The old bookstore had always been my escape, but today it felt different, almost magical. I had pushed upen the old, heavy oak door and the bell tinkled as usual, but the light seemed strange. It was hitting some odd bit of crystal or a prism hidden away on a shelf, and there were bits of rainbow thrown about the dark wood floor. I paused, thinking how lovely it all looked, and even the dust motes floating through the rays seemed lit with sparkles.

“Well hello there.”

I glanced up, the voice not one I recognized, The man in front of me was silhouetted by the strange light coming through the window, and I couldn’t see his face. He was tall, taller than me, and I’m clost to six foot; lean, nice shoulders and he had on a bright green shirt and his pants were impeccably creased. I notice these things, and I was impressed. The voice is what I remember so vividly, though. It was deep, resonant, his words enunciated clearly which is actually not that common in this age but a thing an English professor notices. I shaded my eyes, trying to see his face.

“Good morning. Where’s Mr. Porter?” I thought I sounded inhospitabe. “I mean, he is usually here when I drop in on Saturdays. Is he all right?”

The voice responded. “He’s just fine. He decided to actually take a short holiday to see old friends at the shore. I had to twist his arm and he only agreed to go because I volunteered to look after the bookstore. I’m his nephew.”

“Oh, how wonderful for him. I dearly love your uncle,” I said smiling. “He is such a wonderful man and he has helped me so much over the years. Sorry, I’m Muriel Cantrell, I work at the college here is Waterford Hlls.I’ve been a customer since I was a little girl. Grew up here and now live here.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?” He was still just an outline to me and I was so curious now about what kind of face went with that tall frame and great voice.

“Not particularly.” I held up the box I held. “I have gotten into the habit of bringing croissants from the French bakery every Saturday morning. Your uncle supplies the tea.”

“Well far be it from me to break with tradition.” There was a bit of a smile in his voice. “Let me go put the kettle on. I assume Uncle Alvin plays host in the small room in the back?”

“You would assume correctly.” I smiled again. “I know where everything is and I’ll help.”

With that he moved into the room and I saw his face for the first time and I admittedly gaped at him. The face matched everything else about him and then some. He was beautiful, and that is not a word I have used on many men. He could have been in movies, or on television, or just a male model. It was a face that got one’s heart racing and mine was definitely doing that as I followed him into the tiny kitchen in the back. The back view was also worth checking out without a doubt.

He went about filling the electric tea pot and I pulled the tea and sugar from the cupboard and the milk from the tiny fridge. I found the mugs in the dish drain next to the sink and set the croissants on a plate.

“My name is Al.”

“Oh. Are you also an Alvin?”

He turned and stared at me looking very serious. “If you ever call me Alvin I will have to kill you.”

I stared back. Then he laughed, a crazy, joyful kind of laugh that lit up a pair of the bluest eyes I have ever seen. He was really something else.

“So now I know your deep secret, eh? You can trust me never to reveal it. I mean, you’re talking to an Muriel here who has hated her name since she was five years old and coveted her best friend’s name which was a lovely Elizabeth. I mean, what mother names her sweet baby girl Muriel?”

He laughed. “A mother probably much like my own who would burden me with “Alvin”. My friends calle me Chipmunk for years.”

We both laughed and the kettle sang and we made mugs of tea and munched on croissants, and before the morning was gone we had made arrangements to meet for dinner. The whole thing was like some weird story from a Hallmark movie, but as I got to know him, he was as lovely and down to earth as his namesake, my dear Mr. Alvin Potter. We discovered we loved Proust and Jane Austen and he wrote for a small online publication that reviewed new books and I had never felt so immediately at ease with someone.

I’m a bit of an eccentric; most people find me old-fashioned and a bit weird and hard to know, but strangely enough from the moment I met Al I was just comfortable with him. It was months later when he confessed to me that he had always been the nerdy kid throughout his school years; the one that just always felt like an outsider who was not interested in sports or parties or all the things all young people are supposed to like.

Yes, that magical day in that old, familiar store brought us together and there is still a bit of magic about the whole relationship. Sometimes the Universe just surprises us with joy when we least expect it.