WHEN IT STARTED snowing this morning, I was braced for a foot of snow that would preclude us being able to dig out until spring.  That’s the kind of thing I’d heard about Maine, but so far, that doesn’t seem very accurate.  The big, fat, beautiful flakes have been falling all day, but the roads are still clear and it appears that life is going on as usual in Miller’s Pond.

I woke Emmy up early so we could take the car to Bailey’s and get some shut-in supplies–food, matches, some candles, two more blankets and a variety of fun-yet-not-necessary things like marshmallows and a board game. Now, I feel like all that was a bit premature.  It seems that this snow is going to peter out before it can bombard us with two-foot snowdrifts that trap us inside.

“Can we go to the beach today, Momma?  And then have hot chocolate when we come back? With extra marshmallows?”

“It’s too cold, Emmy.  You’ll–”

“Pleeease!  I’ll bundle up. I promise.  I wanna build a snowman on the beach!”

“There’s not enough snow yet to build a good snowman, sweetpea.”

“Then a little snowman. Pleeease!”

I bought her a snowsuit and boots when I sent the lease back to Jason. Living up north, I knew the lure of building a snowman would be too much for Emmy to resist without driving me completely insane.

“Thermals first. Two pairs of socks and–”  She’s racing toward her bedroom before I can even finish.  “And a toboggan, young lady!” I yell so she can hear me above her excited thumping and bumping.

Ten minutes later, she runs, albeit slower, back out into the living room, looking like the Michelin Man’s firstborn.  All I can see is her eyes, nose and mouth.  Everything else is covered.

She stops in front of me for inspection, her emerald eyes flashing brightly from the flushed oval of her face.  I peek into the neck of her jacket to make sure the thermals are there, which they are.  Then I pull down one sock to make sure another elastic band is hiding underneath, which it is.

“Good girl,” I tell her with a pat to her padded butt.  “Let me get my boots and jacket.”

She’s all but dancing from foot to foot by the time I get her feet in boots and then get my coat and boots on.  We strike out across the street and down toward the beach.  When we pass the cabin I know now to be Cole’s, a little chill races down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature or the falling snow.  It’s a beautiful place, really. Not too big, but nicely appointed.  The logs are dark brown and the front is mostly stone except for the six tall windows that surround the front door. There’s a big wraparound porch with rockers on one side of it and a swing on the other.  It looks like there are blue cushions on them, but all the seats are now piled with a few inches of puffy, white snow.

I see the smoke curling from the stone chimney as we walk by. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s home, but I wonder if he’s in there, if he’s curled up in front of the fire. I wonder if he thinks about our kiss as often as I do, if he ever looks for me when he’s working across the street.  I wonder all kinds of things, things I have no way of knowing. I have no way of knowing because I haven’t seen Cole since the day he told me to get out of his head.

“Come on, Mom,” Emmy calls loudly.  By the look on her face, she’s getting irritated because I’m not moving as quickly as she’d like.

“Look at you, in such a hurry.  Bet I can beat you there,” I tell her, starting to trot toward her.  With a squeal, she turns and takes off down the sidewalk like a puffy pink streak.  She giggles and runs the rest of the short distance to the snow-covered beach.

I stop for a second to admire the beauty.  The beach looks as though it’s been misted with white confetti and fluffy balls of cotton.  The pristine blanket melts away where sea meets sand, the surf lapping away at the frosty treat.  Beyond that, the ocean spreads out like a blue field under the ominous sky, snowflakes falling to the roiling surface and then disappearing as if by magic.  It’s quiet and pure and peaceful. I think to myself that it’s breathtaking, but I quickly realize that it’s not nearly as breathtaking as the man I see huddled on the beach a short distance ahead.

Building a sandcastle.

My heart aches even as it soars at seeing him.  The pain he must feel…to be here, on yet another Sunday, in the freezing cold, building his sandcastle.

I know it’s Cole.  Little of him other than his fiery-red bare hands is visible behind the cold-weather gear, but I know it’s him. I can feel it. I can feel the grief rolling off him in waves bigger than the ocean that serves as his backdrop.

I know his loss is something I can’t even fathom, but I am more curious than ever as to why he so regularly, so dogmatically erects these castles.  Rain or shine, warm or cold, it seems he makes his monument no matter what.

Before I can stop her, Emmy is darting off down the beach toward him.  He’s not as far away this time, so she reaches him before I can stop her.

His back is to us again, so he doesn’t see her standing behind him. He probably didn’t hear her either, the crashing waves coupled with the howling wind nearly deafening.  I approach her and take her hand, holding my finger to my lips when she looks up at me. Not that she would say anything, but I want her to know that I’m being quiet, too.  I feel like our presence encroaches on something deeply personal and intensely special, and I don’t want to intrude upon that.

The castle appears to be complete. It has six spires and turrets again, a hillside full of snowy trees and a mote protecting it all.  There must’ve been some debris that had washed up because this one even has a drawbridge.  I can’t imagine what time he must’ve come out here to finish it by lunch.

Before I can turn away, I see Cole stand.  I stop, not wanting to be rude, but he still doesn’t see us.  With Emmy’s hand in mine, we start to back away. That’s when I see Cole bend down and swipe up a handful of sand.  He stares at it for a few seconds and then gently dumps the granules into his pants pocket, patting it afterward. Almost as though he’s reassuring himself that it’s there.

Part of me wants to scramble away. I feel as though I’m witnessing something that no one should witness, something that is so private that seeing it steals away the soul of it.  But another part of me can’t move.  I’m so utterly broken for him, I feel like I lost something as well.  I want nothing more than to go to him and wrap my arms around his big, strong shoulders and take some of the load from them.  I know without knowing that they bear too much.

Before I can decide whether to run or stay, Cole turns and catches sight of Emmy’s pink suit.  He goes completely still, looking at her as though he’s seen a ghost rather than the little girl he’s seen several times before.  His face is as pale as the snow around him under his two-day scruff and wind-kissed cheeks.

I mouth the words I’m sorry and I scoop Emmy up into my arms and go back the way we came. I carry her past the place where we entered the beach and we play there for nearly two hours. I don’t see Cole again.  Even though I look for him almost as often as I breathe.

⌘⌘⌘⌘

Emmy and I are debating what to have for supper–she wants Spaghettios and I want her to have something healthy–when the knock sounds at the door.  The wings of a thousand butterflies beat the walls of my stomach when I think about what happened the last time there was a knock at the door.  I can almost taste the minty sweetness of Cole’s tongue in my mouth.  Heat and want and anticipation pour through me, and my hands shake all the way to the door.

I don’t look out the glass; I simply make an assumption.