Maryanne's First Kiss

"How so, Betty?"

"Have you read any of his books?"

"I'm ashamed to say I haven't."

"You should but you need to start at the beginning and read them in order. Warren is in his middle thirties now. I don't like his current work even though the critics maintain that it his is best yet and of Pulitzer caliber---again. He's getting darker; the hope and commitment to survival that has been the hallmark of his protagonists is ebbing. I also saw it when he was here. I'm not sure that living alone up there in the woods is good for him."

"Did he every marry?"

"No, sadly, he never did. He was engaged before he went off to war but she couldn't deal with his injuries. He was psychologically very distant when he came home. We all thought that he had worked through that. I'm pretty sure that he hasn't even dated anyone since he came back. He's still sensitive about his injuries---his disfigurement---but it goes deeper than the surface. It's as if he feels that he is damaged goods and somehow unworthy of a woman's love. I've seen pictures of him prior to the accident. He was very handsome. He's so damned normal, warm and fun when we all get together. This year, three months before Sid's stroke, I thought he was more withdrawn, that he was turning back to the hopelessness that plagued him through those months in the hospital. It was his writing that saved him; now I fear that something, maybe even his writing is pulling him back into the abyss. I worry---we all do."

Maryanne left the hospital, stopping at the bookstore within a couple of miles of her home. She heeded Betty's advice, purchasing the entire anthology of Warren Davis's novels. Returning home she was greeted exuberantly by her two best friends in the world, her pups. After microwaving a prepared entree for dinner, she poured herself a glass of red wine and began to thumb through the first Warren Davis novel, the war story that had won him a Pulitzer, as her canine companions slept at her feet. By sunrise she was a third of the way through the novelist's body of work and starting on her third box of tissues. She was hooked.

She felt as if she had cheated herself by not reading this man's incredible prose earlier in life. She took several cat naps as her eyes began to blur from reading. By late Sunday night she had read them all and it had shaken her as no other experience in her life ever had. As she closed the last, the most recent tome, her body was uncontrollably racked with sobs as she recognized that what Sid's wife had told her was painfully evident. Warren Davis's hope and hopefulness was waning. This last, this tenth, magnificent but terribly sad work would quite possibly be the last Warren Davis novel the world would experience. And she felt pathetically inadequate to do anything about it. But she had to try.

Email hadn't been perfected yet. The first personal computers were in their infancy and too expensive for most people, not to mention terribly unreliable. The Internet was in its infancy and not available to the general public. Overnight delivery, thanks to FedEX, was in its early heyday. Early Monday morning she began to write a letter to her newest client, one that would not be typed on the office word processor but one that would be received by Warren Davis in her original hand. She had her secretary call FedEX to find out if they even delivered to the remote area in question. They did; in fact, Davis had an account with the company which he frequently used to communicate with his editor and publisher.

This was not the typical letter between an attorney and her client. She shared her special relationship with and love for Sid Fineman. She rambled at times. She told of her weekend marathon reading of the author's work. She shared in general terms those times in her life when she had felt inadequate and even hopeless. She spoke of her canines and provided glimpses of her life. She then signed it, M.A. Blumenthal, Esq., adding a PS: Please call me so that we can talk about our firm meeting your legal needs.

As she watched the handsome young deliveryman leave her office with the red, white and blue cardboard envelop, she felt completely inadequate and feared that her note to Warren Davis was pitiful.

She had hoped for a phone call. Two days later what she received was a FedEx envelop with a single page, hand written by Warren Davis. It was in its first few sentences almost formal. Then again, this man couldn't even write a one page note to his lawyer without the brilliance of his writing shining through. By the end of the page she saw the hints of warmth that Betty Fineman had alluded to. She scoured the client file for a phone number; there wasn't one. His number was unlisted and he had not volunteered it. He had given no indication of if or when he would next visit the District, let alone whether he had any interest in meeting her.

Two days later, her secretary told her that she had a call waiting from Mr. Davis.

"This is Maryanne." She said haltingly into her office phone.

"Maryanne? Ah, M.A., now I get it. That's a very pretty name. I called to thank you for your kind letter; it meant a great deal to me. Betty spoke very highly of you and told me that you and Sid are very close. It's nice to have one of Sid's friends handling my, ah, what's the word, account? Maryanne, ah, Ms. Blumenthal, ..."

"Maryanne will be just fine, Mr. Davis; Blumenthal is my married name, my former husband's name, in fact and..."

"Well this is a good start, Maryanne, I'm Warren to my friends...call me Warren. Any friend of Sid and Betty is a friend of mine."

The two chatted for a few minutes somewhat aimlessly and superficially.

"Is there any chance we could meet next time you get to the city?" Maryanne asked, hopefully.

There was a very long pause; for a moment she thought they had lost the connection.

"Maryanne, I think we both have to face the reality that Sid is not going to come back to us. That knowledge makes it almost unbearably painful for me to see him lying there like that. I would not think I would make another trip to the city until he passes on. If I came down before that I would have to visit him and I can't deal with that right now."

Maryanne started to speak. "Warren..."

"Maryanne it's been nice getting to chat with you. I need to get to work now but feel free to call anytime. Let me give you my number. I don't answer the phone, I let the machine do that but as soon as I know it's a friend calling, I'll call back. Take care now."

And Warren Davis was gone. Feeling more inadequate than she had in years, she dashed off a quick note on personal stationary and sent it out in the mail.

Over the ensuing weeks and months, Sid's position deteriorated. It would soon be time for the family to make a difficult decision as Sid's body was not able to continue without mechanical assistance.

The correspondence between Maryanne and Warren continued over the next few months; they exchanged short notes every few days. They spoke on the phone at least weekly. Maryanne wanted desperately to believe that by reaching out to this tortured, lonely man she was providing him some degree of comfort. Initially, his responses became decidedly more upbeat and even jocular at times.

She had sensed his depression coming back and intensifying over the past few weeks. He often did not return her calls or only called her after she had left several messages and then only after a day or two had passed. His letters became less frequent and decidedly darker. The desperation she felt spurred her to climb well outside of her safety net and execute a bold course of action. She had heard nothing from him in over a week and it scared her.

It had required a change of flights to a small commuter job to even get within fifty miles of where Warren lived. She had found a map in the client file, hand drawn by Sid years earlier. Betty had confirmed that it was still valid. So here she was, wishing the rental agency had been able to provide a four wheel drive vehicle, creeping along a snowy two lane road in a blinding snow storm.

She had driven these roads many years before but nothing still looked familiar. Coming around a sharp curve she felt the skid begin just as she saw the bright lights of the tractor trailer fill her windshield. It was a head on with the truck or the ditch; she chose the latter. It was more than a ditch; it was a steep incline and she came to rest nearly fifty feet below the roadway dazed from the impact, scared out of her mind and terribly unsure as to what the future held for her.

There was a car in the ditch. He only saw it after he passed. He touched the pistol jammed between the seats at his side; it was the one he had carried into war so many years before. It was also the one that would soon end his torment, but not yet. There was someone in trouble, maybe injured and they should not suffer due to his weakness. It was time to do what he seemed ordained to do, he thought to himself grimly---save someone in peril. For him it was too late for salvation. This won't take long, he mused; death can wait, certainly my own death.

Turning on his flashers, he cautiously backed up to confirm his suspicions. He jumped down from the massive, old Ram truck. It wasn't one of the new pretty ones, but the old kind that fireman and forest rangers used. It would literally drive over small trees or through fences if needed and climb the steepest grade. As the snow continued to fall in what would become the worst blizzard in over fifty years, he was glad he owned it.

He pulled as far off the road as possible, grabbed a hand full of flares and ran a hundred yards or so in each direction to mark the accident. He doubted that anyone would be coming along. While this was a US highway, it was only two lanes and there were faster four lane routes that would get you to the same place. Most of the traffic was local; most locals weren't dumb enough to be out in this stuff. He was returning from a neighbor's farm having helped him move a herd into his barn.

As he approached the car, he saw that is was a late model rental. The rear lights were blinking faintly and the engine was not running. He hoped everyone was unhurt. The hospital was over an hour away and it was doubtful that an ambulance could get there quickly; the few available were up to their butts in weather related issues. No skis perched on a roof rack; the nearest ski resort was some distance away but it was very doubtful that the car's occupants would choose this route if skiing was in their plans; sometimes they got lost. He banged on the window.

He couldn't really see through the fogged windows. With its dying breath, the battery managed to provide enough juice to roll the window down a little more than half way. He was startled to come face to face with a disheveled, but still very attractive blond women. She looked scared, cold, wet and disoriented.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly, trying to smile enough to calm her fears, but not so much that he looked like a potential rapist.

Maryanne was very cold, wet and miserable. She should never have set out on this trek, she thought to herself, knowing that the weather forecast was ugly. But she was on a mission, wasn't she? A mission to save someone, even thought she had no idea what she was going to say or do when she got there. She had no idea exactly where she was in relation to Warren Davis' log cabin.

She had tried to start the car, but it wouldn't start. When she had gotten out to survey the damage, she instantly realized that she could never have driven the car back up the steep embankment. For too long she had fruitlessly stood out in the driving snow at the road's edge, hoping for a passing car. None came. She had slid and tumbled back down to her rental car, soaked and on the verge of frostbite.

She decided she would have a better chance of surviving in the car. With no heat and the rapidly deepening snow, she had begun to believe that she might not get out of this one. She had just been drifting off into what most probably would have been that long sleep that ultimately becomes permanent. The rap on the window jarred her awake.

"Are you okay?" He repeated, a little louder this time. "Hi! Let's get you out of there and up in the truck where it's a little warmer."

He opened the door and helped her out of the car and up the embankment. At some point she was sure she mumbled her name.

"I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along. Thank you." She whispered.

He almost lifted her into the passenger side of the huge truck, no small feat considering she was a bit over five foot ten inches. He seemed to do so as if she was a feather pillow.

"Stay here in the truck and get warm. There's reasonable coffee in the thermos. I'm sorry that there's nothing to eat. I'm going to go take a look at your car." He said, and slammed the solid door shut.

She wasn't sure she would even recognize him when he returned. He was a tall man, certainly over six feet. She had caught his smile in spite of his beard and the heavy scarf wrapped around his face to protect against the driving snow. He was not fat. He was wearing a heavy parka, jeans and some sort of boots, brown she recalled. How old was he? He was not her junior by much but nor did he have the carriage of an older man. As she took in her surroundings in the massive truck cab, she quickly realized he didn't smoke. No Skol on the dash board, so he didn't dip either.

The cab was spotless; there was a bible and another book in the center tray. Sonnets, it was a well worn, leather bound book of Shakespeare's Sonnets. There was music playing, she assumed from the tape player. It was Mozart; it was one of her favorites, one of the Concertos, but she couldn't remember which one. There was a gun rack behind her; it contained a shot gun and a hunting rifle. She had grown up with guns and didn't fear them. There was a well used, but spotless 1911 Colt in a holster shoved in next to the driver's seat.

There was food after all. She opened the glove compartment and found an aged power bar and a silver flask. Fortunately, the power bar was foil wrapped and not spoiled. She thought, what the hell, and took a big swig from the silver flask. It was brandy; it was pretty good brandy. She had another swig and, not wanting to be greedy, returned the flask to its rightful place. Who the hell is this guy?

Meanwhile, he had popped the hood on the rental and determined that there was little he could do, particularly in the middle of a blizzard. He suspected that she had cracked the distributor cap; he knew he didn't have any distributor caps back at the house. He decided it made sense to get the thing out of the ditch and try to tow in out of the right of way. He surveyed the terrain and came up with a plan. He returned to the truck, pleased to note that his passenger, while still cold and disheveled, seemed to be recovering.

"That sucker is not going to start. Something broke when you tumbled over the embankment, probably the distributor cap. I'm going to pull it out of the ditch and tow it down the road to someplace where it will be safe." He said, putting the truck in gear and beginning to maneuver to recover her rental car.

He skillfully moved the truck into position; he hopped out of the truck and began unwinding the winch that this kind of truck comes with from the factory. He ran down the embankment and hooked the winch under the rear axel. Returning to the front of the truck, he engaged the winch. The car began its slow climb back to the edge of the roadway. He then disconnected the winch and, repositioning the truck, hooked a tow bar to the front bumper.

He climbed back up in the cab. "This isn't a tow truck so I can't get the drive wheels off the ground. Normally towing like this isn't very good for the transmission, but we don't have far to go, and hell, it is a rental." He informed her.

About a mile down the road, he pulled off to the entrance of an old barn. He jumped out of the truck, opened the barn door and backed the towed vehicle skillfully inside. Popping the trunk, he recovered her suitcase and threw it behind the front seat.

"When the blizzard's over, we can probably get old Joe Thompson out of that little town you passed about fifteen miles back to come out here and fix it; I doubt that the rental company will be able to get to it for several days." He quietly informed her.

He drove around behind the barn and started up a very steep gravel road. Maryanne felt the raw power as the truck surged up the mountain road through snow that was now already over a foot deep. The old Ram never faltered.

They arrived a few minutes later at the top of a small mountain, she assumed; the snow was coming down so hard that she wasn't absolutely sure. To her right was an open horse barn; she noticed two horses huddled together near the back of the structure. There were other buildings including another barn but she really couldn't pick out their detail.

The house was set just below the top of the mountain; it was a large, rustic log cabin with a broad front porch, not uncommon in this part of the country. He pulled the truck under a car port that was attached to the house. He jumped out and came around to help her down and recovered her suitcase. They entered the house through the kitchen, which was large, spacious and well appointed. They were quickly greeted by two dogs, one a furry creature of unknown sled dog ancestry and the other a big black Lab. This was a man's house she thought to herself; there was no hint of feminine frilliness.

"The guest bedroom and bathroom is at the top of the stairs on the left. Make yourself comfortable. I'll get something going on the stove to get you warmed up. There are some sweats that I inadvertently shrunk in the dryer in the closet in there and I'm sure you can find something that will fit if you didn't bring a warm change of clothes. Bring your wet clothes down when you're done and we'll throw them in the washer." He said, over his shoulder.

She thanked him and, taking her suit case, headed up the stairs. The warm water was soon caressing her naked body and bringing her back to life. Realizing as she existed the shower that nothing she had so hurriedly packed fit the bill, she went with a pair of fleece sweats she dug out of the linen closet. Descending the stairs, she was gratified that her benefactor had stoked the massive stone fire place; the fire was a roaring and inviting one.

Who was this man? She had no doubt that he had probably saved her life. She hadn't really seen his face and they had not had a chance to introduce themselves. As she heard the bustle from the kitchen she perused the book shelves on either side of the grand fire place. His books were obviously for reading not for show. The selection was eclectic, even academic in its diversity. She chuckled at the fact that the shelves were devoid of popular current fiction. No Warren Davis volumes were in evidence.

And then she saw it. A picture, prominently displayed, almost enshrined above the fireplace. She knew that picture. She had once owned the exact same pose but it had been lost, much to her regret, during one of her many moves over the years.

It was a picture of her. She was smiling. She had on a long white prom dress and an orchid corsage. There was a handsome young man standing next to her wearing a tux, grasping her hand, gazing into her eyes. She grabbed the picture off the shelf and clutched it to her breast. She inhaled sharply and then gasped. The gasp became a sob. She could not hold back the ensuing flood of tears as she gripped that special picture. She heard her host placing plates on the table just outside the kitchen. Spinning around, she spoke. Her voice cracked as she uttered a single word, more of a question than a statement.