Blake Norman could not believe his eyes. How could it be? What tortured twist of some malignant fate had brought this about?
     Looking past his soon-to-be bride in a nervous search for this Reverend Essel Jones that Sarah-May had said would officiate over the matrimonial ceremony, Blake saw — oh, no, not her! — Shasta.
     But, yes. It was indeed Shasta. His old Shasta Lee. Idealistic, visionary, inspired, exotic — that self-same sublime Shasta of the embryonic Spring, the maturing Summer, the fruited Fall, the climactic Winter of … How long ago? Five years? Six?
     How close they had become during those mesmerizing months. How enamored, one of another! He had thought then that a damping of such passion could never occur! Not possible!
     But it had. Oh, yes, it had. Embers whipped to a hot, consuming coalescence by the lusty bellows of desire had all-to-quickly sizzled to a sodden, cold clot of ashes in the wintry snows of December.
     At least they had for him. Had they not for Shasta? Blake thought so at the time. Eyes that once spoke so eloquently of love had suddenly filled with disdain. He had at the time blamed it on a sudden understanding of the gross incompatibility between them. He realized his common, coarse attributes, as compared to her delicate qualities of refinement, had overcome her innate compassion.
     But what now? Why this sudden appearance? Had he articulated some imprudent promise in a paroxysm of infatuation all those years ago? Was she now here to collect? Possibly. Probably!
     Blake wanted to return his hypnotized eyes to Sarah-May, still blissfully unaware of this passionate page from his earlier years. He could only stare, entranced, at the woman the intervening time had formed — a beautiful, self-possessed, radiantly matured Shasta.
     She glided nearer, incredibly poised. Her nearness seemed to overwhelm him. Blake could not speak, nor could he move.
     Shasta now stood directly before bride and bridegroom. Her glance moved from Sarah-May to a stern confrontation with Blake’s agonized gaze, then beyond to the guests crowded into the small chapel.
     She parted ripe, red lips and, once more, those mellifluous tones stroked his ears.
     “Dearly Beloved,” intoned the Rev. S.L. Jones, “we are gathered here today …”