Adjoining Waterfall Park was Occidental Park, a broad open space paved with cobblestones that overlapped Main from Jackson to Yesler and fronted a series of shops and restaurants and a parking lot that serviced the entire Pioneer Square area. The new Seattle was built on the old Seattle, the earlier version of the city having burned to the ground in a turn–of–the–century fire. An underground tour of portions of the old city began just a few blocks to the north. By passing through a nondescript door and descending a steep, narrow flight of stairs, you could step back in time.
But the present was above ground, and that was what most people came to see. Pioneer Square was an eclectic collection of art galleries, craft outlets, bookstores, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops, and oddities, funky and unassuming and all–embracing, and John Ross had felt at home from the day he arrived.
He had come to Seattle with Stef more than a year ago. They had been together for several months by then, were drifting more or less, and had read about Fresh Start and thought it would be a good place for them to work. They had came an a whim, not even knowing if there might be jobs available, and there hadn't been, not at first, but they had fallen in love, with the city and particularly with Pioneer Square. They had rented a small apartment to see how things would go, and while he had been pessimistic about their chances of catching on at Fresh Start–they had been told, after all, treat there were no paid openings and none expected anytime soon-Stef had just laughed and told him to be patient. And sure enough, within a week Simon Lawrence had called her back and said he had something, and within a month after that, after spending his time doing volunteer work at the shelter, Ross had been offered Full–time employment, too.
He glanced over at Stef surreptitiously .as they crossed Occidental Pant. He was wearing his greatcoat with the huge collar turned up and his heavy wool scarf with the fringed ends trailing behind, and as he limped along with the and of his heavy walking staff, he looked a little like a modern–day Gandalf. Stefanie matched her pace to his, all sleek and smooth and flawless with her shimmering black hair and long limbs. She seemed entirely out of place amid the jumble of old buildings, antique street lamps, and funky people. She looked odd walking past the trolley that was stopped at the little island across from The Paper Cat, as if she had gotten off at the wrong stop on her way to the glass and steel towers of the high–rent district uptown. You might have thought she was slumming amid the homeless men who were clustered together next to the carved wooden totems and on the benches and under the mushroom–shaped pavilion across the way.
But you would have been wrong. IF there was one thing Ross had learned about Stefanie Winslow, it was that notwithstanding how she looked and dressed, she was right at home anywhere. You might think you could tell something about her 6y just looking at her, but you couldn't. She was comfortable with herself in a way that astonished him. Stef was one of those rare people who could walk into any situation, anyplace, anytime, and find a way to deal with it. It was a combination of presence and attitude and inteIligence. It was the reason Simon Lawrence had hired her. And subsequently hired him, for that matter. Stefanie made you feel she was indispensable. She made you believe she was up to anything. It was, in large part, he knew, why he was in love with her.
They rounded the corner at Elliott Bay Book Company and walked down First Avenue to King Street, then turned into the door of Umberto's Ristorante. The hostess checked off their names, smiled warmly at Stef, and said that their table was ready. She led them down several steps to the dining area, past the salad island toward the neon sign that said IL PICCOLO, which was the tiny corner bar, then turned right down a hallway cowered with posters of upcoming Seattle arts events. Ross looked at Stef in surprise. The dining room was behind them now; where were they going? Stef gave him a wink.
At the end of the hallway was the wine cellar, a small room closed away behind an iron gate in which a single table had been set for dinner. The hostess opened the wrought–iron door and seated them inside. A white tablecloth, green napkins, and silver and china seemed to glow in soft candlelight amid the racks of wines surrounding them.
`How did you manage this?' Ross asked in genuine amazement as the hostess left them alone.
Stef tossed back her hair, reached for his hand, and said, `I told them it was far you'
He had been back from Wales far almost a month when he met her. He had returned defeated in spirit and bereft of hope. He had failed in his effort to speak with the Lady or return the staff of power. His parents were dead, and his childhood home sold. He had lost contact with his few relatives years earlier. He had nowhere to go and no one to go to. For lack of a better idea, he went up from New fork to Boston College, where he had studied years earlier, and began auditing classes while he worked out his future. He was offered a position in the graduate–studies program in English literature, but he asked far time to think about it, uncertain if he wanted to go back into academia. What he really wanted was to do something that would allow him to make a difference in people's lives, to take a job working with people he could help. He needed human contact again. He needed validation of his existence. He worked hard at thinking of himself as something other than a Knight of the Word. He struggled bravely to develop a new identity.
Each day he would take his lunch in the student cafeteria, sitting at a long table, poring through his study books and staring out the windows of the dining hall. It was winter, and snow lay thick and white on the ground, ice hung from the eaves, and breath clouded in the air like smoke. Christmas was approaching, and he had nowhere to spend it and no one to spend it with. He felt incredibly lonely and adrift.
That was when he first saw Stefanie Winslow. It was early December, only days before the Christmas break. He wasn't sure if she had been coming there all along and he just hadn't noticed her or if she had suddenly appeared. Once he saw her though, he couldn't look away. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had eves seen -.exotic, stunning, and unforgettable. He couldn't find words to give voice to what he was feeling. He watched her all through the lunch hour and stayed afterward when he should have been auditing his class, continuing to stare at her until she got up and walked away.
The next day she was back, sitting at the same table, off to one side, all alone. He watched her come in and sit down to have her lunch for five days, thinking each time that he had to go over to her and say something, had to introduce himself, had to make some sort of contact, but he always ended up just sitting there. He was intimidated by her. But he was compelled, as well. No one else tried to sit with her; no one else even tried to approach. That gave him pause. But his connection with her was so strong, so visceral, that he could not ignore it.
Finally, at the beginning of the following week, he Just got up and walked aver, limped over really, feeling stupid and inadequate with his heavy staff and rough look, and said hello. She smiled up at him as if he were the most important thing in her life, and said hello back. He told her his name, she told him hers.
'I've been watching you far several days; he said, giving her a deprecatory shrug.
`I know„ she said, arching one eyebrow speculatively.
He flushed. `I guess I overdid it if I was that obvious, I was wondering if you were a student at the college.'