How many relationships have I sabotaged for fear that—if I fell too deeply in love—I might lose them as I lost my sister? How many men have I dated who were threatened by my success? How many men have I dated that were just plain losers?

I got sick of setups by my friends with money-driven men from LA who owned second homes in Palm Springs and came into town looking to party like teenage boys. I never clicked with the younger Silicon Valley men who worked so many hours that, even at dinner, they couldn’t look up from their cell phones and after a few dates couldn’t bother to call even though their entire life was spent on their cells.

I think of the horrors of online dating, swiping left and right, men looking only to hook up, sending—ahem—dick pics before we’d even exchanged a hello. And how many times did my friends and I head out of Palm Springs to go “Down Valley”—to ritzy Rancho Mirage or placid Palm Desert—to restaurants and clubs populated by ninety-year-old men who would intentionally trip you with their walkers as you made your way to the bar and then—while you were still sprawled across the floor—ask you to come back to their place?

My career was my partner, and it sustained me for a very long time. I didn’t have much time to think about being alone. And then…and then I became comfortable with my aloneness. Sonny was all Amberrose needed.

Until Mason.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” my mother says. “Drink up.”

“I have to drive in a near-blizzard and be semicoherent for my romantic dinner,” I say.

“Oh, honey. I’m driving you.”

“My mother can’t drive me to a date on Valentine’s Day!”

“Watch me. I know how much you hate to drive in the snow. And until you earn back that powder confidence, I don’t trust you driving. And, most importantly, you don’t trust yourself driving. I don’t want to worry tonight, okay? I’ve done enough worrying of late.”

“So do I have to call you when I’m ready to come home? Or will you be picking me up at a certain time? This is just weird, Mother.”

“I just assumed you’d be staying the night.”

“Oh, my Lord, Mom.” I grab the glass of wine and take a healthy sip. “I’m not that easy.”

“Keep drinking,” she says with a wink. “Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”

I peek out the window. The snow hasn’t slowed. “You know, I haven’t looked at a weather forecast in days. It’s the longest stretch I’ve gone in my career.”

“What is Lisa saying?” my mom asks.

“I’m meeting with her this weekend.”

“Keep drinking.”

I finish getting ready, opting to wear a cute—albeit slippery—pair of ankle boots to keep my feet from freezing but to show off my legs. On the drive, my mother asks, “Want to hear about my most romantic Valentine’s date?”

“I love a good dad story,” I say.

“Wasn’t with your father,” my mom says.

My body springs upright like a human jack-in-the-box. “What? Do tell.”

“Jimmy Reed. He was my college boyfriend. So handsome. He looked like Tab Hunter.”

“Who?”

“You should know that! You lived in Palm Springs!” My mother rolls her eyes at me and focuses on the road ahead and her memories. “Never mind,” she says. “He took my breath away.”

“Was he more handsome than dad?”

“Much,” she says.

“Mother!”

“I’m being honest.” She shrugs. “He was a lifeguard, he worked out every day and he looked like a California surfer. Anyway, he knew someone who worked for the state of Michigan who oversaw the Mission Point Lighthouse, which was deactivated a long time ago.”

“The wooden one with black trim and the tower on top at the end of Old Mission Peninsula?” I ask. “We went on a field trip there in school once.”

“Yep,” my mom nods. “It has the most stunning views. Well, Jimmy arranged the most romantic dinner for me in that lighthouse. Just the two of us in the middle of a snow squall. Candlelight, chocolates, pizza. I felt like I was in a movie. Jimmy told me that the lighthouse stood just a few hundred yards south of the forty-fifth parallel north, halfway between the North Pole and the equator. He said that was why the light was so stunningly beautiful in this part of Michigan, as if golden gauze had been draped over the world.” My mom stops. “And then he looked at me and said, ‘But you outshine the light here,’ and he kissed me.”

“That is romantic,” I gush. “Why didn’t you end up with him?”

“I met your father,” she says, “and something just clicked.”

“But Jimmy was better looking, right? And I know dad wasn’t the most romantic man in the world.”

She smiles. “I knew immediately about your father. Jimmy had to work to take my breath away, but your father did it without trying. It’s like I was complete as a person, but there was a missing puzzle piece without your father. And when I met him, I could actually hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“My soul click into place with his.” She snaps her fingers. Click! “It’s not about looks, or money, or dinners in lighthouses, it’s that your dad made me a better person. I wanted to be a better person because of him. He believed in me and supported me. He respected me. He wanted me to succeed in my career.” My mother looks out at the headlights beaming through the snow. “And his soul radiated light, brighter than any lighthouse, more beautiful than any forty-fifth parallel. In my eyes, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen because I could see his soul. And he still is.” My mom glances over at me. “You’ll know when it happens. Ope! We’re here!”

Mason steps onto the front porch and waves.

“He’s so good-looking,” my mother says, her body bent over the steering wheel, staring. “And what a nice house.”

“I thought you said none of that mattered, Mother.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “But it doesn’t hurt, either.”

I shake my head.

“How do I look?”

My mom gives me a close once-over. “Perfect.” She stops. “Like you’re ready to play seven minutes in heaven. Remember?”

“Ugh, Mother. You’re like an elephant with your memory.”

“Well, I will never forget opening the pantry to find you kissing Bobby Montgomery. You used to take baths with him. It was very disturbing.”

I open the car door. “Goodbye, Mom. I’ll call Lyft if I need a ride.”

My mother roars. “Lyft? In northern Michigan? In February? In a snowstorm? Good luck with that. I’m your Lyft.”

I start to shut the door.

“And don’t get anything on my dress,” she adds.

“And, the mood is officially killed. I might as well become a nun.”

“No, honey, nuns now have social media, so you’d still be in the same place you are now.” She begins to reverse but stops to open the passenger window. “You didn’t tip me.”

“I’ll give you a tip,” I say. “Stop annoying me.”

I hear laughter as her car pulls away. “Be careful,” I whisper as I watch until her headlights are gone. I remember our conversation from last night and that calms me.

When I turn, Mason is behind me.

“Your mother drove you?”

He says this slowly as if he’s just uncovered a devastating state secret.

“No,” I say with a straight face. “I took a Lyft. Driven by a woman who looks just like my mom in a car that looks just like my mom’s.”

“You must have felt comfortable then,” Mason says. “I’ve never sat in the front seat before.”

“You really have to look at the driver’s photo closely. You’d be surprised at how many look like seventy-five-year-old women.”

Mason laughs and takes my hand. “Stairs are slick. Snow’s really coming down.”

He guides me inside, which is toasty warm, takes my coat and scarf and then whistles like a teakettle. “You look amazing.”

“This old thing,” I joke, thankful my face is already red from the cold and not his compliment.

“And that necklace,” he adds. “Where did you get it?”

“Old friend,” I say. I smile and touch the necklace. “Thank you. And thank you for having me over for…” The words just stop when I look around his home.

“Dinner?” he offers. “Valentine’s?” Mason mimics a drum roll. “A date?”

“Everything,” I say. “Sorry. It’s just…you have such a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. Helped design and build it myself. I needed a new start—a new home—after Andi. And I always wanted a true Michigan cabin.”

Mason’s “cabin” is all knotty pine with vaulted ceilings and massive windows overlooking Omena Bay. It’s cute as a button with oodles of charm and old-school nostalgia: a lakestone fireplace soars to the rafters, a vintage farm sink centers the kitchen along with open cabinetry covered with burlap curtains, and the dining room lights are made from weathered orchard baskets. There is an open loft with a ladder, and the appliances are the aqua color of my mom’s beloved McCoy vases.

“Are those old?” I ask, walking toward his kitchen.

“New, but look old.” Mason opens the refrigerator and then the oven. “See? Aren’t they cool?”

“I love them,” I say.

“And the floors were salvaged from old barns on Old Mission Peninsula. Look at the character.”

I reach down and touch the dark floors. “You even used square nails,” I say.

“If I do it, I do it right.”

His voice is husky. I stand and Mason is inches from my body. It finally dawns on me that Tom Brady attended the University of Michigan and that maybe, unbeknownst to everyone, he ran away from the NFL and left Gisele to escape back to his beloved college state to start over.

With me.

Mason might be even better looking the more I get to know him. A man with a good career who built his own house and can cook. It’s like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and the leprechaun turns out to be superhot.

My breath hitches in my throat. My legs feel as if they are made of candlewax, and Mason is a blowtorch. He leans toward me.

“What’s cooking?” I ask, taking a sidestep. “Smells amazing.”

You idiot. Why didn’t you let him kiss you?

I mean, you’re wearing your mother’s clothing, likely unemployed, unable to drive in the winter and still too many years away from Social Security. You need something exciting in your life right now.

I U-turn and bend over the stove, waving the aroma toward my nose. I realize too late I probably resemble a witch over a cauldron.

“It’s not chili,” I say, even though there’s not a pot on the stove. “Thank goodness.”

“Ina Garten’s roasted chicken,” Mason says. “With honey-roasted carrots and roasted potatoes.”

“You like to roast?” I say.

You sound like an idiot, Sonny. You like to roast?

“Speaking of which…” he says, not making fun of me. Mason points to the roaring fire. I notice there is a bottle of wine, two glasses and a platter of appetizers on an oversize birch leg table. “Follow me. Let’s roast in front of the fire for a bit.”

We take a seat, and he pours a glass of wine.

“I hope you like it,” he says. “It’s a Michigan white burgundy, perfect for the roast chicken and the cheese and whitefish dip.”

I swirl my glass and sniff, and then swirl some more. I lift the glass and take a sip.

“Amazing,” I say. I grab a plate and a few nibbles of cheese. I taste the smoked dip, rich and flavorful. I gesture around his home. “Everything is…” I stop. “I’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” Mason asks next to me on the sofa.

“How much character Michigan has: the wine, the food, the homes, the water. Everything.” I take a sip of wine and look around. “Living in Palm Springs was like living in a Sinatra song. The architecture, the midcentury vibe, the palm trees, the sunshine, martinis by the mountain.” I stop. “There’s an iconic Slim Aarons photograph called Poolside Gossip that defines the midcentury mystique of Palm Springs.”

“I’ve not heard of it,” Mason says.

“It shows California society women—dressed in midcentury fashion—locked in conversation, cocktails in hand, by a sparkling turquoise pool, with the idyllic mountains hovering in the background. It depicts everything I love about Palm Springs.” I stop again. “I’d erased my mental picture of Michigan.” I look out Mason’s windows. Snow falls on the bay, the wind and the churning of the water a melodramatic soundtrack. Pines draped in snow flank the windows. The stunning stone fireplace heats the cabin.

“Fireside Gossip?” Mason asks. “Snowy Secrets?”

I laugh. “You do run the chamber, don’t you?” I look at him. “I’d forgotten Michigan’s majesty.”

“You should run the chamber,” he says.

A buzzer goes off in the kitchen, and Mason stands. I turn and watch him pull the chicken from the oven, followed by the carrots and potatoes. He carves the chicken, and then heads to the dining room table to light the candles.

“Can I help?”

“Bring yourself and the wine,” he says. “The two most important things here.”

He makes two plates and brings them to the table.

“Cheers,” Mason says, lifting his glass after he takes a seat. He cocks his head as if he’s thinking. He looks at me, his blue eyes sparkling next to his wineglass. “To creating your own brand-new picture of Michigan.”

“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass. “That’s lovely.”

I take a bite of chicken. It is beyond incredible. “Wow.”

“It’s all Ina,” he says. “She changed my life with this recipe. So easy. You just season up a bird, put some herbs, onion and lemon inside, and stick it in the oven. Makes great leftovers, too.”

“You’re a Renaissance Man,” I say. I look at his plate. “And a leg man.”

“Yes, I am,” Mason says, his voice husky once again.

My face flushes, and I scan the room rather than look Mason in the eye. I chuckle, covering my mouth as I do.

“Okay,” I ask, pointing toward the fireplace. “How did I not notice the picture of the dog wearing the crown over the mantel. What’s the story?”

Mason laughs and wipes his mouth. “That’s the former mayor of Omena,” he says.

“What?”

“Mayor Doris,” he says. “For over the last decade, Omena has elected an animal as mayor. We’ve had dogs, cats, chickens, goats and horses. My Doris won seven years ago and served for two. Omena residents pay a buck to take part in the special election, with all the proceeds going to the historical society. Nearly ten thousand votes were cast in the last election, and Sweet Tart, a cat, won. All the candidates have a platform. After Andi died, I went on one of our favorite hikes, the one where we found Lucky. Well, as luck would have it, I found Doris abandoned in an old barn. I felt like it was a miracle, as if God and Andi were talking to me through this dog. Took me weeks to convince her to eat. A few more to convince her to trust me. She was all bones. Barely alive. Her nails were so long they were growing back into her paws. She had chewed through the rope to set herself free, and it was embedded in the skin around her neck. I didn’t know if she’d survive. Best dog I ever had. Saved me after I lost Andi. I felt I had to save something in this world.” Mason stops. “Doris ran for mayor and won. Her story resonated with folks around here, many of whom moved to this small town of three hundred to be left alone much of the year. Towns like Mayberry. I call it Bay-berry. Anyway, Doris raised money for the local shelters. She campaigned on equal rights for humans and animals. She passed away two years ago. Her picture just sums up the best of us, doesn’t it? All we need is love to survive the worst in life. Just takes someone to give a damn to make a difference.”

I clench my teeth in order to will myself not to cry.

Is he speaking about Doris? Or me?

“Cheers to Doris,” I finally say, lifting my glass to the picture and then to Mason.

After dinner, we take the remaining bottle of wine back to the sofa and have some chocolate-dipped strawberries. Mason turns on some music.

“Frank Sinatra,” I say. “How appropriate.”

He smiles. Without warning, he holds out his hand.

“Would you like to dance?”

He pulls me off the sofa and into his arms, and we sway to Sinatra for the longest time.

“Tell me about that scar on your forehead,” I say. “It must tell a story. Old sports injury? Do something heroic?”

He chuckles and touches it.

“I tripped over Doris in the dark when she was sleeping in middle of the room. Fell right into the fireplace and cracked my head. Passed out. Doris licked me awake. Required a few stitches. Ironically, it’s in almost the same spot where I fell into the hearth as a kid.” He looks at me. “Sorry it’s not a legendary story.”

“It’s a sweet one,” I say. “And that’s even better.”

After a few songs, Mason holds me at arm’s length and asks, “Have you ever danced in the snow?”

“What? No, it’s freezing.”

He looks at me. “You need a new memory of winter. You need a new picture of Michigan.”

He grabs my coat and hands me some of his boots. “They’re too big, but they’ll do,” he says.

Mason leads me out the French doors to his patio overlooking the bay. The snow reaches my shins. Mason pulls me close.

“Don’t we need music?” I ask.

“We have it,” he says. “The water. The hiss of the snow. Our heartbeats. That’s our music.”

We sway for a bit, and I watch lights from cottages around the bay illuminate the water. I think of when Joncee and I would wrap ourselves up and go sit on the frozen shore in the middle of winter. We’d hold hands and make up stories about what everyone was doing in the cottages around the bay.

It’s like living in the middle of a real-life snow globe, isn’t it, Amberrose? she’d ask, giggling, her breath coming out in little puffs that hung in the air. And what’s more beautiful than that?

And then we’d make up stories about what winter would be like when we were older.

One day, we’ll both stand in the snow and boys will kiss us! We might even dance and twirl like those people do when they kiss in that snow globe Mommy puts out every Christmas.

Without warning, I start to cry. Mason doesn’t say a word, he just pulls me close, close, closer, until I am one with him.

“Do you want to tell me about what happened?” he finally asks.

My heart is beating so rapidly, I feel dizzy. We stand in the snow, and I hold on to him.

“I was sixteen. I’d just gotten my driver’s license on my birthday in March. I’d picked up some of my girlfriends, and some boys were coming over to my house for a secret party. My parents were at some fundraiser. I had just started to date Jasper Kingston, our high school quarterback. Joncee was at a friend’s house having a slumber party. She got spooked, which she often did, and wanted to come home. I told her she was fine and not to ruin my night. She kept calling, saying they’d watched a scary movie, and she swore Freddy Krueger was in her friend’s house. She begged me to come get her, but I hung up on her.” I shake my head. “It had started snowing. It was a surprise storm that came in off the lake, one of those wet snows, and then the temperature dropped and the roads iced over. Joncee annoyed her friend’s brother so much that he ended up driving her home. He hit a patch of black ice outside of town, lost control of the car and it slid into the bay. He got out, but he couldn’t save Joncee. It was my fault she died. My fault. If I’d gone to pick her up like she asked, she would be here right now. If I’d just been a good sister, she would be alive. And I will never forgive myself.”

I am sobbing uncontrollably, and Mason holds me until I stop.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sonny. It was a tragic accident. You can blame yourself forever, like I did. It won’t change a thing. It won’t bring her back.” He stops and cups my face in his palms. He runs a finger on my cheeks to dry them.

“How do I forgive myself? How?”

“You just do,” he says. “You realize you both loved each other more than anything in this world, and that you will see her again one day. As she was. As she always will be. Your little sister who loved you—and winter—so much.”

He holds me. “Maybe,” Mason says, “all of this snow is a sign from her.”

“A sign?”

“Maybe she’s saying, ‘Welcome home. Embrace winter. Like we used to do. Remember who you were.’”

Mason looks down at me. “She’s the reason you became a meteorologist, isn’t she?”

I nod.

“So maybe you could save someone?”

I nod, tearing up again.

“Have you ever thought about how many lives you might have saved by your forecasts, your predictions, your warnings?”

I shake my head.

“You’ll never know, but you have. You can never measure the impact that your sister continues to have on everyone, including you. That’s an amazing legacy.”

“Thank you.” I sniffle. “I’m sorry to ruin Valentine’s.”

“You didn’t ruin it, Sonny. You’re actually shoveling out your heart after all these years. And what better day than today to do that?”

We stand in the snow, and then I lean in and kiss Mason for even longer, until snow collects on our noses. A sound makes me stop, and I turn toward the bay, my head cocked, a hand around my ear.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?”

“A loud crack or something.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “I’m an expert at identifying winter noises around here. Could be a raccoon. A pine tree snapping in the wind. Or ice on the bay even.”

I look at him but don’t say a word. The sound, I finally realize, was a click. Like a puzzle piece.

“Never mind,” I say, and smile.

This time, he leans in and kisses me, and we twirl in the falling snow, like beautiful ice dancers in a snow globe.

And this time, I do hear music.