Jabir leans back in his chair, and sighs. “Right now, work,” he says.

“What do you do for work?” I already know that he’s involved somehow with the Canarra parts factory, but I want to know the details from him.

“My father owns Canarra,” he says. “Have you heard of him? Sheikh Mufid Abdullah.”

I know that the company my father works for is based in the Middle East, and I’d heard rumors about a royal family, but I never paid much attention. I don’t want to offend him, though, so I nod politely. “Of course,” I say. “Lots of people around here work for the transmission factory.”

“My brother and I—you met him tonight, Hassan—we’re twins, actually. My father is the ruling sheikh in our country. One day, my brother or I will inherit the title.”

“Kind of like our president,” I say, embarrassed at how little I really know about his title.

“Yes,” he nods. “Somewhat like a president in a democracy. Except in our country, the political hierarchy is based on family lineage, not elections.”

“Right.” I’m trying to search my mind for anything I’ve learned about the Dalai in my high school world history classes, but I’m coming up blank.

Finally, a word floats to mind. “A monarchy!” I say triumphantly.

“Yes,” he says. “Not a democracy. A monarchy. My family has been in power for many generations. That is one of the reasons I like your sketches so much. They remind me of our family crest, the steppe eagle. He has been a symbol of my family’s power since the 1800s. My father even chose it as the emblem for the Canarra brand. Here, it’s on my signet ring.” He leans forward and extends his hand.

I see a ring on his pinky finger. It’s golden, and firelight bounces off of it, making it look like a little spark of flame on his hand.

Suddenly, I’m leaning forward and cupping his hand in mine so that I can examine the ring. I’ve completely forgotten that I just met this man, a few hours ago!

As if he’s a girlfriend showing off a diamond, I examine the jewelry. The eagle on his ring is in flight. The lines are beautifully arranged, and capture the movement of the eagle through the air, a sight I’ve witnessed for myself many times.

Around the image are symbols I don’t understand— a curling, foreign language. I bend down farther to study them and my hair falls in front of my face, forming a curtain. I push it aside, and look up at Jabir.

He’s moved to the edge of his armchair, just like I have. His face is only a foot from mine. His intense, dark brown eyes are pinned on me with curiosity, and something else. Appreciation? I see that he likes sitting here with me, in the firelight. I feel, suddenly, that he likes the way I’m holding his hand to examine the ring.

That’s when it hits me.

This isn’t Janine’s hand I’m holding. Jabir isn’t a familiar friend—he’s a sheikh, for goodness sake! Royalty! I have no business holding onto his hand like this.

My breath hitches in my throat. My heartbeat speeds up. But I can’t let go. As if my hands are glued around his, I continue holding onto him. His hands are warm; his skin feels good against mine. The ring seems to be made of solid gold.

“It looks like your sketch, doesn’t it?” Jabir says softly.

I can’t deny it. I nod, and my hair falls out from behind my ear, where I’ve tucked it. This time, I let it rest against my cheek, covering one eye. I can’t pull my gaze from his ring.

“They’re beautiful birds,” I say. “You said it’s your family’s symbol?”

“Yes, our crest, if you will. You know, a design that represents our heritage, over many generations. The eagle is a symbol of power, strength…forte.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like strength, but unique to one person or group. Like you—your forte is drawing. Do you see?”

“I see.”

“You are a very talented woman, Teresa, and I’d like to buy one of your pieces, if they are for sale. Specifically, I’d like the one of the eagle… It matches our crest so exactly.” He holds his hand perfectly still in mine, allowing me to turn it as I want to. His forearm is outstretched on his knee, managing most of the weight. His hand feels so significant in mine, it’s as though I’m holding a brick of solid gold, not mere bones and muscle.

My eyes flit to the sketch above the fireplace that I am sure he is talking about. It is a perfect match.

“Yes, of course,” I say. I’m sure Dawn wouldn’t mind if I sold the picture, and replaced it with another for her. “It does look like your… what did you call it?” I can barely think straight. “Crest?” I manage to find the word.

“Yes. Does your family have one?”

“A crest?” I laugh softly. Finally, I find enough self-control to release his hand, which I’m sure I should have done minutes ago. Better yet, I shouldn’t have reached for it in the first place. “No,” I say, folding my hands in my lap.

The moment that has just passed between us still has my heart fluttering. I reach for my mug, just for something to hold on to. The tea is now room temperature. How long have we been talking for?

I nod towards his hand. “The closest thing to an object like that in my family is a ring that’s been in the family for four generations; since my great-great-grandmother came over from Sweden.”

“Could I see it?”

“Oh…no. It’s an engagement ring. My mother wears it. When I…” I blush here, fumbling along. “When I get engaged—which, who knows when that will be…around here—then maybe I’ll…” My voice dies off and I swallow.

He chuckles. “So, you’re not seeing anyone, then?”

I shake my head no. A blush is hot on my cheeks.

“What do you mean, ‘around here’?” he asks. “Is there a problem with living here, in terms of your dating life?”

“My dating life? Oh…that’s a good one! I don’t exactly have one. Lots of my friends had to move out of town so that they could meet more people; you know, get into relationships and start families. Then, they might come back here, or they might not. My friend Janine keeps saying that I should spend a year or two in Melrose, like Amanda did. That’s a city up north, about an hour and a half away.”

“Do you want to?”

“No! How could I possibly leave New Hampstead? I love it here.”

“I can tell,” he says. “Please, tell me more about it. What was it like growing up here?”

I settle into my chair, and as the fire dies down I share some of my fondest memories with Jabir: town-wide water balloon fights in front of the general store, back before it was a pizza place; hours spent carving cross-country ski trails through acres of wood; all of the times I’d helped birth calves with Marge and Jim on their horse farm. Growing up riding bikes for miles with Janine and Amanda; diving for white quartz rocks in the Wakanaki River with my dad; painting wildflowers in tall August meadows with my mom.

As the last logs turn black and grey, edged with cracks of glowing red, I finally pause. How long have I been talking for? I turn in my chair, and look out over the lobby.

At some point, Dawn must have turned out the lights. I can imagine her smiling to herself when she saw Jabir and I talking, and staying quiet so she wouldn’t interrupt our conversation. Only one lamp spills out soft yellow light near the door.

I don’t wear a watch, so I pull out my cellphone. “I’ve been talking your ear off!” I can’t hide the embarrassment in my voice, as I see that it’s almost midnight.

He holds his hand up to one ear, then the other, as if checking that they’re still attached. “I still have both,” he notes.

I can’t help but laugh.

I stand and open up the grate guarding the fire. With a heavy iron poker, I spread the remaining embers out so that they can cool. From the corner of my eye, I see Jabir stand up and stretch his arms up towards the ceiling.

Oh hello! Is he handsome! This is the first time I see him standing. He must be six feet tall! And I was right about his athletic build. Seeing him now, all stretched out, allows me to take in just how well built he is. He swings his arms down just as I’m returning the grate.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Almost twelve.”

“No! Really? I better be getting up to bed. Hassan’s probably already asleep. We have an important meeting first thing in the morning.” He lifts his mug, and then looks behind him, towards the dining area, as if he’s wondering if he needs to return the mug.

I step forward and offer my outstretched hand. “I’ll take that,” I say. “I’m going to bring mine back to the kitchen anyways.”

“Thank you.” As he places the mug in my hand, our fingers touch again. A jolt of energy passes through me. That same fluttering sensation starts up in my chest.

I bend down to grab my purse, hiding my face so that he doesn’t see how he’s affecting me. I busily gather my hat and mittens in one hand, and the two mug handles in the other as I give my goodbyes. “Well, it was a nice talking to you,” I say.

“And you.”

We both stand there, like there’s more to be said. Like neither of us want to leave, which I certainly don’t. But it is midnight, and I should have left the inn three hours ago. I still have a drive ahead of me, and I’m sure the snow’s still coming down outside.

I nod and walk away from him as he stands there, though my whole body protests the entire time.

* * *

Soon, I’ve deposited the cups in the dark kitchen, and have made my way back to the front door. The walkway has long ago filled back up with snow, though it indents down off of the banks in the places where Neville shoveled.

My truck is piled high with almost a foot of the fluffy stuff, and it’s still coming down heavy and fast. Looks like we’re going to get more than they called for. I do a rushed job at cleaning off the truck, and then head out onto the road.

The truck barrels through the snow, riding high over the white-blanketed roads and surfing through windblown drifts like a champ.

I whisper thanks to Grandpa in heaven as I pull into my cabin. He loved that truck, and I still can’t believe he thought to leave it to me in his will.

I turn off the whirring engine and the headlights, and the world becomes quiet and dark. It’s so silent, I can imagine that I hear the snowflakes softly landing with miniature thuds on the glass of my windshield.

My spirits are high, and it’s not just because I’ve arrived home without going off the road. It’s because of my talk with Jabir.

I let my mind wander over our conversation, flitting over the comments he made, the smiles he cast my way. Such a handsome, smart, sensitive man! And he likes art, too. But now reality starts to fill me up, like water in a leaking boat. He’s here to evaluate the transmission plant. He’s part of a royal family, and holds the power in his hands to put my father out of a job.

I rest my head back, against the headrest, and let out a giant, frustrated sigh. My father’s words float into my mind. “It’s not up to you to do anything.”

Something about those words just doesn’t feel right. I’m one of the only people in town with an inkling of what is about to happen tomorrow. I am aware of the razor’s edge New Hampstead is positioned on: depending on Jabir and his brother’s decision, our town could begin to thrive like never before, or we would finally be put off of the map. Without the plant, I’m sure there would be a mass exodus. Families like Janine’s would find places closer to Melrose, and the few businesses in town would go under without regular customers.

Now my boat’s flooded, and I’m awash with anxiety. But I start scooping the water out, one bucket full at a time. I’m not going to sit here and just let this happen. Dad says it’s not up to me to do anything, but what if it is? What if I could convince Jabir that our town needs that factory? What if I could sway his decision?

Now that’s more like it. I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. I hop out of the truck and begin trudging through the sea of snow towards my cottage door. By the time I reach it, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to do whatever I can to convince Jabir to keep the factory open.

It’s not until I’m in my pajamas and under three layers of quilts that the thought strikes me. That means I’m going to have to spend time with Jabir. More conversations, like the one we had this evening. The thought warms me up, as if I’m still sitting in the inn in front of the fire, looking into his dark eyes.

As cold and drafty as my cabin is that night, I fall asleep as warm as if I’m lying in a beach under Dalai’s hot sun.