Page 1 of Bows & Eros
CHAPTER1
I've only ever fallen in love once in my life.
It happened the first time I saw Crete, New York.
I hadn't come here on purpose. I don't think many people do. It's a small place. Quiet. Barely a dot on the state map, truth be told. There was no elite career awaiting me here, no place to fulfill my parents' dreams. Instead of becoming a decorated engineer, putting shuttles into space and hosting posh parties with the elite in a Soho penthouse, I taught fourth grade and had movie nights with villagers in an aging cottage that probably needed a new roof.
I was at peace with that decision. I had pursued a life I wanted, and now, every morning when I opened my eyes, I could look forward to pulling the curtains back.
I'd built a routine of rituals, the way my mother had taught me. I wanted to savor living here. The most important of those rituals was my daily walk to work—so early that sometimes the sun would still be rising. It was absolutely vital to starting the day off right, even in the coldest month of the year. I wanted to go on foot, and I wanted to be there first. Those are the types of pleasures you can only find in a place like Crete.
As long as it was safe, nothing could stop me from going on foot. Everyone in town thought I was crazy, of course. Whenever someone offered me a lift, I always said the same thing:I didn't move to Crete to see it through a windshield.
That always made them laugh. They never stopped offering those lifts entirely, but most of my neighbors just gave me a jolly honk of greeting these days, when they passed me on my daily pilgrimage. Besides, a newcomer was always going to be a curiosity in a place like this. I decided early on that I might as well act the part.
Even dressing for the cold is a pleasure if you ritualize it. One chooses her layers, all those textures and colors and weights, and wraps herself up like a precious bundle, cozy and warm against the elements. When I bought my little house here in Crete, I wanted two things: to be close enough to the school so that I could walk to work every day and to be in the path of the little historical chapel on the hill, so that I would see it every single day, without fail, even on those rare days when I'd be forced to drive.
This morning it was coated in a glossy white glaze, snow that had fallen a week ago and softened and refrozen over and over again as the sun rose and set. It capped the bell tower like a powdered wig, and to my delight, it twinkled at me as I trudged up the hill, buried in my cocoon of fleece and flannel. The hedges were bare, covered with a delicate icy lace instead of leaves this time of year, and though the holiday lights had come down last week, traces of tinsel and a smattering of pine needles could still be seen strewn along the flagstones leading to the red door.
That little chapel had been there for four hundred years. Crete had been here for four hundred years! It was impossible to even really consider so much time. And, because of those four hundred years, I had faith in Crete, NY. After all, you're supposed to believe in the things you love.
I whispered those words to myself as the school came into view, each one creating a little puff of warm fog from my lips. I intended to use them this month to convince the town council to take action, to invest insomething, so that our rapidly dwindling population, miniscule job pool, and relentless pessimism wouldn't spell a slow, painful end to a place that had proven its will to survive.
It was going to be a hard sell, especially in the grog that follows the holidays. People would be frowning at their cold jelly donuts, stifling yawns, and fantasizing about the cozy couches and many blankets that awaited them back at home. I'd just have to make them hear me anyway.
If I could make a classroom full of ten-year-olds listen, I was at least passingly confident I could get through to their parents and grandparents.
Surely.
Maybe.
Ugh.
This time would be different.
I had prepared a slideshow!
The school was still mostly empty at this hour. I pushed open the door that readMiss Avri - Grade 4 -and flipped on the lights, illuminating half-finished Valentine’s Day cards on the desks and questionably symmetrical white and pink hearts, cut from my abundant supply of construction paper, and pinned to the wall as far up as the kids could reach.
I crossed to the small table behind my desk and pressed the tab on the kettle before I began the process of peeling myself out of my winter wear, frozen flecks of old snow skittering across the wooden floor as I went.
At the bottom of it all, the herringbone weave on my skirt had only the slightest bit of pilling, and my purple knit sweater was slouchy but not sloppy. I wore a pair of simple stud earrings and a tiny, round opal on a chain around my throat.
I checked my reflection, pressing my fingers over my thick, black hair to push it all back into a coherent shape, smoothed some of the wrinkles and creases from my skirt, and nodded in approval.
Neat enough to be respectable, I decided as the kettle began to scream. And careless enough to give an unthreatening impression to the suspicious locals who would be wandering the school today with their children.
Preventing assumptions that would lead to trouble down the line was the goal. I was not here to threaten, to condescend, to titillate, or to intimidate. Striking the perfect, delicate balance had been a hard enough challenge for the homegrown local girls who taught here, but for me, it might as well have been a mythic quest.
It would still be another two hours before the seats were full and the intercom crackled to life with its dailyGooo-oood Morning, Minotaurs!in our vice principal's overly cheery voice. Even that part of my day was a comfort, a ritual, a routine.
I set out two ceramic cups as the kettle began to sing.
I flipped open the lid of an old wooden box where I kept my tea bags, choosing black tea with rose hips for today. I sat the bags into the bases of the cups with a flourish, anticipating the smell that would unfurl from the steeping brew and soak into the warmth of the room, despite the frigid white chill peeking in through the windows. I took my time pouring the water, listening to the tinkle it made as it fell.
I twisted the little heart-shaped egg timer on my desk, pulled out a half-eaten sleeve of tea biscuits, and arranged it between the two steeping cups. I slid into my chair, closed my eyes, and took a deep, contented breath.
I could hear footsteps in the hallway, drawing nearer.
