The Holiday Ticket

Two days later, our tour bus wound through the snow-draped alpine passes into Austria, delivering us to the storybook streets of Salzburg.

The air was crisp enough to turn our breath into plumes of white smoke as we walked toward a candlelit classical concert held inside the historic Stift St. Peter abbey. The stone walls, hundreds of years old, echoed with the swelling harmonies of Mozart strings.

Arthur had managed to secure two seats in the front row. When the orchestra began playing a melancholic, beautiful piece that seemed to capture the very essence of winter, I felt a lump rise in my throat. I glanced sideways at Arthur. In the warm, golden candlelight, his sharp profile and silver hair looked remarkably distinguished. He caught me looking and offered a soft, reassuring smile, sliding his hand across the wooden bench until his pinky finger lightly brushed against mine.

I didn't pull away. Instead, I let my hand slide over, my fingers interlocking naturally with his.

It was a small, innocent gesture, but my pulse spiked as if I were a teenager sneaking out past curfew. How long had it been since I had felt the simple, electrifying charge of romantic attraction? Decades. Life, mortgage payments, illnesses, and grief had paved over those parts of my heart with gray concrete.

After the concert, as we walked back to our boutique hotel along the Salzach River, the snow began to fall in thick, silent sheets.

"Penny for your thoughts, Linda," Arthur said, turning to look at me, his breath fogging in the freezing air. "You've been quiet since the final movement."

"I was just thinking about how ridiculous life is," I admitted, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. "Three days ago, I was sitting in my kitchen staring at unlit candles, feeling invisible. Now I'm standing in Austria holding hands with a man I met in an airplane metal tube."

Arthur laughed—a rich, booming sound that echoed off the ancient stone bridge. "Invisible? Only to blind men, Linda. Only to blind men."

We stopped beneath a wrought-iron streetlamp. The soft golden light framed his face, and before I could overthink it, Arthur gently cupped my chin with his free hand, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek.