Our phones’ flashlights cut through the dark, keeping us from crashing into chairs and walls as we made our way into the pantry. I could feel Tyler behind me. We ran our beams of light over the shadowy cupboards, inspecting cans of diced tomatoes and chickpeas and black beans, containers of couscous and spaghetti and orzo and rice. An alphabetized spice rack lined one wall, and rows of unopened condiments filled a drawer.
I regarded the bounty. “PB&J sandwiches on stoned wheat thins?” I spied a maple leaf–shaped glass bottle on the shelf. “Oh! And we can make candies.”
“What?”
“You know. Maple syrup on fresh snow. Didn’t you do that when you were little?”
I could see the dark shape of his head as he shook it.
“Come on, then.” I grabbed the maple syrup, while he carried the other supplies into the dining room. “Put the stuff down and follow me.”
Tyler hesitated, looking at the menorah. “Should we blow the candles out?”
“No!” I whipped my body back toward him. “You can’t blow out the candles.”
“Why not?”
“Because... because you can’t. You let them burn down all the way.”
“Isn’t it a fire hazard if we leave?”
Certainly it would be unfortunate to burn down my grandparents’ two-hundred-year-old mansion. However. “They’ve never tipped over before.”
“Your funeral,” he said skeptically. The darkness seemed to intensify the sound of his voice, giving it greater weight and depth. At least the lack of light also hid the shiver down the back of my neck, the goose bumps on my arms at being cocooned in the dark.
I led him to the foyer, where we stuffed our arms back into our coats and shoved our feet into boots without bothering to lace them. On the porch, the snow sparkled like fallen starlight, swooping in hollows and hills and lying thick on the front lawn. The air was cold and fresh, like drinking ice water. Even though the storm had kept my family away, I couldn’t help but love what it had created: the gentle silence, the calm that stole into you when snow blanketed the world.
I poured two lines of syrup, and gave the amber liquid time to seep through the ice crystals and harden. Then I peeled my mitten off and scooped up the soft candy, popping it into mymouth. Sweet and sticky. I laughed. I hadn’t done this since I was ten.
When I looked at Tyler, he watched me, bemused. I nodded at his line. “Try it.”
He did, closing his eyes, his mouth moving as the ice and sugar melted on his tongue. Flushed, I looked away and focused on the far-off moon drifting through hazy clouds, a luminescent, misshapen pearl.
“Tastes like maple syrup,” he said.
“But funner, right?”
He laughed. “Yeah.”
For a silent moment we stayed there. The wind whisked up fine sheets of snow, twirling them through the air. The night felt the way the poets tried to describe but could never quite capture. You could only sink yourself into it until your fingers were numb and you couldn’t stop shivering. And then you drank in one more gulp of the cold night, and went back inside.
In the great room, the menorah still glowed, both candles shrinking while their flames danced long and bright. We topped off our glasses, my chocolate liqueur bringing a warm ball of fire to my stomach, and lit the other candles scattered around the great room, until light flickered everywhere.
Tyler glanced at one of the fireplaces. “Do they work?”
“Yeah. My grandparents use them all winter.”
“Let’s light a fire, then.”
“I hope you were a Boy Scout.” I sipped my drink, feeling more dazzly and generous toward Tyler than I had in years. “Because fire lighting is not part of my skill set.”
“I was.”
I gaped at him. “You were not.”
“Why so skeptical?” He examined the logs and bin of kindling next to one fireplace. “Not all of us were raised in concrete jungles. Got any old newspapers?”
“You were raised in LA. And you go to NYU.” I found him an old stack ofThe Boston Globein the recycling.
