The two of us drive north of the city almost wordlessly. Considering how much we have spoken to each other online, so many times a week, it's a little unsettling that we are so quiet now, watching the road and the surprisingly light traffic go by, but is no surprise. This is the first time we have actually seen each other, really been in the presence of each other. Our embrace at the airport was the first physical contact we have ever had, although we have known each other for months, seen each other naked, watched each other in the most intimate of moments.
With that in mind, I sneak a quick glance at Luna, at her legs, bare under her dark blue skirt, left leg crossed over her right. Her sandal has slipped onto the floor and her bare foot is bouncing to the music -Jay and the Americans on the 60s channel -- and her skirt has slipped her thigh, revealing flawless caramel skin.
She is absent mindedly covering her leg tattoo, the star, with her hand, but I can see the short Portuguese phrase on her arm. I am not the biggest fan of tattoos, probably a reflection of my age, but on her they just seem right and enhance her beauty. I notice that her eyes have fallen on me.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Why?"
"I am pretty sure I look older than you thought." I try to focus on the traffic.
From the corner of my eye I see Luna's face break into the familiar smile that I look forward to every time I see her online. "No, actually, I think you look a little younger. You still have a baby face. And your eyes are young."
Actually, I've heard that before, from women my own age, so I know she's just not being patronizing.
I look directly into her face; the deep, lovely dark eyes, full red lips, soft dark hair swept over her right shoulder. "Thank you." I take a breath. "Are you sure you want to do this? There's still time to get a hotel in the city."
She turns and watches the highway. I wonder how different this looks from her native Brazil, although she's from a fairly large city, Porto Alegre; it's not exactly like she's from some remote village.
"No, I want to see the cabin," she says. "And the woods."
I take advantage of the momentary silence to reach over and take her hand. She holds it a little more tightly than I had anticipated, and a warm glow begins to form inside me.
"Well, we'll have a good weekend."
Today is Friday. Luna, who I first met on the chat site as "Moongirl95," has come in for a personal job interview on Monday morning. With some trepidation I had offered to let her stay at my house for a few days, or to pay at least part of the cost of a hotel room. As well as I know her and as legitimate as the cam site might be, personal meetings can be tricky at best and dangerous at worst. Further complicating the situation is that I am in my fifties and she is twenty-six; all of this can be a recipe for disaster.
With four kids, three older than Luna, and an ex-wife, I'm in really new territory here. I've been trying very hard, and probably failing, to not look like a lovesick teenager.
We ended up with a compromise of sorts. A friend of mine -- actually, his widow, now -- has a cabin north of the city that our circle of friends uses throughout the year. She was happy to have me go up there this weekend to start closing it up for the season. The plan is to stay there until Sunday, get a hotel in the city Sunday and Monday, with Luna flying back on Tuesday.
I guess sometimes it happens, I think, but I'm filled with doubt. I think I've done everything to satisfy myself that this isn't an elaborate con job; I have heard borderline horror stories about people in my position on podcasts and seen them on "Dateline."
We've spoken to each other online since January, for over half a year, now. We've revealed more and more about ourselves -- both of us -- little by little over that time. She's paid for the flight herself, helping me relieve my anxiety over some sort of a financial con. She's technically an American citizen, although her parents moved back to Brazil with her when she was a toddler, so there is no scam marriage on the horizon. I seem to have everything covered.
But still --
"I can't believe this," I say, mostly to myself.
Luna's reply is soft and, unexpectedly, goes a long way toward consoling me. "I know."
# # # # #
Although it is still the middle of the afternoon, the autumn skies begin to darken an hour later, just after I have turned off the highway onto the long two-lane road that leads to Grass Lake. Trees rise on both sides of the road; we are walled in by an explosion of gold and burnt orange foliage that begins to lose some of its color as the storm clouds roll in and deposit large drops of rain on the windshield.
Lightning cracks through the sky suddenly enough to make her jump. The highest branches of the woods around us begin to sway and bow before the wind. Instinctively she moves away from the window and a little closer to me. I touch her thigh with my right hand. It is cold and soft to the touch.
"Not too much farther," I reassure her.
The storm is at its peak about twenty minutes later when we turn off the road and follow the gravel path to the cabin. Halfway up the path, when we can see, through curtains of rain, the cabin and the lake beyond, the car is stopped by a limb that has fallen in front of us.
We wait in the car a few minutes, listening to the Temptations on the radio, waiting for the plummeting rain to ease up. When it doesn't, I turn to her and shake my head.
"We might as well go," my voice is loud over the storm. "We can get the luggage later!"
We open our doors at almost the same time and begin running the 70 or so yards from the car towards the cabin. The temperature has nose-dived; the rain is nearly ice cold and the wind is whipping it into our faces. Luna loses a sandal and begins begin to slip on the grass; fortunately, I am right beside her and I wrap my arm around her waist to hold her up as we dash toward the door. She kicks off the other one as she moves.
