It was not too far from the middle of nowhere. I stood beside the rented truck, arms folded protectively against the wind, eyes searching the landscape for any sign of life. North, south, nothing but pale, dead fields. East, west, only a slim gray road. Both views for as far as the eye could see.
"Well, Sanvalle is about ten miles west." I turned quickly to face the only other soul on this desolate patch of land, and the only person I'd spoken to in over eight hours. "Straight down this road," the gas attendant said smiling through the gap in his teeth.
I was on my way to Sanvalle on a freelance assignment from a travel magazine. As a part of the upcoming election year's "Heartland" focus, the February issue would feature the most unlikely, or less obviously romantic, Valentine's Day destinations in the States. Sanvalle was celebrated for its Valentine's Day festivities. A strange local legend about two lovers had left this Middle American town a hot spot on the Valentine's Day map.
When Nebraska was still the wild west, two unmarried lovers settled a little piece of land, just west of what is now the center of town. A small town quickly grew up around them, as towns seem to do. Many attributed the town's rapid growth to the lovers -- they were said to be warm, friendly and loyal neighbors, and in spite of their non-married state, their fellow pioneers were drawn to them and held them in high esteem. And so a warm, kindhearted community grew on the cold, heartless plain.
The winters were frigid, and for that reason, most people kept to themselves during that season. It wasn't so surprising, then, that no one saw the lovers for an entire winter.
Spring came and still no one saw the lovers. The neighbors came to call and found the couple together in their barn, in a bale of hay, with arrows through their hearts. Some of the more God-fearing folk in the community considered it a sign of God's disapproval of the unholy union. Most were heartily sorry for the loss. Though these locals knew that most likely the lovers had been killed defending their property from marauders, as time went by there grew a great myth surrounding these events. Each generation added something new, increasing the romantic value of the story, until the story went that two lovers, making love in a barn on Valentine's Day, filling the cold night with the warmth of their love, experienced such an intense passion that they could no longer live in this world, and so Cupid himself claimed them.
With this myth as inspiration, the locals began referring to the town as St. Valentine's Town, which over the years evolved to Sanvalenton to just plain Sanvalle. And so from this great myth, Sanvalle hosts a week-long Valentine's Day celebration to reinforce this creation myth, which culminates in the Great St. Valentine's Day Ball, held in the town's recreation center, formerly a barn, which is thought to stand on the original site of the lover's homestead.
And so here I was, a city girl at heart -- I mean, I never even went to Brooklyn -- in America's heartland, in the bitter cold, with a chill of bitterness in my heart.
Hopping back into the truck, I headed west and turned the heat up.
This myth was very cute, but I was not amused. I hated Valentine's Day. It fell in the coldest, meanest month, when the frigidity of the wind chills one right down to the bone, so that it is physically painful. And then there are all the Valentine's Day accouterments -- red heart-shaped candy boxes cluttering every pharmacy shelf, cards, synthetic roses and insipid stuffed animals bearing red bows and signs saying "Be mine", couples out clogging up and increasing the prices at every decent restaurant in Manhattan. And if left without a love of your own, the deep bone chill of this day was even more painful.
What was worse -- I didn't believe in love anymore. At least if I felt a hope of it I might've been able to bear all this, writing this damn story. My hopes for love had been shattered when I had to break off my engagement a few years ago. And then those little shards of hope still scattered on the floor were ground away as each new man in my life stepped over those pieces, crushing them beneath heavy and heartless feet. And so I felt by now that it was better to be alone than to face the hurt inevitably inflicted by a relationship. I had no interest in men. Truth be told, I didn't even find them attractive anymore. I didn't want them in any way, shape or form. The only thing I might possibly need a man for wasn't even an issue -- I had fingers and a vibrator.
Driving into town was like taking a step back in time -- Main Street lined with quaint wooden storefronts, squat, square turn-of-the-last-century buildings, trucks sparsely parked next to wrought iron street lamps, Men wearing cowboy hats, women in plaid, denim everywhere. As Main Street veered north, the storefronts were replaced by lovely old Victorian homes, with wide front yards and thick aged trees surely planted a century ago. In their midst I found my bed & breakfast -- The Cupid's Bow.
Pink wallpapered and smelling of cinnamon, the entryway opened into a lobby where a blazing fireplace pointed the way to a majestic mahogany staircase. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. The proprietress, Carol McKay, gave me my key, and her husband, Bob, carried my bags to my room, but not before stopping to kiss his wife on the cheek. Oddly, I was not repulsed.
I sat at the Sanvalle Diner, right smack dab, as Bob McKay had said, in the middle of Main Street. I had enjoyed my dinner and was now sipping my Budweiser slowly. Couples sat everywhere. Even the diner was run by one. It all seemed so simple here, I thought. You meet your husband in high school, you get married and open a diner, a B&B, and you are easy and content the rest of your life. None of this writing for a living, living alone, wanting more. It was all simple and plentiful.
My thoughts were disrupted by the bell on the door, and I turned to look at the door. I met a back, wide shouldered and suede clad. The back of his neck was tanned, as if it were summer, and dark blonde sun kissed hair shone out from under a baseball cap. I hated that look in New York. But here it fit and I couldn't stop looking at this figure. I watched as he left the diner, and caught a glimpse of his profile, surely rugged, softened by the twilight.
I returned to my room at The Cupid's Bow and asked Mr. McKay to light a fire in my room's fireplace. I poured myself a Talisker from the bottle I had wrapped up in a sweater and packed in my suitcase, and drew a hot bath. A series of candles decorated the bathroom, and I lit each one. I took a sip of scotch and it burned my mouth, throat and belly. Climbing into the massive porcelain tub, I felt the steamy water scald my skin. My legs blushed with the heat, as I sunk into the water. My flesh welcomed the hot, comfortably embrace of the waters. I rested my head on a plump white towel, and relished the warmth and the flickering candlelight and the quiet -- only the sizzle of the fireplace in the next room and the lapping of water against my body. My hands brushed against my thighs, feeling of velvet. My fingertips lifted and grazed my belly, soft and smooth. And then my breasts, full and round and rising out of the candlelit water. I closed my eyes.
The week had passed -- and now the night Sanvalle had anticipated all year. A night of warmth and pleasure in a cold and bleak winter. I stood in my room, examining my clothes. I had laid out a black cocktail dress for the event. But standing before my bed now, after a week in this town, I decided to take a different fashion path. I descended the mahogany staircase. Clad in a brown suede jacket, a white shell top peaking from beneath, a white flared skirt left over from last year's petticoat craze, and brown suede cowboy boots of a decade ago, I looked, as Mr. McKay said, like a local.
I pulled up in front of the Sanvalle Recreation Center. The immense old building was alight with golden Christmas tree lights. Candlelight from inside sparkled in the misshapen old glass windows. And from behind the building, the orange glow of a raging bonfire danced against the black night.
Entering the building, the warmth of the crowd, dancing and chattering, enveloped me. As expected, red hearts, bows and arrows dominated the decoration scheme, and happy couples arm in arm milled around with great red plastic cups of beer. Before I had the chance to obtain my own red cup, a red-faced, soft-spoken old man asked me to dance. And so I did.
A beer and dance later, I stood alone soaking in the whole scene. Surveying the room, my attention stopped on a shadowy figure, looming in a darkened barn corner. The glow of the firelight illuminated the peaks and valleys of his face, rugged and good looking. He met my gaze. His casual lean switched to a stand. Quite naturally, he swaggered toward me, head slightly tilted, chin toward chest, eyes looking up from under his brow, shy, almost, but sure with shoulders straight, hips in perfect alignment.
