Snowbound

“That’s why you loved school so much.”

“I suppose so. It was my refuge.”

He wanted to know what kind of problems made her

want to hide out at school, but knew it wasn’t any of

his business.

“Not that it was that terrible,” she said hastily. “It was

just that my parents were fighting. They got a divorce

my first year of college.”

“Did you wish they’d done it years earlier?”

She dumped more onions in with the browning meat

and shook her head. “No. Although that would be

logical, wouldn’t it? But who’s logical about things

like that? I knew my father had been having affairs.

Even when I hid in my room, I could hear their voices.

And then I saw him one day. Midafternoon, coming out

of a motel room with this woman who worked with

him. He kissed her, then they got in their separate cars

and drove away. It was like seeing a stranger. You

know?” She wasn’t chopping anymore, and John turned

to see her gazing into space as if she didn’t remember

where she was. The knife in her hand was suspended

above the onion. It didn’t seem unnatural that tears

streamed down her cheeks. She continued after a

moment, “I didn’t know whether I should tell my

mother. I was afraid she’d see it on my face, so I bicycled over to a friend’s house and begged to spend the night. In the end, I never did tell Mom. I don’t think she

realized how much I’d heard and knew.” Fiona shook

her head. “And why am I telling you all this? All you

asked was if I wanted them to get a divorce. And here’s

the thing. When they finally did separate, I was devastated. It was like the bottom had dropped out of my world. Home wasn’t home anymore. It was supposed

to stay the same forever. Which I suppose answers your

question. I was self-absorbed. My parents existed to be

my bedrock, not as people with their own needs and

problems.”

“That’s normal.” Leaning against the lip of the

counter, he watched her finish chopping the last onion.

“Have either of them remarried?”

She gave a laugh that revealed more unhappiness than

he suspected she knew. “Oh, my father has. Twice. He

wasn’t faithful with number two, either. And probably

isn’t with number three, which is a shame. Shelly is a nice

woman.” She seemed to shake herself. “Mom hasn’t. I

think she might have a hard time trusting a man.”

“What about you?” he heard himself ask. “Do you,

too?”

She scraped the onions into the hamburger mix with

the knife, then set the cutting board back on the counter.

As if she hadn’t heard him, she said, “I need to go wash

my face before I start the garlic.”

John nodded toward the door to his quarters. “You

can use my bathroom if you want.”

“So I don’t have to explain why I’ve been sobbing

to assorted teenagers? Thanks.” She disappeared into

his small apartment, consisting of a sitting room,

bedroom and bathroom.

He didn’t have to worry about having left the

bathroom tidy; between the military and his stint as

innkeeper, keeping his space clean and clear of clutter

had become automatic. Wondering how much she could

tell about him from his living quarters did make him a

little uneasy.

She came back with her face scrubbed, and her eyes

still red and puffy. “I’ve never chopped so much onion

before. I guess I somehow escaped that particular job

when we had big family Thanksgiving get-togethers.”

“I appreciate you doing it.”

She worked in silence, adding the garlic a minute

later. John was pouring cans of tomato sauce he’d

already opened when Fiona said, “What you asked

about me trusting— The answer is I don’t know. I guess

it hasn’t come up.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why not? I was telling you my life story.”

He shrugged. “All right. Doesn’t trust always come

up?”

“I haven’t actually had any relationships that were

very serious.” She scraped diced green pepper into the

sauce. “My mother worries. She’s convinced the divorce scarred me, that I’m shying away from marriage. But I really don’t think so. I keep telling her I haven’t met the right man. Which is just as well. I