The Heart Window House

Angry bursts of wind-driven snow and sleet exploded against the roof of the lonely mountain cabin. Empty without Amelia. Lightning flashed on the high peaks; thunder echoed down the valleys. Vicious clouds of ice crystals smashed into the heart-shaped shutters. Adam glanced at the envelope on the kitchen table addressed to Perkins and Blodgett, attorneys at law. Beside it was a binder. He was so alone.

He whispered the haiku she’d written in 9th grade English. The snow came down like silver salt and seasoned the winter’s day.

But this was a dangerous storm, not at all poetic.

The cabin sat high atop a 9,300-foot ridge in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of Northern New Mexico. At the end of a steep, narrow road; no houses nearby. The closest town miles away.

He stared out the soaring windows towards Wheeler Peak. Its 13,000-foot summit was obscured by low-hanging clouds. The view had “sold” the house when he and Amelia bought it. And then Amelia had decorated it with her usual creativity and energy.

He could barely see the thermometer on the deck through the swirling blizzard. It read “10 degrees.” The wind chill was below zero. The comfy cabin had cell service, but none today. He checked the land line. Dead. The electric lines were down; the generator running.

He could still text Amelia or call and leave a voice message. She’d get it when his cell service returned.

When little Dylan first saw the house, he’d named it. Ever after, their family called it “The Heart Window House.” A tear rolled down his face as he remembered Dylan begging to come here, especially in winter. Theodore loved the house too. They were now young adults with their own lives. How he missed all three of them as he remembered cut-throat spades games, jigsaw puzzles, bowl games at New Year’s.

Streams of tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at a wall covered with family photos. One, of skiing with the boys. Just the three of them on a guys’ trip. Another, taken at Christmas more than 20 years ago. Amelia stunningly beautiful. The boys, bubbling with excitement.

As he parked in the driveway the night before, the old red truck coughed and died before he turned off the key. It likely wouldn’t start. It was on its last legs. But Adam loved the truck.

He’d hike down the road to Bozeman’s Garage to get help if the crews didn’t get the phone service restored promptly after the storm. He had violated the Golden Rule of the Wilderness. Nobody knew where he’d gone or when he was scheduled to return.

Bozeman’s was on the scary road’s junction with Highway 64 more than a mile away. While he was down there, he’d ask Joe Bob Bozeman to mail the envelope. If he didn’t feel differently.

When he parked the truck, Adam had reminded himself to get out the chain saw when the weather cleared and cut down the dead pine. It was barely standing. Backpackers and mountain men called such trees “widow makers.”

It was February. The snowiest month in the Rockies. The storm could last days. One of his law partner’s 17-year-old sons was once trapped in a mountain cabin for more than a week after a 95-inch February snow.

Instead of hiking down to Bozeman’s, Adam could wait until Colfax County’s crews cleaned off his road. Or maybe the snow would be followed by a Chinook—a warm wind named by native Americans--that would quickly melt the snow on the road.

He had ample food, wood and provisions. And with electricity from the generator and plenty of propane, he could run the central heat if he wanted. He could stay almost indefinitely.

He preferred the stove to the central heat. It made the place feel like the Bahamas but didn’t warm his frozen heart.

He was excruciatingly alone in the big house in West Texas. He and Amelia sat like ice sculptures watching TV, reading, never saying a word. They crawled naked into bed, as they had in their younger years, but slept as far away as possible from each other. Never touching. Never caressing No longer sharing their hopes and dreams.

The binder might fulfill their dreams. Or let him have new ones. If only he and Eve were “talking,” she could help him with the binder.

The Evangelical Christian marriage counselor seemed to address only Amelia’s concerns and rarely directed a question to Adam. But he did blame himself for much of what had gone wrong.

Adam’s faith waivered; God seemed as distant as his relationship with Amelia.

The Heart Window House wasn’t always like this.

They closed the purchase in the offices of Monte Verde Realty across the street from Bozeman’s Garage. Jedediah Smith, the realtor, was his backpacking buddy. He checked on them after storms. If the phones didn’t work, he came up on a snowmobile. How Adam wished he’d bought a snowmobile last spring when they were on sale. A couple of years ago, Jedediah had moved an hour away to Taos. His business card was on their refrigerators at home and in the cabin.

The night of the closing. A gentle snow, with hardly any wind, quietly falling. Fluffy, like powdered sugar, erasing all remnants of the arguments they’d had while house-hunting, covering the woods with happiness and hope. Within a few hours, more than 8 inches of new snow accumulated on top of the 7 feet already on the ground. Although the temperature outside was 5 degrees, the wood stove made the living area feel like a black sand beach in Costa Rica.

Or maybe like that beach where he and Amelia had skinny dipped.

The boys were asleep upstairs, dreaming of skiing in new powder.

He finished his shower. Dried off. Walked naked into the kitchen. Grabbed a couple of glasses. Popped the champagne cork.

Amelia was stoking the fire in the stove. Dressed in the blazing white bustier, thong panties, garter belt and stockings that he’d given her for Valentine’s Day. As the cork popped, she jumped. But then, she saw Adam.

“Wow! Get your ass over here!”

“Wow back to YOU! I didn’t know you brought that with us.”

They clinked glasses. “To us. Forever. To many happy times here.”

Soon, they were on the couch, looking out the windows onto the enchanting snowfall; hungrily exploring each other.

Spent, they lay entwined, still mesmerized by the snow, saying how much they loved each other. Yet not needing to say it at all.

Adam’s entire body and soul felt electric and alive. He wouldn’t have dreamed of ever having the letter, let alone mailing it.

And never, ever, would he have dreamed of what was in the binder.

How did things get so off track? His law practice was booming. Amelia was overwhelmed with managing the Food Bank. The boys were busy with sports, school, and music. Their lives became children and work. It seemed as if their relationship was buried under piles of aging food in the garage freezer. The place where Amelia said “meat goes to die.“

The night of the closing, he was sure; now he knew nothing. Not when Amelia would come back from Michigan where she’d gone to be with her parents to “get away” from the tension. Not how to rekindle the magic of their love-making on that snowy night long ago. Not how he’d get down the mountain and return to his lonely West Texas home. Not whether Amelia still loved him. Not even whether he’d mail the envelope or throw it away.

If he shared the binder, would that help or make things worse? Amelia was a problem solver…if only they were talking…

He hadn’t felt electric and alive for years. He tried to create electricity one night at a dreary, dimly lit bar. The snow outside the grimy windows turned to rain and slush. He told her too much. How lonely he was. How long since he and Amelia made love. She was young and pretty. Amelia seemed to hate him. She accidentally brushed his erection. Asked him to “use it on her.” But before they headed to a dumpy motel, Adam quietly recited the haiku and said: “I can’t do this.” Walked out the door. The snow was still slushy and not silver salt. He felt even more lonely than when he and Amelia silently watched TV.

Adam began to cry softly as he considered the contrast between the first night of owning The Heart Window House and the night at the Dead-End Bar. Mailing the envelope would nudge him back on track. Maybe he and Amelia were hopeless.

I’m still attractive, he thought. She doesn’t know about it. I could take the binder and disappear.

He was startled by two loud thumps. The pair of cardinals, lost in the storm, had crashed into the windows, killing themselves.

Cardinals mated for life.

Wind gusts whirled around the dead pine, twisting the snow into white tornadoes. It couldn’t stand much longer. The truck likely wouldn’t start if he tried to move it. The tree could fall on him. If he started it, the truck might not make it down the mountain before quitting again. Or Adam could skid off the road and get stuck. He could even run the truck off the wickedly frightening curve right before the final descent to Bozeman’s.

He ate a sandwich; drank a cup of herbal tea. Curled up naked under a blanket in his favorite recliner. Slowly relaxed as he imagined Amelia caressing him. Kissing him. Loving him. Soon, he was asleep.

About midnight, he was awakened by a thunderous crash. The tree had fallen on top of the truck, crushed the engine. A lightning bolt must’ve struck it. Although the tree was in flames, the sheets of snow quickly put it out. Now, he was really stranded.

From the looks of the deck, at least three feet of new snow had fallen, and it didn’t seem to be letting up. The snow was more intense and furious, no longer mixed with sleet. Now, he couldn’t see the thermometer. He guessed it had to be 5 degrees or colder.

His mind wandered back to another snowstorm. Lightning, thunder, howling wind. He and Amelia curled up on the sofa watching Friday the 13th. “Hold me, Adam. Don’t let it get me.” She was radiantly beautiful. Theodore was born the next day. They brought him home in a kind and hopeful snowfall. Much like the snow on the night of the closing. Maybe he wouldn’t mail the envelope.

Adam tried praying to a distant God, but only got as far as “Jesus, please help me, I’m so lonely…”

The storm raged for most of two days and nights before breaking. Adam never slept anywhere but in the recliner. He couldn’t face sleeping in their bed.

The clouds parted; a full moon cast a luminescent glow onto 75 inches of pristine new powder. The nearly blinding moonlight awakened Adam. He sat bolt-upright in the recliner. No wonder New Mexico was known as the Land of Enchantment! It was so beautiful. Adam almost sent a text. He nearly left a voice message. Considered burning the letter. Came close to a decision about the binder.

Two more days passed. The land line remained dead. No cell service. No internet. The county road crews hadn’t reached his isolated corner of Colfax County.

The snow was now too deep to walk down the road. Tomorrow he will attempt to ski to Bozeman’s. He still hadn’t decided whether to mail the envelope. Or throw it away. He handwrote a second letter and placed it into a separate envelope addressed to Perkins & Blodgett.

Then he began to write a much longer note. When he finished writing it, he was at peace. He placed it tearfully on the binder.

The night before he skied out, he couldn’t sleep. So, he’d read the family Bible a bit.

The following morning dawned still, clear and cold; the deck thermometer read “-16 degrees.” Adam loaded up a backpack with an emergency kit, energy bars, water bottles and a zip lock bag containing only one envelope. He took down the two photos from the wall. Packed extra layers of clothing carefully around the zip lock bag and photos. Reread the note on the binder. He remained at peace.

He left the open Bible in his recliner.

His cell phone still had no service. But he texted Amelia.

He pitched the crumpled papers into the wood stove. They burst into flames.

Far away in frozen Michigan the news anchor said that parts of northern New Mexico had received more than 6 feet of snow in a paralyzing blizzard. As the announcer’s voice trailed off, he was saying something about a tender offer to buy a medical company.

Adam’s mobile phone went straight to voice mail. No response to her texts. And no answer on the landline at home in West Texas. Amelia remembered the last words she’d said to him: “Just mail the fucking letter!”

She frantically dialed The Heart Window House.

“Answer the phone you stupid bastard!” But she got only a recording: “This number is temporarily out of service.” She pulled the business card out of her purse. Dialed a Taos number.

Adam was an expert skier. The road was steep and narrow but no worse than an intermediate ski run. And downhill all the way to Bozeman’s. The snowy woods and stunning peaks were quiet and calm as he skied towards help, reciting the haiku. The road was treacherous for vehicles. But for a skier, there was only one tricky place.

The snow-covered scenery reminded him of sharing his love for poetry with the boys on the ski lift. Robert Frost. Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. “Whose woods these are, I think I know. His house is in the village though. He will not mind me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow.”

The road curved sharply before making a final descent. On one side of the curve a cliff with no guard rail dropped more than 500 vertical feet to a boulder-strewn clearing. During the storm, the wind whipped all the snow off the curve, leaving a sheet of black ice. In his peaceful joy, Adam forgot that the wind usually blew the snow off.

He roared into the curve at more than 40 miles an hour and was on the ice before he knew it. Airborne. Their last spoken words had been about the damn letter. But Adam felt electric and alive! Surrounded by that “peace which passes all understanding,” he was “heading home.”

Jedediah Smith pulled his snowmobile to a stop. He could see where Adam had gone off the curve. There was no hope he’d lived. His body would stay there until spring.

He speed-dialed the number.

“I’m sorry, Amelia. I don’t know what to say. I loved Adam, too.”

Other snows buried Adam’s body which wasn’t recovered until May. When the New Mexico State Police, who investigated the accident, booted up his phone, 25 texts were received. Each said how much Amelia loved him; “please don’t mail the letter.”

Adam’s phone delivered his first text to Amelia. “I love you and miss you. Let’s keep trying. I want to grow old together. I’m not mailing the letter.” A second one read: “Check out the binder in the cabin.”

The police found only an envelope containing a handwritten letter telling the attorneys that Adam wanted to save his marriage, directing them to dismiss the divorce. The typed letter asking Perkins & Blodgett to finalize the divorce was missing.

The spring sun turned the boulder-filled meadow into a boggy swamp. The July heat dried things up; the police searched with dogs. And still didn’t find the missing letter. They did find the two photos. Unbroken and unharmed.

Amelia received $5 million from the sale of Adam’s stock in Biology Solutions. The note on top of the binder was three pages long; it told Amelia how much he loved her; and how sorry he was that they’d gone off track. The last page of it said: “The tender offer gives us a fresh start. Let’s move over here permanently where we’ve always been so happy.”

She did move permanently to The Heart Window House and worked remotely there for the Food Bank, which opened a branch in the mountains.

Her own heart contained deep, bleeding wounds. Each time she read Adam’s last texts, a wound was sealed. Every time she read the handwritten letter to Perkins & Blodgett, another wound closed. Eventually, the last wound scarred over as she reread the loving note found on the binder, tears streaming down her face.

The boys hurt healed bit by bit, as well, every time they remembered roaring down a ski trail named “Heading Home” with Dad bringing up the rear and telling them to slow down! The ski resort photographer had snapped the photo of the three of them at the top of the run.

His grave overlooked Agua Fria Peak, the summit of the ski area. But Amelia’s faith assured her that Adam was “home.”

Over the passing years, Amelia’s beautiful family gathered often in The Heart Window House. Children. Grandchildren. Puppies. Boisterous card games. The Christmas photo and the one of the boys and Adam skiing presided over the happy scenes. In between those two photos was a frame containing the handwritten letter calling off the divorce. The binder was on the nightstand beside Amelia’s bed along with the Bible opened to First Corinthians 13. Just the way she’d found it…in Adam’s favorite recliner… the one that faced Wheeler Peak.