“Whoa!” It’s Hassan’s turn to hold onto the roll bar as I take the corner into the Mountain Laurel’s driveway. The roads have been plowed, but are still slick with a layer of packed snow. Snow continues to beat down against the windshield.

I steer into the slide, like Hassan’s told me to do, and after a few hair-raising seconds, the car straightens out.

“I’m learning!” I say proudly.

Hassan’s still gripping the handle above the passenger window.

“You can let go,” I say, parking the car in the same spot we occupied the night before. “We’re here.”

I hear him mutter a prayer under his breath.

I laugh. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad.”

“Not so bad?! I’m driving next time.”

“Whatever you say, Brother.” I’m smiling as I unbuckle and step out of the car.

“You’re in a good mood,” Hassan notes.

It’s true. I am. Though I’d sooner not admit it to Hassan, I know that my happiness has something to do with the time I spent with the pretty waitress the night before. I glance towards the inn, wondering if she’ll be inside, sitting at the front desk, maybe.

We make our way up the front walk. Even though I can tell it was recently cleared, the few inches of fresh snow stick to my loafers, and icy-cold wetness seeps into my thin dress socks.

Wind whips snowflakes against my cheeks, and by the time we step through the doors to the inn, I feel like a human icicle. I shake my bare hands, flicking my fingers through the fire-warmed air to get my blood circulating.

“You boys need some hats!”

I look up to the desk, and see the elderly woman that greeted us the night before. She’s wearing her glasses again today, and has a pink knit scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders.

Though she’s a pleasant enough woman, I’m disappointed by the sight of her. I was hoping Teresa would be working.

“I’m sure Neville has some spare one’s kicking around,” she says. “Would you like me to ask him? You shouldn’t be out in this weather without one. It’s not comfortable—or safe. What with the roads like they are, you never know when you’ll be stuck waiting for a tow.”

Hassan approaches her and engages in conversation. I hear him asking about the possibility of renting the room for two more nights. We’ve heard many weather reports, and all of them have forecasted that the precipitation will not clear out until Saturday at the earliest.

I drift towards the seating area, drawn in by the roaring fire and the memory of my conversation the night before. Part of me hopes, as I near the tall armchairs, that Teresa will be sitting in one. I round the chairs and once again, I’m disappointed. But the warm fire feels nice, and I take a seat as I wait for Hassan to reserve our rooms.

He wanders over a few minutes later.

“Dawn’s going to bring two hats to the front desk for us,” he says, somewhat bewildered.

“She doesn’t have to do that!”

“I know, but she insists.”

“The people are very friendly here,” I say, thinking of Teresa.

He nods, and leans against the back of the armchair. “They are, aren’t they? And they seem to be hard workers, too. I’ve never seen a factory so well maintained. So clean.”

I switch my focus to the factory we’ve just visited, and compare it in my mind to the inn. “Just like this place,” I say, motioning around the Mountain Laurel’s lobby. “The locals seem to take pride in keeping things clean.”

“Yes,” he says. “But those numbers, whew.” He shakes his head. “They tell a story of lots of missed deadlines.”

“But why?” I ask. We’ve covered this once, in the car ride home, but didn’t come to any clear answers. Now, staring into the fire, some fresh thoughts come to me.

“The manager said that they’ve had a hard time with recruitment. That makes sense, given that the town only has a population of two hundred. Half of them must be children and elderly. That plant could easily employ two hundred—maybe two hundred and fifty workers. It has the space for it. Yet they’re scraping by with seventy-five—and some of those are part time.”

Hassan tsks. “Sorely understaffed,” he says.

“What if…” I’m starting to have an idea. “What if there was a way to get people excited about moving here, to work at the factory? What if we made up some kind of recruitment package?”

He bites his lip. “But is it worth it?” he says. “All those late deliveries…”

“It’s not due to lack of effort,” I say. “You saw how hard the employees were working. How clean and efficient everything was.”

“Yes, but…” I can see Hassan’s still hung up on the numbers.

“And then there’s the road in,” I say. “It seems to me that there’s only one way into this box canyon, and that’s the steep, winding road we came in on. And the manager said it himself: the town hasn’t had a good road crew for over a decade, so they’re way behind on upkeep. No wonder the deliveries get delayed. It wouldn’t take much money on our part to fix some of the issues there, and make the roads more reliable.”

Hassan’s eyes twitch in that way they do when he’s thinking hard. I can see that the human calculator is off and running. I’m sure he can’t wait to get his hands on his laptop so that he can start crunching the numbers.

He straightens up. “I’ll go upstairs and call Father,” he says. He glances down at his watch. “It’s almost noon and I’m sure he’s waiting to hear from us.”

“Okay.” I settle back in my chair. My shoes are almost dry from the fire’s heat, but not quite. “I’m going to stay here.”

He pats my shoulder a few times before departing.

I pick up a magazine and begin to read, and the glossy pages filled with desserts make my stomach grumble with hunger. Does the inn’s restaurant serve lunch? I stand up, and wander towards the dining area to find out.

I’m reading a sign that says the dining area opens at 4:30 when I hear her voice.

“Jabir?”

I whirl around. I feel my face light up with a smile. “Teresa! What are you doing here?”

She holds up an envelope. “Picking up my tips from last night,” she says. “I see you’ve found the sign. The dining room won’t open till dinner time.”

“I see that.” I motion to the sign, and then look back to Teresa. “I guess I’ll have to figure something else out.”

She tips back on her heels, and then rocks onto her toes again. I feel like she’s studying me. Silence hangs in the air.

“Do you…have any recommendations?” I ask.

She slides the envelope of tip money into her back pocket. She’s dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater, and her blond hair spills out from beneath a purple cap. Her lips, however, are covered with a shiny gloss, and I wonder if she’s put it on because she thought she might see me.

She’s quiet for a moment, and I can tell she’s thinking about something, though I don’t know what. Finally, she blurts out, “How did it go, your meeting?”

It takes me a minute to remember that I mentioned the meeting to her the night before, just before we parted. I smile.

“Oh! Thanks for asking. Yes, it went fine. We had an early start and I was a bit tired, but nothing that some tea couldn’t fix. We just got back, actually.”

She bites her lip, making her gloss sparkle. I sense that she wants to know more, so I keep on talking.

“We went up to the plant,” I say. “To have a look around.”

“What did you think?” she asks. I see a shadow of fear flit across her face, just briefly. In an instant, it’s gone.

“It was very efficient, very organized. Honestly, I was impressed.”

This seems to make her happy. She sighs. “That’s good. I… Oh, for lunch, let’s see… What are your options… There’s the New Hampstead Pizzeria, which is where the old general store used to be. You probably passed that this morning on the way to the plant. They serve lunch but it’s not as good as their dinners, because they don’t fire up the pizza ovens until four or five…

“Dutton’s has a few sandwich options and of course he does his pies and baked goods. Oh! Of course. You should go to Marge’s Diner. She’s got a great menu and the portions are nice and big. Good for a day like today when it feels like your burning so many calories just to stay warm.”

“That’s the one!” I say. “Marge’s it is. Would you mind pointing me in the right direction? Or…better yet, would you like to join me?”

She looks torn for a minute. A rosy pink color stains her pale cheeks, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some kind of line.

“No problem if you can’t.” I rush to add. “I understand you might be working.”

“No— I’m—” She bites her lip again, and meets my eye. Her blue-grey eyes search mine. I wonder if she feels nervous to accept an offer for a lunch date with a stranger. I give her time to think. As if she’s found what she was looking for in my eyes, she nods. “I have the day off, as it happens,” she finishes, “And I’d love to go to lunch with you, Jabir.”

A jolt of happiness passes through me as she says my name.

As we cross the lobby together, walking towards the front entrance, Dawn waves me over. She pulls a bright red hat from somewhere behind the desk, and hands it over. There’s a fluorescent yellow pompom on the top, and I feel it bouncing as I pull the cap over my ears.

When we step out into the fresh air, I feel much more protected against the wind. Teresa insists on driving, after seeing the way my white sports car hovers over the snowy driveway, more like a sled than a car. I’m amazed at the way her truck handles the snow, and I make a few mental notes to share with Hassan—Studded snow tires! Put the car into second gear!—on our way. Once in the restaurant, Teresa leads us to a booth.

“This is where I like to sit,” she says, as we slide into red, padded seats across from each other. “It’s far enough from the TV,” she motions to a large screen hanging from one corner of the diner, “which Marge keeps way too loud since her hearing started to go, and,” she motions across the room to the glass door, “you don’t get a draft every time the door opens.”

The booth is nice and warm. I remove first the red hat and then my thin white jacket and deposit them onto the booth next to me. I see Teresa stifle a giggle.

“What?” I ask. Her laugh is infectious, and I start to laugh myself. I feel giddy around her, and it doesn’t take much to make the laugh bubble from my lips.

“That hat!” she says, covering her pretty lips with one hand. “Why would Neville have a hat like that?”

I lift it up and look at it. “I like it,” I say.

“I do, too. It looks perfect on you. But really! It’s not Neville’s style.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe there’s more about this Neville than you know. Maybe…” I turn the hat in my hands, taking in the clown-like colors. “Maybe he doesn’t open the restaurant for lunch because he’s moonlighting at a carnival.”

She erupts in a fit of giggles just as a woman with a long, grey braid walks up to the table. She has two glasses of water in her hands, and she sets them down on the table. “Did someone already serve you two the laughing gas special?” She speaks loudly, and I see flesh-colored hearing aids in both ears. This must be Marge.

“Oh, Marge!” Teresa says loudly, confirming my suspicions. Teresa waves a hand to me. “This is Jabir. He’s here all the way from Dalai, on business.”

“Dalai! That’s where our factory owners live. You happen to know the Abdullah family?”

I smile and extend my hand, making sure to keep my voice loud and my enunciation clear as I introduce myself. “My name is Sheikh Jabir Abdullah.”

“Well, well, well! I’ll be! Welcome to Marge’s diner, Mr. Abdullah. It’s a pleasure and an honor, both.”

“Thank you. It’s wonderful to be here.” This is the truth. I glance across the table at Teresa, and see that she’s gazing at me with dreamy eyes. That makes me feel even better, and I sit up straighter.

I can still feel Teresa’s eyes on my as Marge rattles off the short lunch menu. I order the turkey club, and Teresa asks for her “usual.” When Marge departs, I find that I’m glad to have Teresa all to myself again.

Her mood is slightly different now, and some of the lightness that was there just a moment ago is gone. Something about our exchange with Marge has her nervous, and I wonder if it’s the fact that I introduced myself as a sheikh.

I’m eager to see her smile again, so I bring up a topic that I know will relax her. “I was serious about what I said last night. I’m very interested in buying one of your paintings.”

She shifts in her seat, and then smiles reluctantly. I can see some of her nervousness falling away again. “Really?” she asks. She takes a sip of her water. Her long lashes brush against her cheek as she looks down. She’s beautiful.

Her eyes flick back to mine. I’m surprised at how much blue there is in them today, in this new lighting.

I’m lost for a moment, but then I clear my throat. “How much… How much are they?”

“Umm…I don’t know, really. Dawn’s the only person who’s ever bought them from me, and she gives me twenty-five a piece. Does that sound good—er, fair? To you?” I can tell she’s uncomfortable discussing the price.

I smile. “I’ll give you three hundred,” I say. I pull out my wallet, and she lifts a hand.

“No, no!” She waves her hands over the table. “That’s way too much!”

“No, it isn’t,” I reply firmly. “You’re an artist. Teresa. If anything, I’m getting a bargain.”

She appears stunned. I carefully remove three crisp, hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, and place them on the table between us. She lets them sit there for a moment before sweeping them up. “Thank you,” she says softly.

“You should get used to it,” I say. “I won’t be the last art collector to value your work.”

She’s quiet. When she speaks again, her voice is feather soft. “Tell me about Dalai,” she says. “You’ve been so kind to me, Jabir, listening to all of my stories and showing so much interest in my art. Now I want to learn about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“That might take a while.”

I pause, and consider what I want to share with her. Somehow, the usual facts of my life don’t seem suited to this conversation—here and now, with this beautiful, interesting girl. What can I tell her that will make her laugh? What can I say to keep those bright eyes sparkling when she looks my way?

I take a sip of water before beginning.

For the next hour and a half, I regale Teresa with any and every humorous story I can think of from my childhood. She laughs when I tell her about the time, when we were six, that Hassan and I got locked in a storage closet during our mother’s birthday celebration. Her eyebrows shoot up as I recall the time my father paid a local radio station to let me DJ for an hour, and I mistakenly swore live on air. She’s full of questions about the palace, the city, and my country.

I barely taste the turkey club, though I’m vaguely aware that I like it. All of my attention is on her, and her reactions.

Before I know it, I’m paying the bill, and Teresa and I are sliding out of the booth. I desperately don’t want the lunch hour to end. As we begin driving back to the inn, conversation turns to the factory.

“They could do with hiring quite a few more people,” I mention.

“I know, and they’ve tried. But that’s the thing with this town; people seem to leave it to go elsewhere, not the other way around. So many of the kids I went to high school with are gone now. They move to Melrose, or farther even.”

“Why?’

“Housing, for one thing. Lots of the houses around here were built at the turn of the century. You can see how old they are, right?” She points out the window, and I look at the wooden structures as they pass.

She continues. “They’re near impossible to renovate. I mean, a lot has to go—pipes, electric, wood. You name it. So young people don’t want to buy them. In Melrose, you can rent a nice, new apartment for five hundred bucks a month, or less.”

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“I got lucky. My uncle and father own a summer cabin at the edge of town. We used to visit it a lot when my cousins and I were little. We’d all go stay there and fish in the river and stuff. Now that all of us kids are grown, I get to live there full time.”

“But not everyone has a summer cottage to rent.”

“Right.”

We pass by one of the towering, five-story brick buildings. “What about these?” I ask, gesturing. “They look like apartment buildings.”

She peers out the window and shakes her head. “Nope. Those are old offices for Keller and Son’s logging. See there, on the side?”

I see faded white block writing on one side of the building, which spells out the company name.

“There’s a few of them,” Teresa says. “Keller and Sons, and up the road there’s Johnson and Co.”

“That’s you!” I say. I recall the last name from her name tag.

“Right. My family used to log. That was before that industry totally died. Now we…” her voice trails off.

“Paint?” I guess.

“Something like that.” She’s quiet, and I can tell she doesn’t like the way the conversation is going. I decide to change tack.

“So, about those pies you mentioned last night…”

She picks up on my hint immediately. “Dawson’s! Yes. Let’s go! I could totally go for something sweet right now. I’ll introduce you to Pete!”

The afternoon is filled with maple pecan pie, and more tea by the roaring fire of the Mountain Laurel. Teresa offers to introduce me to snowshoeing, and after I get over my initial reaction—snow and shoes don’t seem to go together well, in my experience so far—she does her best to convince me that it’s a wonderful sport. The next day, decked out in a pair of her father’s boots and snow shoes, along with a thick, warm jacket, I find out that indeed, it is.

Later in the evening, sore from our hike and still wearing tall snow boots, I follow Teresa through a row of folding chairs. I squeeze amongst townspeople, who are all talking animatedly with one another.

Teresa and I reach two empty seats, and I look around as we sit.

Everyone looks excited. I recognize Dawn and Neville, who have found coverage for the inn so that they can watch the talent show. Dawn even gives me a little wave, and Neville motions to my hat and gives me a thumbs up. I return it. Then I see Pete Dawson, the man who sold us the pies the day before. I feel strangely at home in the town hall as the lights dim and an MC takes the stage.

Two hours later, after a surprisingly wonderful show of poetry, tap dancing, skits, and of course the almost-famous Sue Jackson violin playing, I find that I don’t want the evening to end. So when Teresa mentions that she’s cooking up some venison stew the next day at her cottage, and asks if I want to join her for dinner, I happily say yes.

To be honest, I have no idea what venison is.

But I feel so warm and happy, as I pull the red and yellow hat over my ears and join the crowd leaving the hall, that I simply don’t care. If I get to hang out with Teresa, the dinner doesn’t matter. She could serve water-logged, semi-frozen suede shoes on a plate, and I’d be just fine with that.