When he arrived, the cabin was so cold that miniature snowdrifts filled the corners of the windowsills. He lit the gas heater. The blue flame flickered, shy and new, then talked itself into showing off, sending white shoots all across the grate. Digging in the duffel, he located his ski gloves and began filling the wood bin. By the time the stack looked reliable enough to outlast a major storm, perspiration ran down his cheeks, soaking his collar and buckling his knees.

The phone rang. He scrambled to answer it, hoping it was Anne and not his boss. The caller hung up without talking. Wrong number, he guessed. Anne's image in the empty apartment niggled at the edge of his consciousness. Did she miss him? Hanging the damp shirt on the mantle, he pulled a turtleneck from his bag and then a sweater. Outside the cabin, the trees, anticipating the storm, swung their branches in wider and wider arcs as the wind blew across the valley. The wooden porch creaked where it rubbed the cabin's frame. Moving the rocker closer to the hearth, he set the fire, deliberately breaking the kindling into smaller pieces and twisting the newspaper energetically to fill the cabin with noise of his own.

They had never come here alone, just the two of them. The lake made it a good place for entertaining and so four or five couples would crowd into two cars. At odd intervals twosomes would steal into the woods because the bunk rooms didn't offer any privacy. After heavy drinks, someone usually suggested the joint purchase of a motorboat, but no one ever had any spare thousands. They took turns fishing from the two-man dinghy and conoeing. A few times Anne had come by herself, particularly after her parents died and left her the cabin. He assumed she needed the space to make peace. Even though she always complained about being alone when he worked late, he hadn't wanted to intrude.

With the cabin floating in a sea of white, he imagined how it would be if she were here. When she relaxed, up here without the worry of standing in line at the grocery store or the noise of the neighborhood kids riding bikes through her lilies, she would snuggle against him to watch an old movie, her feet ensconced in fuzzy socks, rubbing his to help the circulation. He closed his eyes, feeling the slow droop of her head against his shoulder, breathing in the light recollection of perfume he'd brought her from France the summer after they met. When she awoke, she'd pad softly to the old stove and boil water for tea, whistling when it whistled and melting caramels for sugar. She might bring him cinnamon toast or chocolate chip cookies she'd spirited into the supply box without his noticing. She'd beat him at rummy, massage his back, tell him some of her father's unfunny old jokes, and tickle him until he laughed.

As he turned away from the window, he heard the branches knock against the cabin walls. Two nights in a row without her--that'd be tough. If he counted the last five nights, since she'd taken up residence on the sofa, Sunday would be a week.

At home seven days of abstinence would be inevitable, but here he might have a chance of changing her mind with reminders of earlier times. He thought about calling her, asking her again, describing the snow, promising to have steak and apple pie ready and the hot water bottle warming the bed. His imagination played out the scene; phone ringing in the silent apartment, Anne glaring at it disdainfully, omniscient, and unwilling to listen to his pleas. No, he'd use the two solitary days to work on his perspective, to make some decisions on his own without her prodding and tugging.

Maybe before now he should have come to the cabin by himself. What good was a perfect attendance record in the larger scheme of things? Surrounded by winter, the windows of the cabin shone with an unearthly light, the fire and snow reflected from inside and out, splashing large patches of brightness on the threadbare carpet. He inched the chair closer to the fire and dozed. Anne's book lay on his lap open to page one.

"Halloo, mountain men arise, the snow queen hath arrived!" Anne. Anne burst through the front door, flinging her hood back and shaking snow off her shoulders in an enormous spray of white kisses melting to clear puddles the size of pennies. From the front porch, the trail of wide snowy prints marched directly to the hearth. She turned from side to side absorbing the steamy heat.

"Did you call in sick?" he asked.

"No, I told them I had to go rescue my husband who was stranded in a snow storm without sustenance."

"That's not true. I have birthday cake." The book fell off his lap, startling him awake. No snowy footsteps, no vibrant queen. Now that he'd imagined her here and then dreamed it, he knew he hadn't gotten it right.

If she were here, she'd be constantly cold and want some exotic fruit that he hadn't thought to bring. Being trapped with an unsophisticated mountain man who enjoyed watching snow fall would not be Anne's idea of a good time.

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