Page 2 of You'll Be Sorry

He’s very charming. She’s scarily self-contained. He proposes twice more with a diamond the size most women would find compelling. She snaps the Tiffany box shut each time and shoves it back into his grasp. Butgradually…a slow melting. Until one middle-of-the-night session, still entwined beneath a twist of sheets:

He slides the ring onto her finger.

She doesn’t take it off.

He waits until morning, just to be on the safe side, then officially pops the champagne.

“To there never being any secrets between us,” he toasts.

And she smiles sadly, because she already knows that’s a lie.

Sometimes she wakes up screaming. Other times he finds her standing in the dark, looking out the bedroom window at nothing at all.

The nights she whimpers in her sleep, he shakes her back to consciousness. She clutches him desperately, like a drowning woman desperate for shore. She never talks. He learns to stroke her hair while practicing his patience.

Finally, one night: “You know you can tell me anything. Anything at all. It’ll be all right.”

“What would I have to say?” She looks him directly in the eye. “No secrets, remember?”

And then he’s the one smiling sadly, as he realizes the full weight of the silence between them.

Now he’s running, burning legs punching through knee-deep snow. Her awkward bulk is clasped desperately against his chest. His heart, pounding to the point of nearly bursting.

A trail of red dotting the white-blanketed wilderness behind them.

He staggers forward through the fierce blizzard, head down, shoulders rounded. Fighting against the wind, the stinging cold, the sheer intractability of Mother Nature. Must keep moving. Faster, farther, only hope they have left…

“No secrets no secrets no secrets,” he mutters in her ear.

But it’s already much too late for that.

He collapses into the snow, her limp body dragging him down. He tries to rise to standing. Tries to pull her up with him. In the end, exhaustion wins out, and he lies beside her, his form curled protectively around hers, as icy white flakes continue to pelt down, quickly covering the mound of their entwined bodies.

A man and woman.

A story of what might’ve been.

Shereford, New Hampshire, 1998

The locals called him Dog. Nobody knew where the pale-Lab-ish-looking canine had come from. Maybe abandoned by a tourist, or at one time lost on a nearby hiking trail. Attempts to get close enough to check for tags failed. So did the lure of warm shelter and cozy domestic life.

Dog did Dog. Over time, the six hundred residents of the tiny mountain town of Shereford agreed. Shopkeepers left out bowls of water. Restaurant owners offered up nightly scraps. Among neighbors, it became something of an honor to wake up in the morning to discover Dog had chosen their front porch for the night.

Of course, there were those who chased him away, worried he’d attack their children—or worse, breed with their own precious four-legged darlings.

Dog did no such thing. Dog did Dog. And as months passed, his staunch independence and regal bearing made him something of a local star. Tourists started asking about him, hopeful for a sighting or, even better, a photo. Sometimes Dog was accommodating. Sometimes Dog was not. No amount of offered treats or pretty words made a difference.

Then, the Dixons returned for the season.

One of the founding families with roots that traced back to the 1700s, the current generation was Dave Dixon; his wife, Janet; andtheir four boisterous children. Most of the year they resided in New York, but they spent each summer on the old family farm, which included dozens of acres of prime mountain real estate and one massive timber-framed lodge with breathtaking views. Half the community eyed the young family indulgently, while the other half muttered “entitled” as the four high-spirited kids ransacked the bins of penny candy at the general store, chased each other around tables at the local diner, and by and large ran amok through the town commons.

Which is where twelve-year-old Henry, ten-year-old Violet, eight-year-old Josie, and six-year-old William met Dog.

Henry, as the oldest, ordered his siblings to stay back. No collar meant stray. Stray meant rabies. Violet, on the other hand, was already making cooing noises while Josie wanted to know what rabies was. William settled the matter by darting forward and throwing his arms around Dog’s neck.

Which is how Dog became a Dixon.

Dave Dixon had magical memories of his childhood summers on the family property, exploring trails, climbing boulders, and chasing foxes with his numerous cousins by day; catching fireflies, roasting marshmallows, and swimming in moonlit ponds come night.