Whap.  Whap.  Whap.  The wipers made a valiant, but fruitless, effort to keep up.  The overwhelming whiteness was as strangely hypnotic and beautiful as it was relentless and deadly.  For miles Honey had had her eyes glued to the highway fog line.  Now, even that lifeline had disappeared under the drifts, and it had been at least an hour since she’d last spotted a snowplow.  To make matters worse - Honey was afraid she was lost. 

     If she’d had half a brain, she would have stopped at the last village to wait out the storm.  But no, when Honey Campbell was on a mission she didn’t let anything get in her way – not even the blizzard of the century – and that’s exactly what they were calling this abomination.  If she could make it another thirty miles, she’d be snug and cozy in Bitsy’s living room. 

     Thirty miles.

     Thirty short miles.

     Who did she think she was kidding? 

     At the speed she was going, thirty miles would take her two weeks.  Then before Honey could blink an eye, her car did a one-eighty and she ended up facing the opposite direction. 

     One by one, Honey pried her white knuckled fingers off the steering wheel.  She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to scream, moan or curse - so she resorted to beating on the steering wheel. 

     “I could use a little help here.”  She didn’t expect an answer.  Hildegard, her guardian angel and childhood imaginary friend, never said a word, but she’d extricated her charge from more than one scrape.

     As usual, the response was silence.  So what to do?  Plan A was a bust - there wasn’t a house for miles, Honey’s cell wasn’t working, and even the devil was too smart to be out in this blizzard.  As far Plan B went, she was fresh out of ideas.   

     Get a grip, girl!  Bad weather wasn’t going to get the best of a Campbell.  Her family came across the Atlantic on the Mayflower.  Signing up for that voyage took the guts of a river boat gambler.  So, yes sir, she’d find a way out of this or die trying.  And “die” wasn’t the operative word.  All she had to do was come up with a miracle.

     Tap, tap, tap.  “Aargh!” Honey screeched.  Someone, or something, was beating on the window.  Should she or shouldn’t she open it?  That was a no-brainer, what did she have to lose?  She hit the electric window and found herself nose-to-nose with a grizzled old man wearing a red down jacket and black leather chaps.  Had Santa joined a biker gang? 

     “Hey there, little lady.”  He rubbed his scraggly white beard.  “Looks like you’re in a spot of trouble.”

     No kidding!  “Yes sir, I am.  If you could get me to the Ironstone Condominiums near North Conway, or even to civilization, I’d be forever grateful.”   

     He chuckled.  “I’m sure you would be.  Put on your warm woolies and come with me.”  He indicated a snowmobile decorated in twinkle lights with a ribbon bedecked wreath on the front. 

     Where had that come from?

     “Were you driving behind me?” Honey asked.  He didn’t answer so she continued.  “I’m Honey Campbell.”  She extended her hand.

     “Glad to meet you.  You can call me Pete,” her newest best friend said with a wink.  “I know a guy who lives a couple of miles down yonder.  Grab your smallest bag and we’ll strap it on the back of Jenny,” he said, patting the side of the snowmobile.  “Yep, he’ll be glad to help a pretty little thing like you,” he chuckled as he helped Honey onto the back of the big machine.  “Real glad.”

     So what did he mean by that?  Scenes from every Grade B horror movie Honey had ever seen flitted through her brain – shades of Freddie Kruger and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Did she have a choice?  Nope.  

     The drifts on the highway were at least two feet deep.  So, it was either freeze to death in her Beemer or to meet her maker on the back of a wannabe Harley without wheels.  And, if there was a road over yonder, she’d eat her new Italian boots.

     “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” she asked, seconds before they rocketed off.  Her screech was drowned out by the low growl of the engine.

     Twenty very cold minutes later, Honey spotted a sprawling farm house.  With its wrap-around porch, glittery lights and huge evergreen wreath it could easily have been the setting for a Norman Rockwell Christmas card

     “This place is beautiful.  Almost too pretty to be real,” she said, not sure whether Pete heard her or not.

     Obviously he did.  “It is right lovely,” he said, pulling close to the front porch.   

     “Run up and beat on the door.  Bang loud.  He might be in the back,” he instructed, handing Honey her duffel bag before making shooing motions with his hands.

     He didn’t have to tell her twice.  Her designer boots and coat were not made for the sub-zero weather.  Not to mention the fact her buns were freezing.  Honey lifted the heavy brass knocker and beat a tattoo that would wake the dead.  Hurry up, guy! 

     It took a second rat-a-tat before the door was flung open revealing an absolutely gorgeous man. 

     Oh.  My.  God! 

     It was Matt De Luca – her first love.  The guy she’d pledged to be with forever.  The person she’d abandoned at the first sign of trouble.  The man she’d never been able to forget. 

     This was the ultimate good new/bad news scenario.  The positive aspect was that Matt was even better looking than he was at seventeen.  The really, really horrendous thing was he had every reason to hate her - with an undying passion.  It didn’t take ten seconds for his astonishment to turn into a ferocious scowl, and that didn’t bode well for her current situation. 

     What was the probability of running into her ex-husband in the middle of a New England blizzard?  Any Las Vegas bookmaker worth his salt could tell you those were astronomical odds.

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