIT has some money set aside for you. They probably didn’t know where to send it, given the unconventional way your idea arrived at Engineering.”

I’m dumbstruck. Over a million dollars a year in royalties. This, for an idea from a novel that sold maybe a thousand copies.

“I can’t believe this.”

“It’s real.” Julia rises from her chair and takes my hands into hers. “Such an exciting day, and it’s only 2 o’clock. I think the prudent thing would be to get in some nap time. We wouldn’t want to overdo it,” she sighs.

“What a perfect idea.”

Julia leads me to the master bedroom.

Making love in the middle of the day has to be one of the most underutilized rituals in modern life. Europeans figured this out long ago.

There’s no alcohol involved here. It’s not dark, either. The shades are drawn, but the bedroom is still bright enough to read a book. Dozing off after a nice lunch is certainly possible, but my central nervous system has other priorities right now. The scent of Julia’s skin assures it.

Julia’s on her side, turned away from me. I’m following the line of her jaw to where it seamlessly blends with her neck. To my eye, this could be the most beautiful transition in the world.

My mind wanders. Julia and I are helping one another up the last few strides of a craggy mountain summit. A cool breeze pushes against us. I feel moss under my feet. There’s only another fifty feet to go. We lean into the wind. I pull Julia up the rock incline with my left hand. Out of nowhere, an eagle lunges toward me. I raise my hands to protect myself. The eagle flies off, but when I look back, Julia is gone.

A spike of adrenaline shoots through me like an arrow. My eyes flash open. Oh thank God, she’s still here. I pull Julia close.

“Are you okay?” she says. “You sounded out of breath for a moment there.”

“I’m fine. I just had a little dream, that’s all.”

“Was it a sexy dream?”

“No. It was about fear.”

“Are you afraid of me?” she asks.

“Not at all. My subconscious is afraid of losing you.”

“I think that’s a pretty normal feeling to have right now. My biggest fear is scaring you away.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” I say. “If you think about it, those two fears cancel each other out.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“Am I just dreaming this?” I say. “Lying here with you? Discovering that my fictional invention is worth millions?”

“No, it’s really happening. You were just waiting to be discovered, and I was waiting to discover you.”

It’s 5:30 pm. Julia looks stunning as she glides through the Ritz Hotel lobby. We’re in lockstep. A few heads turn, but even those that don’t are affected by her presence. She’s setting the standard. The hotel manager looks on in admiration. For him, this is the fulfillment of a dream. Julia completes this elegant scene to which he is the maestro.

We step outside, and our driver opens the rear door of his town car. Julia approaches the car, but then stops. Something has caught her attention nearby. “We’ll be right back,” she says to the driver. She takes my hand and leads me down the sidewalk beyond the Ritz facade.

There’s a disabled man in a wheelchair. He’s missing about three-quarters of one leg. A small sign on the sidewalk tells the story: RAISING MONEY FOR A NEW LEG.

“Hello,” Julia says.

The man smiles warmly. “You two look like you just stepped out of a movie.”

“You’re very kind. How long have you been without your leg?”

“It’s been a few years. Believe it or not, I lost it to a shark.”

“That’s terrible. I hear that shark attacks are becoming more common.”

“Yes, they are. No one knows exactly why. Something to do with the changing balance of nature, I imagine. But I feel very lucky to be alive.”

“Have you been able to keep working?”

“Yes, although the city moved me to a different job where the pay scale is lower. The prosthetic I need costs thousands, and my health insurance only covers part of it. So I do a little fundraising whenever I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Shaun. Shaun Morton.”

“Nice to meet you, Shaun. My name is Julia, and this is my friend Todd.”

“A pleasure.”

“What do you do for the city?”

“I work in the street department. Every time you see a street sign, you can think of me. I deal with that stuff.”

Julia reaches into her purse and pulls out a couple of one-hundred dollar bills. “Here’s something to put toward your new leg.”

The man’s eyes well up. “Thank you so much. That’s awfully kind of you.”

“I’m happy to help,” Julia says.

“You two have a lovely evening now.”

“Best of luck, Shaun,” I say.

Julia and I head back to the waiting town car. “That was really sweet of you,” I say.

“Shaun Morton, Shaun Morton. I think I remember reading about that shark attack.”

On the way to the restaurant, Julia pulls out her phone. She finds a number in her recent calls and dials it. “I’m calling the mayor’s assistant.”

“Roger Barrows, please. It’s Julia Jennison. Hello, Roger? I wonder if you could check on something for me. I met a man named Shaun Morton who says he works for the street department. Apparently, he deals with street signs. Can you confirm for me that he indeed works there? Thanks.”

Julia locks eyes with me. “Roger’s got me on hold. If Shaun is who he says he is, I have an idea.”

How interesting, I’m thinking. Julia could have easily ignored the man in the wheelchair, but she didn’t. And who knows what she’s got in store for him.

“Yes, Roger,” Julia says. “So it all checks out then. I wonder if you could email me his contact info. I have something for him. Thank you so much for your help, and Todd and I really enjoyed the tour this morning. What an extraordinary thing to see. Please give our thanks to the mayor. Bye.”

“Well, he is who he says he is,” Julia says. “I have just one more quick call to make.”

“Dial away!” I say.

“Prosthetic lab, please. Hello, Stephen? It’s Julia Jennison. I wonder if by chance you’re still looking for subjects for the Biometric Leg project? Yes? I have someone for you. His name is Shaun Morton. Early forties, I’d say. About eight inches above the knee. Would it be covered under your current grant? Perfect. I’ll send you his contact information shortly. Nice talking to you. Bye.”

“Wow. Shaun’s going to think God intervened. Are you going to let him know that you instigated it?”

“I think it would be more fun not to. I don’t need the acknowledgment. But it would be fun to see him without his wheelchair.”

“What’s the Biometric Leg like?”

“It’s the most sophisticated artificial leg ever made. It was developed at MIT under a DARPA grant. When we see Shaun walking down the street, his gate will be indistinguishable from the real thing. He’ll even be able to run with it.”

“That’s amazing.”

The driver delivers us to the restaurant. Inside, it’s lush and inviting. Flowers are everywhere. A waterfall cascades into a koi pond, and jazz piano fills the place.

A hostess greets us, “Good evening, Mr. Lockwood and Ms. Jennison. The rest of your party has already arrived.”

Julia grins at me, but doesn’t say a word.

We follow the hostess to a candlelit room in the back. Sitting there, with smiling faces aglow, are Don and Katherine.

“Well, you two don’t look any worse for wear,” Don says.

“What a nice surprise,” I say. “Julia seems to specialize in surprises.”

“Todd has come up with a few doozies, as well,” Julia says.

Katherine smiles at Julia. “We have some catching up to do.”

We share hugs and settle into our seats.

“If I told you that today was a fortuitous day, it would be a gross understatement,” I say.

Our waiter steps up to the table. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

“I think this calls for a bottle of champagne,” Don says.

“Absolutely,” Julia says.

The waiter returns with a bottle, and the champagne is poured.

Julia raises her glass. “Here’s to friends who have witnessed some of the best and most challenging moments in each other’s lives. May we continue to share and grow for years to come.”

Don’s eyes have welled up. He knows what Julia knows. Her toast is an act of exceptional forgiveness. Katherine’s face has a look of inner peace.

“I’d like to make a toast,” I say, “to two people who had the foresight to bring Julia and me together.”

“Well, it was just a hunch,” Don says, “and it appears to have been a good one.”

“I knew it at Starbucks,” Katherine says, “even before the hundred-dollar bill.”

“Todd had me at asparagus,” Julia says. “There are few men who could have handled that situation so honestly. He was my hero.”

“Julia had me at nuclear physics. But then, when she showed me the maker lab in her condo, I was a goner.”

“Cheers.”

“So, how are things in New Hampshire?”

“The demise of the sheriff hit the area like a bomb,” Don says. “I don’t think we’ve seen the end of it.”

“Well, the next thing on my to-do list is to meet Julia’s parents.”

“You’ll love ‘em,” Katherine says. “Very nice people.”

“I’ve told them a few things,” Julia says.

“Hey Todd,” Don says. “Who’s your friend?”

“Huh?”

I turn, and there’s a woman standing off my left flank, clutching a martini. She steps around to the side of our table. “Hi Todd. Remember me?”

“Of course I do, Judy. What a surprise.”

“I bet you didn’t expect to run into me tonight.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

“Well, this must be our lucky day, because the fates seem to have brought us together again. I was having dinner with a girlfriend when you walked in. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Her name is Julia.”

Julia and Katherine stare at one another.

“Julia. What a pretty name. But here’s the thing, Julia. I’m sure I know Todd better that you do. We have a special connection going back years.”

“That’s enough, Judy,” I say.

“Did he tell you about the time he eloped? That’s a great story.”

Julia glares at Judy, my former girlfriend from hell. “But you’re not the one sitting next to him, are you Judy? I know Todd well enough to know he has no appetite for women who drink too much. I suggest you run along, before you dig a deeper hole for yourself.”

Judy slinks away from the table.

“Well done!” Don says.

Katherine shakes her head. “With friends like her, who needs enemies?”

“Thank you, Julia,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

The waiter takes our order, and Julia and I share the events of the past week with Don and Katherine, gradually resurrecting the spirit of the evening. While Julia relives old times with Don and Katherine, I sit back and contemplate the big picture. How extraordinary that picture is.

If I hadn’t known that Don once had Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I never would have guessed it. He seems just as normal as they come. Not a trace of fragile ego. No bragging. Just a nice guy with a past that he’d just as soon forget. And Katherine, a kind woman who allowed her behavior to mirror her husband’s, rather than desert him.

And then there’s Julia, the beautiful and brilliant heiress who got swept into a storm that she didn’t understand until a decade later. At the end of the day, there’s no right or wrong in these histories. They are sermons on bravado, to borrow a line from Richard Avedon. We are all survivors. No matter how old I am, I never pine for the good old days. When I look at Julia, I think to myself, for all the money in the world I wouldn’t turn the clock back. If I did, I wouldn’t be ready for her.

Julia and I nestle in the back of the town car. No words are spoken, but the silence feels pregnant with anticipation. Julia has something on her mind. We arrive at the hotel, thank the driver and head inside. Once the elevator door closes, Julia lets it out. “How old were you when you eloped?”

“Twenty-one.”

Julia smiles. “Say no more.” She kisses my temple.

“I can’t wait to get in bed with you,” she sighs. Then she enters a passcode into the keypad in the elevator.

We sail right past the 30th floor. When the elevator door opens, we’re on a floor full of air conditioning equipment. We climb a steel staircase one more flight. There’s a door at the top. Julia enters a code, and the door unlocks. “The hotel manager showed me how to do this.”

The door swings open. It feels as if we’re stepping into a planetarium. It’s a cool, clear evening, and the inky sky is crowded with stars. “Wow,” I say.

“It doesn’t always look this good,” Julia says. “The air pollution usually gets in the way. But tonight we must have just the right combination of temperature, humidity and wind. I noticed it when we stepped out of the restaurant.”

I take Julia into my arms. The din of the city is faintly present, like a distant elephant herd. City lights cascade across the harbor. The deep whistle of a freighter rolls in from the ocean. It’s an iconic moment. I’m wondering whether this would be a good time to tell Julia that I love her. It’s an expression I haven’t actually made to her yet. It might seem less ingenuous if I wait until we’re in bed.

On the other hand, perhaps those words should be saved for a moment when they’re the only way to express what I’m feeling. I’ll wait.

Julia locks eyes with me. “I love you, Todd. There, I said it. And I mean it. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I’m speechless, but perhaps my tears will speak for me.

When I was twenty-five, I had an epiphany. I realized for the first time that my predisposition for crying was a gift, not a curse. I have a built-in means of catharsis that many men don’t have. Those intense feelings have a place to go, like rivers returning to the ocean.

Julia and I return to the 30th floor, where all is right in the world.

I feel a strange sensation. It’s my hand. Something feels different about my hand. I’m trying to get my bearings in the fog. I hear the rhythm of little waves breaking on the sand. I flex my fingers, and the picture finally emerges: it’s Julia. I’ve been holding her hand in mine, apparently for hours. She’s still asleep. Her breathing is as peaceful and reliable as those little waves. Dawn begins to light the bedroom.

Last night was so damn beautiful. It feels as though we crossed a threshold. Neither of us have one foot outside the door anymore. We’re beyond the evaluation phase. All signs point to the future. Looking back, I believe Julia and I both had the same premonition within hours of meeting one another in Wolfeboro. But sometimes, first impressions can be misleading. That premonition needed to be proven.

Thank God I didn’t write off Julia after she abandoned me at the police station. Julia was still figuring out where her allegiances lie. We hadn’t even known each other for twenty-four hours at that point. It’s not hard to see how the family lawyer nudged her away from me. But eventually, with Don and Katherine’s help, Julia followed her heart.

The fog has lifted, and Julia awakens with a sigh. She lifts my hand to her lips. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I say.” She rolls over and locks her sleepy eyes with mine, as if to say, yes I’m still here, and nothing has changed. We lie in the morning fog and stretch the moment as far as we can.

Julia’s phone chirps to let her know that a message has arrived. “It’s from my mother. I can tell from the sound.” She grabs the phone. “She says they spent last night in Boston, and she wants to know if we’d like to join them for lunch.”

“Sure, I’m game.”

“I’ll let her know.”

So, today is meet-the-parents day. I’m not particularly concerned about it. I’m not twenty-five, and neither is Julia. I’m sure she would like her parents’ approval, but I don’t think it’s a requirement. Don and Katherine had good things to say about them. Meeting them on neutral ground is probably a good thing. We’ll save Wolfboro for the followup.

Aside from Julia’s parents’ impression of me is a secondary question that’s been sitting offstage like a waiting actor: Could they have had anything to do with the actions of the sheriff? Given the good references, it seems unlikely. But you never know.

Our driver pulls up in front of the Fairmont Copley Plaza, a grand hotel in the European tradition. Two eight-foot gilded lions guard the entrance. The hotel lobby is a symphony of gold leaf and pink Italian marble. We proceed to the Oak Room.

Julia’s parents are waiting at a table for four. They appear exactly as I imagined: aging, dignified and still full of life.

Julia goes first. “Hi Mom and Dad. Allow me to introduce Todd Lockwood.”

“Mr. Jennison, a pleasure sir. Mrs. Jennison, very nice to meet you. I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.”

“No, not at all,” Mrs. Jennison says. “Your timing is perfect.”

“What a beautiful hotel. I haven’t been inside the Fairmont before. I thought I was in Europe.”

“Have you travelled Europe?” Mrs. Jennison says.

“Just enough to be jealous of them.”

“Julia tell us that you grew up in New York State,” Mr. Jennison says.

“Mostly, yes. My earliest years were spent in southern New Jersey, just across the river from Philadelphia, in a place called Moorestown. My parents met in Lake Placid, and we eventually ended up there.”

“I understand you have three children,” Mrs. Jennison says.

“Yes I do, and I couldn’t be more proud of them. My youngest, who is nineteen, recently became a U.S. Marine.”

“That’s very impressive,” Mr. Jennison says. “You don’t often find that kind of self-discipline in today’s youth.”

“Well, he’s got a great dad,” Julia says.

“I’ve heard that you’re quite a portrait photographer,” Mr. Jennison says.

“It been a passion of mine since I was sixteen. I made a business out of it after college. But eventually I realized there are easier ways to make a living. I returned to portraits ten years ago, but this time, strictly as a fine art.”

“You’re at a perfect age to do something like that, to make a serious contribution to the arts.”

“I’d love to see some of your work sometime,” Mrs. Jennison says.

“I’d love to show it to you.”

The waiter comes by, and we pause to order lunch.

The conversation continues. It’s a very cordial connection. Indeed, the Jennisons are very nice people. I would place the odds of their having anything to do with the recent actions of the sheriff at zero. It seems much too early to bring up the sheriff, but perhaps when we see them in a few days in Wolfeboro.

In the meantime, Julia and I will have to put our heads together. There are still unanswered questions.

Julia and I are in the Ritz elevator on the way to the 30th floor.

“Well, that went rather well,” I say. “I enjoyed your parents. They’re very nice.”

“I think they like you, too.”

“Your mother and mine would have had great fun together.”

We enter the condo and take a seat at the kitchen table. I’m trying to think of a good way to broach the subject of the unanswered questions.

“I can tell you’ve got something on your mind,” Julia says.

I smile. “I’m never going to be able to hide anything from you! There is something.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I feel very good about us and about your parents. But there are still a few lingering questions. I don’t understand why the sheriff would take such crazy risks to get me out of the picture. This has got to be more than his personal interest in you.”

Julia stares out the window. “There is more,” Julia says. “I didn’t want to bring it up because I didn’t want it to influence your feelings. It was important to me that we commit ourselves to each other first.”

My mind is racing. What could this new information entail?

“There is something called the Tall Pines Trust. It was created by my maternal grandfather in the sixties, around the same time he planted those pines on our Wolfeboro property. Most of my family’s wealth is contained in that trust. All I can tell you is, it’s a very big number. We live well below our means.”

“It sounds like your grandfather was a visionary.”

“He was. When the Tall Pines Trust was written, it included a detailed trustee succession plan that allowed for generations into the future. Unfortunately, my grandfather assumed that my late sister and I would both marry, have children and live to ripe old ages, allowing us and our children to serve as trustees.”

“Why would being married matter?”

“The trust has a quirky provision that requires trustees to be married. Apparently, my grandfather was worried about potential suitors being drawn to that source of power. We were always told, never divulge this information to anyone.”

“So who’s in control now?” I ask.

“My parents are too old to serve as trustees. There’s a seventy-year-old age limit. So for a decade, a bank in Boston has served as the sole trustee. Coincidentally, it’s the same bank where Don used to be president.”

“If the assets are substantial, as you say, the bank must be getting paid handsome trustee fees.”

“It’s in the millions per year,” Julia says.

“So, let me see if I’ve got this right. It’s in the bank’s interest for you to remain unmarried. As long as they keep you single, they will be the sole trustee of the Tall Pines Trust.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Julia says, “but you’re right.”

“I think it’s time that I had another chat with Don.”

“I really don’t think Don would have engineered this situation. The trust named the bank as a trustee well before Don worked there. But he still might be able to enlighten us.”

I dial Don’s number.

“Hi Don.”

“Hey, Todd. Really great to see you two last night.”

“We enjoyed seeing you and Katherine, too.”

“I loved watching Julia deal with your nightmare girlfriend. That was worth the price of admission.”

“Indeed it was. Say, Don, what can you tell me about the Tall Pines Trust?”

There’s a pause on the line. “So she told you about that, huh?”

“Yeah, apparently your old bank is benefitting rather handsomely from it.”

“It’s a pretty cut and dry situation,” Don says. The bank’s been a sole trustee since her folks became too old to qualify. And Julia doesn’t qualify either.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with all that. It’s just that I’m still scratching my head on one thing. I’m finding it hard to believe that the sheriff took such a ridiculous risk just because of his interest in Julia.”

“I can’t tell you anything specific. I just have one piece of advice: Follow the money.”

Nothing is quite as it seems. At first blush, it would appear that Julia’s motive for getting married is to gain unlimited access to the considerable assets in the Tall Pines Trust. But Julia is already a beneficiary of the trust. She can request cash whenever she needs it, and within reason, the bank is obligated to give it to her.

Julia wants to get married for the best reasons. It would appear that the bank, acting in it’s own self interest, is trying to prevent her from doing so.

I keep thinking about what Don said about following the money. There’s an implication in those words. In the case of the sheriff, there was money involved. It may not have passed directly from the bank to the sheriff. As a trustee, the bank would have to be very careful about disbursements on behalf of the Tall Pines Trust.

“Hey Julia, I’m curious about something.”

“What’s that?”

“When the trust pays for things like Gus’ salary, does the money come directly from the bank?”

“No. Routine disbursements like that are handled by a New Hampshire law firm. It’s the same law firm that the family lawyer works for. It’s easier having a New Hampshire law firm handling these details. The bank subcontracts that stuff to the law firm. This was set up when my parents changed their legal residence to New Hampshire for tax reasons.”

“So when you get quarterly financial statements from the trust, they must show these payments being made to the law firm.”

“They do, but there’s no detail beyond that,” Julia says.

“Are the amounts paid to the law firm significant?”

“Sometimes, they reach a million dollars in a quarter. This may seem like a lot, but it covers a lot of things.”

“But it doesn’t cover you, right?”

“Yeah, my disbursements come directly from the bank.”

“It’s really your call, Julia, but if you want to take a closer look at what’s going on at the law firm, I know a New Hampshire lawyer who can help you. His name is Peter Simmons, and he’s one of the most respected lawyers in New Hampshire. He’s the one who got me out of jail.”

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Julia says. “I need to consider how my parents would react if I don’t bring them in at the beginning.”

“I understand.”

At this point, it’s only a theory. But it is amazing how money can affect people in positions of authority. If there is some fraudulent activity going on here, the bank appears to have protected themselves. The law firm, however, is another story. They can hide behind attorney-client privilege to a point. But when felonies are involved, all bets are off. The sheriff is in jail, and the clock is ticking.

Julia has some errands to run, so I head down to Newbury Street. I have a date with a jeweler down there.

It’s the busy season in Wolfeboro. Julia and I roll down Main Street in the Tesla. RJ sings Shelter From The Storm. The lyrics seem oddly appropriate: We’re returning to the storm, except this time Julia and I are on the same side of the chessboard. Julia gazes out the passenger window at the restaurant where we met.

“Seems like a year ago, doesn’t it?” I say.

“It does. And to think it all started with a hunch that Don had.”

“What if we had met at that bar completely by accident?”

“It wouldn’t have happened,” Julia says. “I avoid bars when I’m alone. That’s a lesson I learned years ago. Men will say anything after a couple of drinks. For me, it’s never led to anything good.”

“But you made an exception.”

“I walked in the door because of Don. But I stuck around because of you.”

“I’m sure glad you did. I wasn’t trying all that hard to win you over. To be honest, I didn’t think I stood a chance. I figured you must be married or in a longterm relationship. That’s probably why I struck up a conversation with you. There was no risk of being disappointed. I was just being friendly.”

Julia smiles. “So you didn’t mean it when you asked me to marry you?”

“I might have jumped the gun by a few days when I said that.”

We enter the driveway to the Jennison family compound. The tall pines stand like a talisman. Knowing they were planted by Julia’s grandfather gives them new relevance. I park in the same spot I did the last time. We climb out of the Tesla. I see Gus headed our way. His head is down.

“Welcome back, Mr. Lockwood,” Gus says. He smiles, but in his eyes I see contrition. No need to get into it, though.

“Thanks, Gus. It looks like you’ve been taking terrific care of the grounds. Everything looks beautiful.”

“I appreciate that, Sir, and hello to you, Ms. Jennison.”

“Hi, Gus,” Julia says.

“I planted a good luck garden outside your window.”

“Oh, how sweet of you, Gus. I can’t wait to see it.”

A single tear begins to roll down Gus’ cheek, but he quickly wipes it away with his work glove.

“Well, shall we?” I say, opening the Tesla’s rear hatch. Gus carries the luggage into the house.

“Just inside the door will be fine, Gus,” Julia says.

Julia’s parents greet us in the living room.

“Welcome home,” Julia’s father says, reaching out to shake my hand. Julia is standing next to me, but I’m quite certain that his greeting is intended for me.”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Jennison.”

“Please. Charles.”

“And you can call me, Annalee,” Julia’s mother says.

“Hi, Dad. Hi, Mom.”

“We’re having a sunset dinner tonight,” Annalee says. “And one other thing… Charles and I have discussed it, and we would be perfectly comfortable with the two of you staying in Julia’s room. We know what true love looks like, and you two certainly have it. After all, we’re all adults here.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Annalee,” I say. Julia gives her a hug.

“Let me help with your bags,” Charles says.

“Why thank you, Charles.” He leads the way to Julia’s room, while Julia catches up with her mother.

Julia’s bedroom is cozy and modern, like her Boston condo. Her Nobel is displayed on a shelf.

“Annalee and I are so happy to have met you, Todd. We couldn’t be more delighted that you and Julia found each other.”

“Thanks, Charles. It means a lot to hear that from you. Julia fills a big hole in my life, and I suppose I’m doing the same for her.”

“We enjoyed hearing about your family and career at the hotel, but what really intrigued us was watching how you and Julia related to one another. That was the best part.”

Dinner is served. We take our seats on the back porch. The sun is kissing the mountain tops across Lake Winnipesaukee. The temperature is perfect. There’s not a mosquito in sight.

Charles lifts his wine glass. “I’d like to make a toast. Here’s to Todd and Julia, who had the lucky good fortune to meet and to fall in love. May they enjoy many happy years together.”

Julia has tears running down both cheeks. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“You know, Todd,” Annalee says, “Julia’s grandfather would have enjoyed meeting you. Like you, he was a man who was driven by his passions. One of his passions was trees. He planted all these pines on the property. He saw them as a metaphor to life itself. He always said, if you treat them right, they’ll grow straight and true.”

“Looks like he was right,” I say, putting an arm around Julia.

Annalee smiles. “Welcome to our family.”

Julia and I held onto each other all night. We never let go. When dawn came, crows from miles around circled the sky above the house. Then all at once, they landed, forming a grand semicircle around the good luck garden. Gus couldn’t believe his eyes.

Todd R. Lockwood is a noted portrait photographer, a writer, and an arts advocate based in Vermont.

www.ToddRLockwood.com

© 2017 by Todd R. Lockwood