This is just a little short story I wrote for my creative writing class in school. Hope you enjoy it! Please review and tell me what you think!

Waiting at the Windowsill

With the wind whistling past his ears and ripping at the sleeves of his sweater, Oliver Crook dragged his scuffed brown shoes up the dusty lane. On one side of the road were houses, positioned sparingly apart and adorned with all the common accents of the countryside: shutters chipping black paint, wildflowers creeping up beside the front doors, tin pails and flowerpots scattered amongst the flush grass, and metal rakes leaned up against the trees. On the other side, the great hills and plains formed into carefully planted and carefully watched farmland. Oliver had just passed the McCarthy’s land and the O’Leary’s too, both of which were rich with barley plants that pushed up from the earth in lithe stalks of dry, feathery yellow. He was now coming upon the Wilkie’s, where the seven Wilkie boys worked tirelessly to plant their struggling land with fields upon fields of potatoes. Johnny, Peter, Simon, Michael, Thomas, Jacky, and Charlie Wilkie. Their freckled faces, topped in shiny black hair, sprouted out across the countryside as Oliver passed. Giving a wave, he continued up to where their cottage sat plaintively upon the hillside. As white as a magnolia and with a brown thatched roof, it sat perched beside the road with little violets creeping along beside the doorway and up along the frame of the window, clinging to the shutters like curious eavesdroppers.

Whistling as he walked, Oliver headed across the yard and rounded the corner to the back of the house. With October soon approaching, the trees were already caught within autumn’s grasp. The leaves, in colors of scarlet, crimson, gold, and yellow, raced across the grass and danced merrily around Oliver’s feet. As another gust of wind blew past, the gray tweed cap resting upon his head flew down to join the leaves, leaving his rumpled, light brown hair to tousle into a nest-like mess. Tugging at the sleeve of his sweater, an itchy navy wool, and adjusting the neck of his tartan collar, he reached down to fetch the cap and slap it back down upon his head. Coming around the side of the house, he caught sight of a young girl sitting upon the ground with one hand covered in dirt and the other holding a soiled carrot, which she set in the basket beside her.

Sara Wilkie, like her brothers, had hair as dark as the wandering ravens that flew overhead. The long, wispy strands were pulled back from her face and tied behind her neck with a limp white ribbon, yet several shorter locks fell out around her face or were tucked behind her ears. Dipping downward towards the small garden before her, her sprightly brown eyes sparkled with each ray of the drifting sun. Yet the sun’s rays also fell upon her face, lighting the pale forehead and softly rosy cheeks. Her simple features, though not beautiful, were tolerable by most standards at least. But unfortunately, with one quick glance Sara’s poverty emanated from each garment of clothing she wore and from each of the lines etched into her ashen forehead. Her dress, a plain gray calico, contained several small stains across the skirt and had frayed at the hem. Hovering beneath that skirt, her shoes, withered brown leather, each bore a small hole in the toe and fought to keep their tongues from lapping. And finally, her sweater, which she wore each and every day, fell limply across frail shoulders with so many loose threads and with such drab coloring that it could be likened to the moss that ran across the stones of her vegetable garden.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Oliver came to stand beside her. So consumed in her own thoughts, humming absently as she pulled more carrots, Sara didn’t even notice him until he spoke.

“’Afternoon, Sara,” he said hoarsely, careful not to startle her, “How’re you?”

She looked up, smiled, “Hello Oliver.”

“Do you want some help?”

“No, no. I’m almost finished. Thank you though.”

Oliver rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes and clumsily removed his cap, holding it before his stomach, “We finished shearing the sheep yesterday evenin’. Pa says we did real fine this year. Nice thick, clean wool. Ought to be able to make a lot of nice sweaters and vests and such. Seamus and Finn are driving the wagon into town for manufacturing. Pa says Mr. O’Rourke’ll be real happy with it. He’s already so rich he doesn’t really need any more business- Christ, he practically owns the whole county, doesn’t he?- But money is money, after all. And he ought to be payin’ us a pretty penny for all that fine wool we’re sending him. Mum’s cooking up a goose for supper, to celebrate. She’s making some fig pies too. And when she heard about your mum catching the flu, Sara, she said she’d be making up an extra pie for the Wilkies. For you and the boys and your pa. And then your mum’ll get better and she can have a piece too. Won’t that be nice, Sara? You like fig pies, don’t you? I couldn’t remember which type of pie was your favorite. Fig or blackberry. Was I right, Sara? Do you like fig best? Because I thought you did but I . . .”

“Yes, Oliver,” said Sara, smiling sweetly and brushing her fingers on her skirt, “Fig pies are my favorite. Thank you. Tell your mum we all appreciate it.”

“I will. She’ll be mighty glad to hear it.”

As Sara stood up, Oliver reached down and scooped up the basket of carrots. They headed into the house together and stepped into the cluttered kitchen, where Sara had already started to boil up some onions, barley, and a few small chunks of lamb. Taking the basket of carrots from Oliver, she quickly cleaned the vegetables and set them upon a wooden slab used as a cutting board. Then, rolling up the sleeves of her shabby sweater, she began to chop them up into thin orange cylinders. Oliver watched her for a moment, looking sadly upon the shadowed half-moons beneath her eyes and peanut-shaped hole at the neck of her sweater, before stepping forward.

“Why don’t you rest for a minute, Sara?” he said, “You look real tired.”

“But the carrots . . .”

“I can chop the carrots. You sit down.”

Sara weakly tried to protest, but to no avail. Oliver took her by both shoulders and led her dutifully to the table, sitting her down upon a squeaky wooden chair. He then took up the knife and continued chopping, his rough, calloused fingers fumbling with the wet handle. Much to his disappointment, Sara wouldn’t sit still for long. With a soft, almost inaudible sigh, she clasped a broom from the corner and began to sweep the floor of the dust, dirt, and scraps of leaves carried in by her brothers.

“I had a dream about you last night, you know,” she said quietly, setting back down the broom and wringing her hands through her skirt.

“You did?”

Sara nodded, giggling, “You were leading the sheep in a parade into town, marching up from the paddocks with your shepherd’s staff raised high into the air.”

Oliver smiled and chuckled, feeling his heart rise within his chest as Sara’s face lit up in laughter. He poured the carrots into the pot, still beaming, and then began to clumsily scrub the counter with a rag. Watching her, he barely noticed what he was doing and accidentally pushed the carrot greens onto the ground.

“Seamus and Finn were running after through the sheep, shouting to you to stop, but you wouldn’t,” Sara giggled, “And then my brothers were chasing after you too. Peter and Simon nearly caught you, but you kept rolling potatoes in their path and knocking them over.”

Oliver grinned brightly, scooping up the carrot greens, and then lazily stirred the pot with a long, wooden spoon.

Looking out the window, he caught sight of Sara’s brothers again. As they worked, either milking the cows or pulling up potato plants or pushing wheelbarrows up from the farm-shed, the Wilkie boys sang an old folk song in low voices that crawled along the soil in rasping, naked, earthy harmony. Their unvarying attire of dark gray trousers, plain white shirts rolled up past their elbows, black suspenders, and withering flat caps, as well as their ruddy-faces and dark hair, acted almost like a uniform, binding them to both the land and each other.

As the boys continued on with their work, Oliver turned to see a small, hazy image only just appearing in the distance beyond the hills and golden-leafed trees. It was a horse, clomping up the lane with a well-dressed man upon its back. Sara heard the faint noise almost instantly and looked to Oliver with bright, expectant eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost five o’clock.”

Barely even glancing at Oliver as she rushed past, Sara scampered quickly to the front window of the cottage and kneeled down upon her knees as though praying. Her head bowed for a moment, the crown glittering with sunny radiance, but as soon as she heard the muffled clomping of hooves grow closer, she looked up with a smile. Although small, barely tilting the corners of her mouth upward, it cast an undeniable brightness across her dimmed, rather plain features. Her cheeks glowed rosily, her eyes glittered like two marvelous jewels, and her hands clasped together in earnest. As he came around the corner her chest rose up, held to the clouds with strings of the utmost adoration. But then, in an instant, as she caught sight of that charmingly handsome face, her shoulders dropped as she gave a soft sigh.

For years, ever since she was just a wide-eyed little girl, Sara Wilkie always came to the window just before five o’clock to watch Liam O’Rourke pass the cottage on his way into town. The son of a prominent and successful wool manufacturer, Liam wore the honor of calling himself the richest man in the county, besides his father of course. He rode up the dusty dirt road, the wind rippling past the expensive threads of his undeniably elegant clothing: a very dark brown woolen suit, crisp white shirt, tightly knotted tie, and a chocolate-colored fedora that tilted slightly to the left. From beneath the fedora, little tufts of sandy hair peeked out hesitantly and, though shadowed by the brim, his sparkling gray eyes shown like two lovely bits of charcoal. Riding upon his chestnut mare, bearing both the air and the appearance of an Adonis, he passed regally through the countryside. Seeing the black heads of the Wilkie boys in the field, he tipped his hat towards them and then clomped onward, like a prince greeting his peasants.

Unlike the common farmers he passed, Liam’s face and body displayed no visible signs of nature’s hand nor any other sort of pronounced physical hardship. His skin was flawlessly smooth with not a freckle in sight, his lips flushed pink, his jaw was strong, and his nose sat perfectly shaped and perfectly positioned upon his face with the stature of a classic Roman beauty. With his chin raised heavenward and the strength of his build only just detectable beneath his clothing, it went without saying that his frame built itself in a fashion so faultless that none but Dorian Gray could compare to his beauty. In her dreams, Sara would imagine Liam O’Rourke riding home to her and greeting her like a lovelorn soldier greeted his sweetheart. He would meet her beneath the stars of a midsummer night, place a kiss upon her hand, gather her up in his arms, and hold her as though he’d never let her go.

Each time Sara watched him pass, she’d feel these thoughts running through her head, trampling across all sense of propriety and prospect and worth. She dreamed of him constantly, granting every spare thought she possessed the honor of focusing upon her lovely Liam, falling into a pool of reverie so deep and so dark that she could no longer survive within it. As she drifted off to sleep each night, lying motionless upon her squeaky mattress and flattened pillow, her mind swarmed with thoughts of him. Always, in these pictures harboring within her memory and dreams, did Liam look as perfect as he did when riding past her window: with his cheeks glistening in the heavenly sunlight, his eyes squinting with such light they seemed to smile, one of his many handsome fedoras sitting upon his head and tilted slightly to the left with that relaxed, effortless charm. She would see him riding towards the cottage in this magnificent state and, as he spoke her name, she would melt into a lovesick and completely senseless puddle at his feet. From where she sat kneeled beside the garden, her fingernails dirty and her dress wrinkled and stained, Liam would come and sweep her up against his warm chest, taking her away with him. Rolling past the other farmlands in a shiny black carriage, she would wave goodbye to her brothers and her parents and let Liam take her wherever he may wish. For she knew that as long as they were together, as long as Liam O’Rourke spoke her name and kissed her lips and called her his wife, a state of felicity would be unavoidable. It was the felicity she’d sought for all her life. A felicity that could finally suppress all this constant worry and work and worry and work . . .

“Sara?”

Liam would bless her with a handful of sons as kind and handsome as he, with sandy hair lightened by the sun and dark, beautiful gray eyes. They’d all live together in a glorious mansion with rooms aplenty and an ever-blooming garden, given to her as a gift from Liam, where she could plant lilies and lilacs and poppies and primroses; a wondrous garden caught in shades of violet and crimson that never failed to carry Sara away into a delirium of the senses, leaving her heart to numb and her fingers to tremble as she thought of her doting husband.

“Sara?”

And Liam would find her there, within the golden gates of this heavenly garden. He would tell her how much he cherished and adored her, how much he loved her. Taking her hands, he’d place a delicate kiss upon each palm and hold them against his cheeks. Then, as she slipped away into that blessed enchantment hovering between dream and reality, she would hear him murmuring her name. Sara. Sara O’Rourke. Sara, my darling, my love.

“Sara?”

Startled, Sara looked up to see Oliver standing before her, wide-eyed and wondering. His hands rested lazily within his pockets and he frowned quickly, not from sadness, she thought, but from pity. The path before the cottage had cleared, as Liam’s horse was now only just visible far into the distance, a tiny barrage indistinguishable between a horse and a Beech tree.

“Why must you do this everyday, Sara?” Oliver murmured, “For Christ’s sake . . . If you’re so smitten, why don’t you just go out and say hello?”

Very stiffly and embarrassedly, Sara rose from the floor and dusted off her skirts. She let her eyes meet Oliver’s and blinked as her lips turned inwards. “I’m not smitten,” she said quietly. And without another word or movement, she brushed sadly past Oliver and headed back to the kitchen to stir the steaming pot of stew.

O O O O O

As October rolled into November, the trees were soon naked of their flouncing leaves and the weather chilled to leave somber clouds and dried pastures. Sara’s responsibilities only grew more difficult with the coming winter. In addition to her normal household duties, she now also had to protect the vegetables in her garden from the frost, keep a fire kindled within the hearth to warm the cottage, care for her still ailing mother, and make preserves to store in the cellar for the next few months. Like a devoted little mother, she often sat upon the rug beside the fireplace on cold November days with her needles and yarn, knitting socks for the boys and mending their trousers and sweaters. Oftentimes Oliver would join her, as he’d always done in years past, and they’d sit together and talk of many a thing. And although he didn’t like it, she still watched Liam O’Rourke pass the house everyday. At quarter till five she’d kneel down on the cool wooden floors, waiting at the windowsill until he appeared in the distance. Watching him pass, she’d feel her heartbeat quicken and her mind flood with those unthinkable dreams.

Sometimes Oliver would comment on her strange idolatry of Liam O’Rourke, but Sara rarely returned his words, choosing to remain silent rather than admit how great her fondness of Liam had grown to. But his words were far less hurtful than those of her brothers, who found it insulting that their dear sister should lose her heart to a dandy, a city boy. Although they knew little of him other than his wealth and his appearance, all seven Wilkie boys spoke angrily of Sara’s hidden infatuation. She ought to fancy a common farm boy like all the other girls in the county did, they thought. Patrick O’Neill or David Finnegan, Ciaran Kelly or Theodore Cleary. Not some rich, high and mighty villager like Liam O’Rourke.

“Why do you like watching Mr. O’Rourke so much?” little innocent Charlie would ask Sara, “Do you like his horsie? It’s real pretty.”

“Hush now,” Sara would say, “Eat your soup.”

“How can you look at that filthy man, Sara?” said Michael, “You know he’s nothing but a squire’s son.”

“I’ll bet he’s never worked a day in his life,” said Johnny, clattering his spoon against the table.

“Pa’ll be real angry when he finds out,” Peter murmured, “He’ll think you don’t respect the home he’s made . . .”

“ . . . that you want more than the life’s he’s given us,” finished Jacky, “He’s always saying that he does the best he can and that we all ought to be thankful.”

“I know you’re thankful, Sara,” said Thomas, “And I think Pa does too. But if he finds out you’re smitten with Mr. O’Rourke’s son . . .”

“I saw you peering at him from behind the house yesterday,” Simon said, frowning, “I heard in town that he’s courting Peggy McCarthy. You oughtn’t look at him that way, Sara. He doesn’t even see you.”

Poor Sara would listen silently and blush, never responding to their questions and urges. For she knew very well that they were right and that she shouldn’t have fallen in love with Liam O’Rourke. And yet, she couldn’t control her heart anymore. It belonged to Liam, as it had for so many years, and Sara no longer possessed the will to realize how foolishly enamored she’d become.

The few times she’d seen him in town, speaking to Peggy McCarthy or Colleen Miller and kissing their hands as any gentleman would, her hand would itch to feel his touch. Each moment of her day, as she dutifully went through various chores and household tasks, her mind would drift to thoughts of him, her beloved Liam. As she flew towards dreamland each night, her eyes lolling closed, images of that fair face, that gentle smile, those sparkling charcoal eyes would arise before her. Although she’d never spoken a word to him, she would hear his voice speaking to her with the masterful tone of a deity. And with his words she would lose herself, her mind spinning so quickly that she feared her adoration had driven her to lunacy, so greatly did she love him. His name fell from her lips unknowingly, accompanied with the persistent murmuring and faithful repetition of a prayer. Like a devoted disciple, she allowed her life to be driven by these fruitless dreams. Her infatuation had evolved into obsession. Not an obsession with Liam O’Rourke, but an obsession with her dreams of Liam O’Rourke. Her mind had distorted her reflection of him so greatly that without ever speaking to him, without every meeting him, doubting that he even knew her name, she’d placed him upon a pedestal deserving the utmost glorification.

After listening to her brothers’ constant criticism of Liam for several long, tiring weeks, as well as the exhausted groans of Oliver Crook each time she went to kneel before the window, Sara soon determined to meet Liam, to prove that her affections found their source in reality. Although she felt as though she already knew him, so great was his presence in her dreams, her desire to stand before him, to hear him finally address her as he addressed the other girls in the county, to feel his smile directed at her for once, was growing so fiercely and so rapidly that Sara could barely control it. Although fearful lest she should embarrass herself and worried that their initial meeting should not occur as perfectly as she imagined, her worries never fell upon Liam. For in her heart, propelled by the great adoration of all the years past, no doubt of her beloved Liam could ever be harbored. His kindness, his charity, his beauty, that numbing smile that set her heart aglow. None could be denied. She loved him so desperately, so consumingly, that she believed he could commit no evil. As though gazing upon a blessed saint, a halo of light wreathing his fair face, she watched him pass her window each afternoon and dreamed of the day they would finally meet. Her mind swarmed with thoughts of it, leaving her brain so occupied that she struggled to complete her everyday tasks. Forgetting what she was doing, she often left the lamb to burn or overcooked the barley until it dissolved into mush. Once, in one of the more frightening occurrences, she even forgot about the fire burning upon the hearth. Before Sara had even realized that a scarlet ember had flown from the fiery flames, a small fire had kindled itself upon the rug. Luckily, Oliver quickly noticed and stomped it out with his boot. But had he not been there, he worried what might have become of Sara. So misty-eyed and dreamy, he doubted she would have even known of the fire until it crept across the floor and began flaring at her skirt. Her infatuation had grown to unspeakable heights. He couldn’t allow her to go on this way. It was pitiful. Alarming. Not to mention a threat to her very health. Albeit reluctant, Oliver determined to free her of this imprisoned state of passion. A meeting between the disciple and her saint, he thought, would be the perfect cure.

Without telling Sara of his intentions, he mentioned to her on one rather quiet, listless day that she ought to go to the market later that evening, to a shop where Oliver knew Liam O’Rourke could often be found enjoying the company of friends or sipping hot cocoa on a snowy December night. At precisely seven o’clock, he said, Mrs. McBride would be selling her produce for half price. Always very rational in regards of business, and knowing how much money she could save her poverty-stricken family, Sara was sure to accept his advice. At six thirty, she set out for town, bundled in her winter’s warmest. With eight children in the family, the Wilkies scarcely ever had clothing warm enough to suit the weather, but Sara found that if she layered her own jacket with Peter’s and Michael’s too, if she clutched a red plaid blanket around her shoulders, and if she wore Johnny’s flat cap upon her head, she wasn’t so cold after all. Carrying an empty burlap sack beneath her arms and lazily brushing the freed strands of hair from her face, she trudged down the lane with her head bowed against the wind. Although it was only the second week of December, the snow had arrived early that year. The skies overhead were a grayish, navy blue, darkening swiftly with each passing moment, and swollen white clouds drifted back towards the cottage from which Sara had come. From these clouds, the snowflakes drifted down lightly and airily, caressing the countryside with a gentle hand. They covered the hills surrounding the village and enveloped the entire scene in a blanket of sparkling white powder. The world seemed so pure and lovely in the snow, with all of the land’s obscurities and mistakes hidden. The only true color seen besides the white snow and blue sky came from the tuffs of evergreen branches not yet masked in the frost and the bright threads of Sara’s red plaid shawl.

When she finally arrived in the city nearly forty-five minutes later, Sara’s nose and cheeks had flowered into rosy petals of pink and the moisture of the snow had crawled up to dampen the hem of her dress. Walking quickly, bustling through the busy streets of towering brick buildings and hazy-windowed shops decorated for the holidays, she found her way to Mrs. McBride’s. The bell above the door rang as she entered, inviting her into the glowing warmth, and she quickly accepted its offer, eager to find solace before the fireplace for her white, frozen fingers.

As Sara made her way to the back corner of the shop, passing several lone women buying spices at the counter, Mrs. McBride called to her from behind a shelf of jams. The pudgy, red-haired woman beamed from where she stood upon a ladder, hanging a bushy wreath, fit with a red velvet ribbon, above a display of cookbooks and stove ware.

“Miss Wilkie!” she said merrily, her voice ringing just like the bell above her door, “Merry Christmas to you! How’s your mother? How’re the boys?”

“Mum’s doing better, thank you,” Sara nodded, “And the boys are fine.”

“Your friend Mr. Crook was in here yesterday. He said you nearly caught your house on fire,” Mrs. McBride chuckled, “Is that true?”

Sara blushed, “It was only a little spark. Oliver stomped it out.”

“Well you’d better go on over and get warmed up, Miss Sara. You’re shiverin’ like a lost pup in the rain . . . Just don’t go and lose your head again. Wouldn’t be good for business if the place went up in flames, I don’t think.”

With a small smile, Sara nodded her head again and gave a small curtsy, “I think you may be right. Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll be careful. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sara.”

Heading quickly towards the fireplace, her teeth chattering, Sara’s head was lowered as she tried to keep her sodden feet from slipping upon the slick, hardwood floor. Although she should have known an accident was bound to occur if she didn’t watch where she was going, Sara scampered across the room without a thought in her head except that she was terribly cold and that the cackling, feverish fire seemed a most inviting prospect. So, needless to say, it was quite a shock when she found herself crashing into the side of a tall man in a loosely buttoned, gray peacoat. His smell intoxicated her, filling her senses with the sweet, distinctive scent of warm cinnamon. It was exactly how she’d always imagined he might smell.

As she looked up and her eyes met his, those sparkling bits of charcoal, Sara felt her heart stop within her. She was faintly aware of the empty sack falling from her arms and the cap that fell from her head at their collision, but not enough to break the gaze she was now sharing with Liam O’Rourke. Even up close, she found, and without the added elegance of his chestnut mare, he was just as magnificent as always. His hair sparkled like flaxen strands of gold in the firelight and his face shown with a radiance reserved only for the most glorious of titans, the most praised of gods, the most beautiful man in the village. All at once, Sara felt the breath run out of her. Her entire body froze, her eyes wide, her lips softly parted, a loosened lock of hair falling from behind her ear. Although she’d dreamed of this day for countless months, at its arrival, her voice failed her. Even when she tried so desperately to speak, nearly forcing the words from her mouth, they came out in sputters. And before she could try again, only a moment after their initial crash, Liam brushed quickly past her without a word. He didn’t even nod in her direction or attempt to help her pick up the old sack and herringbone cap still lying upon the floor. Barely looking at Sara, he headed towards the counter of the shop and ordered a hot cup of cocoa. Sara still stood motionless in the center of the store, stricken as still and as thoughtless as a statue.

But then, suddenly red-faced and embarrassed, she quickly drew up her things and headed towards the fire, trying to keep her eyes from straying towards Liam. Unable to control her emotions, her heart began to swell and beat wildly within her chest. Fearful lest he should hear it, she kneeled down close beside the hearth and held her hands to the fire, hoping and praying that Liam did not come sit near her. But thankfully, he did not. He sat across the shop, beside the window, and sipped tiredly from a pretty white teacup.

By this point, Sara had completely forgotten about the produce she’d intended to buy here. And if she had thought about it, she would have realized that Oliver had lied and that there was no sale at all. He’d invented the silly ploy for her own benefit.

Losing herself, suspended between the dreams of her imagination and the hundreds of images of Liam O’Rourke riding past her window, Sara felt herself growing faint. Her face grew white and her fingers began to tremble. A shudder ran up her spine, muddling her thoughts even further, and she couldn’t help but continually glancing back to watch Liam sip his cocoa. His figure was framed with the black of the night and the snow fell angelically behind him, dusting past his fair face and those broad, masculine shoulders.

For how many days, she wondered, had she watched him from afar, waiting anxiously at the windowsill until she saw his figure appear in the distance? More than five years. Hundreds upon hundreds of days. Countless dreams. And now here he stood before her, after waiting so long. She struggled to convince herself of his true presence, believing he must simply be a figment of her imagination, an ethereal spirit sent from the heavens to quell her restless thoughts and recover her to sanity. But then she would look towards him again, see his shadow upon the floor and sense the tangibility of his body so near to her, and she’d realize that he wasn’t a dream. He was here, within the very same shop as Sara. Here, only a few feet away from her. Yet still, her voice would not come and she hadn’t the slightest idea what she should say if she did build the confidence to speak to him. She didn’t know how long she sat upon that rug beside the fire, warming her hands, but it was longer than she’d thought. When she looked up, her eyes still shadowing the fire before her, she saw that Liam was already halfway through his second cup of coca. Very gracefully, he swept himself to his feet and grasped one teacup in each hand, preparing to return them to Mrs. McBride at the counter. But before he could reach her, Sara found herself jumping up and rushing towards him, driven by an unknown momentum. All she knew was that he was leaving and that this was her chance, the only chance she’d ever had, to finally meet her beloved Liam.

Before she’d realized was happening, Sara flew across the shop, brushing past the cluttered shelves, her red plaid shawl falling off one of her shoulders. Unsure of what she was going to do or say, Sara’s face was blank and as she neared him she slowed down a bit, growing more fearful by the minute. Still a few feet away, she stopped in her place, her feet frozen and her legs gone rigid. But Liam continued to walk, holding both the cups, with one sloshing warm brown liquid and the other empty. His eyes dipped downward for a moment. Poor Sara was so invisible that he hadn’t even realized she stood so near to him. He kept walking, quickly, blindly, and once more, they accidentally collided in the center of the shop. But this time, Liam O’Rourke could not simply brush past Sara. His cocoa had fallen on both his pants and her skirt, dripping down both like muddy drops of rain. For one painstaking moment, their eyes met again: Sara’s alit with ideas of romance, Liam’s still blank and gray.

“I . . . I’m sorry, Mr. O’Rourke,” Sara stammered, “I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Look at that,” Liam frowned, “All over my new trousers!”

“I’m terribly sorry, I . . .”

“And the second time today too! Do you ever watch where you’re going?”

“I . . .”

“And I’m late too,” Liam glanced at his watch, shaking his head with a deep groan, “I have to go. Someone’s waiting for me . . . For Christ’s sake . . . I look like I bloody well soiled myself. G’bye miss,” he said sarcastically, “I really appreciate it.”

Sara watched him slam the cups down upon the counter and then head swiftly out the door, leaving only a blur of golden hair and opal eyes to remember him by. Following him, she rushed outside the front door of the shop and leaned against the doorway. As Liam walked off, still cursing beneath his breath, Sara watched as he met ginger-haired Peggy McCarthy in the center of the street. Like in the dreams Sara had always imagined, Liam bent down to kiss the girl’s cheek and then brought her hand to his lips. But for once, Sara no longer wished the girl was her. In fact, she rejoiced in the fact. Her mind went blank as she listened to them speak:

“Good heavens!” Peggy exclaimed, giggling, “What have you done to your pants? They’re filthy!”

“A clumsy peasant girl in the shop ran into me.”

“Who was it?”

Liam shrugged, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Maybe it was that Wilkie girl. I think the Wilkie brothers have a sister. Or . . . Or perhaps it was the O’Learys. I can’t be sure. No, no. I think it was the Wilkies.”

Liam yawned, placing his hand at the small of Peggy’s back as he led her down the lane, “Who are the Wilkies?”

O O O O O

As Sara walked home that night, her feet crunching softly through the snow, her head hung low and her frail shoulders cowered inwards. For the first time in years, her heart lay passive and empty within her chest. With fingers as white and as cold as ice, and toes damp with slush, she trudged weakly onward. Although the journey to town had only taken forty-five minutes, the return was far worse. At ten o’clock she still hadn’t returned to the cottage, but wearily continued with steps so slow and so difficult that she wondered if she’d ever reach home. Without a dream left to sustain her, nor any hope for her future, Sara felt as though she might collapse right there, atop a snow-ridden hill in the center of the countryside. Just as she stopped walking, hugging her arms tightly around her torso to keep in the warmth, a light snow began to fall. Fluttering about softly, like a million tiny doves against the clear black sky, the snowflakes dusted down upon both the fields and poor, wilting Sara. So weak did she feel, it seemed as though the tiny snowflakes might crush her beneath their nonexistent pressure. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears, as she imagined Liam O’Rourke riding down this very lane, so charming and so handsome. It took all her strength to keep from falling down upon her knees.

“Sara? Sara, is that you?”

When Sara heard the voice, she gulped dryly and opened her eyes, expecting to see that horrid Liam standing before her.

But it wasn’t Liam.

It was Oliver Crook, his ears and cheeks turned red and his light, caramel-colored hair peppered in snow.

“Oliver,” Sara smiled, “What are you doing here?”

“Your pa and brothers were worried. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, you know, Sara. What took you so long?”

“Nothing. The snow makes it hard to get back, is all.”

“Did you get anything from Mrs. McBride?”

“No.”

Oliver eye’s flickered, “Oh.”

“I know what you did, Oliver,” Sara said quietly, “I know you told me to go because you knew he’d be there.”

“Sara, I . . .”

“Thank you. I know you meant well.”

As he came up the hill, using his shepherd’s staff as a walking stick to prod into the thick ice, Oliver’s feet fell out from beneath him. His knees caved into the snow and his hands, covered in thin mittens, crunched through the ice. He looked up bashfully, chuckling, and Sara soon giggled along. Smiling now, she helped him up and together they walked to the side of the road. Beside a bushy evergreen, Sara sat down upon the O’Leary’s fence while Oliver stood before her, sticking his hands into his pockets for warmth.

“I’m sorry that things . . . that you . . . that it didn’t work out as you’d hoped,” he managed slowly, struggling with his words. He assumed that Sara had embarrassed herself before Liam, which would certainly account for her downtrodden state, and he felt rather responsible for it, “But don’t worry, Sara. He’ll fall in love with you one day . . . I know he will.”

Sara bit her lip, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders, “Thank you, Oliver.”

A silence followed then, though it was not at all awkward.

Oliver leaned back against the trunk of the pine tree, ignoring the sap that stuck to the sleeve of his ratty green sweater, and Sara came to sit beside him upon the soft snow. Pulling her legs to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her calves and set her chin upon the dip in her knees, sighing. Johnny’s cap fell forward a few inches on her forehead, shadowing her eyes, but Sara was far too comfortable now to move it. Oliver soon sat down beside her, cross-legged, and began to whistle a little tune beneath his breath. Sara recognized the song instantly and began to sing along beneath her breath:

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know.
Where the treetops glisten,
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write.
May your days be merry and bright.
And may all your Christmases be white.”

A small smile daring to overtake her lips, Sara felt her heart arise once more. The memory of all those useless afternoons waiting for Liam had disappeared, and with it taken her worries and her grief. The snow was still falling lightly, bouncing back and forth like tiny balls of light, and Sara was swept away with the enchantment of the night. And then, all at once, as she listened to Oliver’s whistling and felt his sleeve dust against her arm, her heart grew full and throbbing. Biting her lip again, she dared to look over at him once before suddenly dropping her head once more, burying it within the chilled cloth of her dress. When she looked up again, her face was blank. Several small strands of hair, carried by the wind, blew against her glowing cheeks.

And then, all at once, as if she were suddenly having an emotional collapse, Sara felt her eyes growing heavy and her nose growing warm. And before she could stop herself, she was crying hysterically and uncontrollably, harder than she had since she was a baby. It came all at once, with no warning, and, Sara was sorry to admit, these were no simple, silent, restrained tears. She was sobbing as loudly and as senselessly as a child would. Needless to say, she scared the death out of Oliver.

“Jesus Christ, Sara!” he exclaimed, “What’s the matter?”

Then, without even thinking upon it a moment, he leaned towards her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close against him. The salty tears raced down her cheeks, her eyes became red and tender, and her shoulders were shaking and cowering inward. It was uncontrollable. As Oliver’s other arm came around her, she melted into his side. Her tears washed against his shoulder and her nose dripped onto his sweater as she sobbed and gasped for breath. Crying for reasons she didn’t even know, Sara felt like a complete fool but she just couldn’t stop.

As she continued, she could hear Oliver whispering in her ear but his words were often indistinguishable. “It’s alright, Sara,” she could hear him murmur, “Everything’s going to be just fine, I promise . . . You'll steal Liam’s heart away and marry him and live happily ever after. I know you will. Sh . . . Sh . . . There, there, Sara. It’s alright.” His hands were gently petting her hair, drawing strands of hair away from her dampened face, stroking her back consolingly.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” was all Sara could think to say through her tears, “I’m sorry. I must look like a fool.”

“No, no,” he held her tiny frame close against his chest, “You could never look like a fool to me.”

For a moment they sat there silent and paralyzed, neither speaking nor moving an inch. But then, all at once, Sara felt an overwhelming rush flooding over her and she knew what she wanted to do, what she ought to have done months ago.

Her arms stole around Oliver’s neck, hugging him closer. And then, before Sara knew what she was doing, she brought herself close against him, looked up into his dark eyes, and then, fumbling, placed a clumsy kiss upon his lips. It all happened so fast that neither quite knew what they were doing. Sara was trembling furiously, not from the cold but from the touch of Oliver’s fingers upon her spine. And Oliver, after the initial shock, was left so numbed by her kiss that he could think of nothing but his sweet Sara, whom he’d longed to hold this way for so long.

As foolish as Sara was for loving Liam O’Rourke for so many long, innocent years, Oliver was nearly just as guilty. For he’d been smitten with Sara nearly as long and yet he hadn’t spoken a word of it. There they were. Two fools in love. Sitting beneath the twilight and surrounded by the heavenly snow, which fell about their shoulders in a delicate cadence and wreathed each head in light. With each gust of wind it consumed them further, drawing them into the night until they were lost in the merry stars and the deep black sky and the ever-falling snow.

O O O O O

In the years to come, while other girls would dream of dashing knights and lovelorn soldiers and a wonderful Prince Charming, Sara Wilkie would sit beside the window of her cottage to wait for her shepherd with a heart now full and pure. She would sit and she would wait, as she’d always done before, until a man with rumpled hair and a crooked smile appeared in the distance. He walked with a lost gray sheep and a shepherd’s staff, not a majestic white horse, and Sara could never imagine him as a praised prince or a blessed saint, as she’d always thought of Liam. His simple face could never be compared to an Adonis, and he always forgot whether fig or blackberry pies were her favorite.

Sara should have been disappointed by all this, she thought. She should have been lonesome and saddened and gray. But she wasn’t. Not at all. In fact, she soon realized, she wouldn’t have had it any other way.