I smiled up at the tree-covered slope, picking out by sight and memory the clapboard shops scattered here and there across it. Years back I had stood in just such a position, waiting for my mom to call up my aunt and grandma and notify them as to where we had parked at Michie’s Tavern. Then and now I breathed in the rich, country air, fragrant with the scent of pines and evergreens. I had chosen to spend my Spring break driving to historical sites abundant in Virginia. A thirty minute drive brought me to Michie’s tavern, and now here I stood, after years of waiting to return. Ever since my mom and I had driven from Richmond to Charlottesville, I fell in love with Virginia, despite the fact that I am a native Texan. It’s rural, old beauty is filled with centuries of memories and history, and that enchanted me. A certain, delectable magic permeated the air itself, or so my romantic mind told me.

Hefting my leather purse over one shoulder, I walked slowly towards the white building farther up the slope, the hum of voices and clatter of dishes reaching my ears. I took my time, absorbing every sight, sound, and smell. Overhead massive trees stood, their branches intertwining to create a natural canopy. Bird calls sounded shrilly, some in song, others in discordant cawing that merely enhanced the atmosphere. “I have to live here permanently, someday,” I whispered to myself, feeling inclined to speak into the mysterious forest life all around. A woman decked out in colonial attire, complete with a gingham dress, starched apron, and mob-cap, smiled at me in greeting, and asked how big my party was.

“Just me,” I grinned back, though inside I wished that I could share this special trip with a sweetheart. Whoever he might be . . . Ever since my last visit I had speculated on the possibilities of having a date here with the guy who God would eventually lead me to. We would sit out on the balcony of the old tavern on a summer evening, the fireflies dancing about in golden flickers, and there would be an oil-lamp quaintly burning. We would sip hot cider and dine on the country foods served us, buttermilk biscuits, roast chicken, mashed potatoes . . .

“Just step up there and get in line, ma’am,” the woman told me.

I nodded and did as she directed, taking my place just inside the front door, behind an older couple.

A bright fire jumped about in the roughly-hewn fireplace, filling me with nostalgic warmth, and driving away the autumn chill from this front room. I scanned the people around me, first those already seated near the fireplace. I saw a small empty table off by itself, next to the hearth. That would be a nice place to enjoy my lunch . . .

I let my eyes wander over to a hall set aside for reserved diners, and studied the faces, wondering who among this crowd belonged to a family with roots going far back into past centuries of early America. I studied outfits of the two counter waitresses, with their ruffled caps nestled down upon graying hair, their hands moving swiftly to their ill-fitting modern cash-registers. The irony of the modern mixed with old-fashioned amused me.

At that moment a waiter entered the room, an old woman grasping his arm as he gently led her to one of the empty tables by one of the windows which overlooked the hillside. He guided her through the dim, crowded room till they reached the table, and then she thanked him heartily, beaming up at him as she resettled her glinting spectacles upon the bridge of her nose. He returned the smile . . . and I caught my breath as recognition dawned. I remembered the quiet young man in my literature class at college. He always struck me as a studious, grave sort of guy, whenever I happened to look at him, or catch a glimpse of him around campus. He always toted around a bag of books which he could be seen reading in the coffee shop, student lounge, or even when walking around the lake behind the dorm houses. Even though I speculated as to whether he had much of a social life, I had seen him with other guys, and he seemed to be well-liked. Just a nice bookworm. Not totally out there—just nice.

But here, I found myself rather startled. He bowed slightly to the old woman, a gesture which made the cotton shirt, knee breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes all the more authentic on him. And why had I never noticed how tall he was? Maybe that realization was due to the rather low ceiling. Or the fact that I just now really noticed him, his light brown hair swept across a straight, smooth forehead, deep-set blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth curled up into a warm smile. To my embarrassment he turned in my direction, catching my gaze. I swallowed, my shyness billowing up all at once, and causing me to stare towards the buffet corridor towards which people gradually shuffled. I did not dare look anywhere else, even after he had disappeared from view in another part of the tavern.

After I finished filling my plate with corn, baked beans, roasted chicken, cornbread, a biscuit, mashed potatoes, and stewed beets (which I doubted that I would eat, though I promised myself to try them), I asked for cider and carried the full plate and cup back to the front room. Disappointment pricked me when I found my table taken, so I turned around and stepped out into the sun-room, windows lining almost every part of the wall, tables dappled by sunshine. I maneuvered my way towards the back, a quieter, shadier part of the room. Vines crawled around the window outside, and I sank down onto the wooden bench, sighing softly. I hoped to return here again and again. How could I grow tired of the raw beauty of this place, of the woodland aura, of the quaint elegance that lent itself richly to the colonial tavern! I lost myself in the past, in the past which to me seemed a near fantasy world. I sipped on the sweet cider, the perfect autumn drink. Yes, my first semester at college was already proving better than I expected. My satisfaction dispelled my homesickness—Texas might be miles and miles away, but it really didn’t matter anymore, somehow. Being so close to this wealth of history rejuvenated me in a mysterious fashion.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” I started awake from my reflections, and found myself staring up into that familiar face. The studious, book-toting fellow from college stood beside me, his height emphasized by his closeness. “Would you like some more cider?” He looked straight into my eyes, his blue gaze unwavering.

“Uh . . . sure, thanks.” I wondered if I should say something else, if I should smile and tell him that we attended the same college, that he was in my literature class . . . but my natural shyness kept those words trapped in my throat. He stood by silently for a few more minutes, and I wondered what on earth kept him from leaving . . . the awkwardness of it all kept me on edge, and I looked down to stare at my plate of food, too uncomfortable to eat anything in his presence.

“Hey,” I heard him say softly. “I recognized you—you’re at my college. In my literature class.”

You took the words out of my mouth, I thought.

I nodded.

He introduced himself, extending his hand. It was large and muscular, practically engulfing mine. I told him my name, and he smiled. I smiled back, a small flutter starting up in my stomach. Wow. Strange that I had never noticed before, but he was alarmingly handsome. Handsome. Perhaps that was due to the fact that I only ever saw him at a distance, until now. The handshake proved a trifle strange, since two people generally perform this greeting while standing at the same time. His fingers lingered on mine even after I had disengaged my grasp.

He cleared his throat before saying, “I see you a lot around campus. You’re a writer, right?” And then we both laughed at the pun.

“Uh, yes.” I nodded, allowing myself to appear a bit nonplussed by his question.

He hastened to explain himself. “You carry around a pocket book—a notepad. Sometimes during class I see you take it out. To scribble.” He gave a crooked, jaunty grin. “And in the café, you always sit by the window . . .”

Looking for inspiration, my mind finished for him. I did not know whether I ought to be confused, annoyed, or flattered that he watched me, while I remained oblivious . . . until now. His bold observations surprised me. I had always thought he would be the clumsy, reticent type. But in fact, I was the one who now blushed as he gazed into my eyes.

“Of course, literature’s the best class for a writer to take,” he remarked after another brief pause. “I guess you can’t be a writer if you don’t know much about literature. It is the secret of the masters”

“Are you a writer, then?” I asked him.

His jaunty grin widened, and with a flourish of his hand he gave a little bow. “A waiter, at the moment. But a writer some future day.”

“It must be interesting, working at such an old tavern.”

“Sure is. My family lives in Charlottesville, you see—the land is immersed in history. Michie’s tavern was built in . . .”

“1784,” I put in.

He eyed me silently for a moment, mingled curiosity and admiration brightening that piercing gaze. I rested my chin on one of my hands, endeavoring to appear nonchalant, totally at ease. I could almost feel him exploring my mind, his admiration deepening by what he seemed to find.

“You’re not from Virginia, am I right? Texas?”

“My accent gave me away, right?” I laughed softly.

“A bit.” He laughed with me, and I found myself trying to absorb his every detail: his musical voice and laughter, the way lights and shadows reflected in his clear eyes, the firmness of his jaw and forehead, that certain kindness in his smile. There was good-natured humor about him, an ability to laugh at himself, sharp intelligence in his features. He might have come from two centuries ago, so well did his costume suit him, accruing to the quaint charm hanging in a fine aura around him. None of the awkward self-consciousness or aloof demeanor which I had formerly imagined emerged.

“So what brought you so far home?” he reached into my thoughts, spinning them off into oblivion. Right before me stood breathtaking reality.

“I’ve always loved Virginia. And when I heard about the college and the literature program, it was the perfect choice. And history is just everywhere. I mean, even driving down the road you see the remnants of centuries past . . .” my voice trailed off as I told myself to hush. I did ramble often, didn’t I?

But he didn’t seem to mind. “Then you chose the right college, to be sure. You chose a place full of that which you love.” He straightened then, and I knew that he would be off now. Loneliness prickled in me. I wanted him to stay . . . I wanted to talk to him longer. He lingered still, placing his hands on the table so as to lean, very comfortable, not stiff in the least. I tried again and again to reconcile myself to this new image of that bookish fellow I had always observed, but my attempts deteriorated as he at last bowed again, a smile pricking about the corners of his mouth. “How well do you appreciate the food and company here at Michie’s Tavern?” he asked me in a low voice.

“Very much so . . . sir,” I replied merrily.

“Indeed?” his voice deepened now, and my heart tangled a bit. “I have a secret for you, miss . . .” and here, for the first time, I caught a glimpse of shyness in his expression—not the awkward kind I had expected, but a sudden flustered emotion rising to his surface. His gaze was bold, but also open and honest. I waited for him to continue.

“Since the first day in literature class I thought you an intelligent, thoughtful young lady. You don’t know me so well, but I would like that to change—on my part, I would like—I mean, I would be honored, to get to know you better. Would you be my friend?”

The innocent, childlike way he asked this question surprised me, and filled me with joyful warmth. He wanted to start a friendship. He had always been searching for a chance to ask. Why had it never struck me before? In class, in the college coffee shop, in the lounge. I had never really noticed him, except for momentary musings on his studiousness and pleasant manner, despite his serious countenance. He always smiled amiably when he met my eye across the room, stepped aside for the girls to enter or exit through a door, he stayed late after class to help the teacher pick up . . . I hardly knew him, but even though I did not always notice him, something unique about him had always struck me. I knew beyond a doubt that I should be the one honored by his request, by his offered friendship. Friendship. Only the first step.