So Maggie's friend came to town. Her name was Rebecca. Becky, Maggie called her. They used to be roommates in college, when Maggie studied acting at the University of New York. Paul had always had a hard time thinking of her as an actress - even as a student. He could not understand how a person as aggressive and tough as Maggie was could have ever wanted to be on a stage, or on a screen, showing the one thing she was terrified to show frankly: emotions. But then again, there was a lot Paul did not understand about Maggie.

Like why on earth did a girl like her came to bury herself in Maine after having grown up in the Big Apple. She had given up acting after one semester all right and changed her major to US literature and fiction writing. No doubts to Paul that it looked more like her than acting. To express herself with words, sharply written on a blank page, yes. But why coming all the way to Maine when her wealthy family could have provided for her needs down in New York City, for as long as she had wanted, even if she had never managed to have one story, one book published.

But she had. Several stories in the North American Review and the New Yorker and even a short but superb short novel when she was 26. Paul thought it was the best thing he had ever read, but had never told her. Maybe because he was only a GP, and he was afraid she would not take seriously any advice from him on anything apart from practical matters like bad flues and broken legs, and also because her eyebrow lift in irony and contempt when he would call her book the best "thing" he had ever read. God knew he could hate her adorable superior face sometimes and had wished more than once she had not been a woman so that he could smack that face of hers. No doubt also she would only have contempt for these scruples.

So, Maggie's friend came to town. When they came back from Portland's jetport, Paul saw them downtown, as he was getting out of the post office. They were stopping at the food store. He simply thought when he saw her getting out of the car that Rebecca Mathews was the most beautiful thing that ever walked the Earth and at that moment, he did not care what Maggie would think about it.

He was relieved in a way that she did not look like Margaret at all. Maggie was probably the second most beautiful thing that ever walked the Earth, at least physically, but the two college friends were very different. At a first glance, Becky was much taller and probably stronger, too. Like a typical American healthy girl. No doubt in Paul's mind she was taller than he was too.

From the other side of the street, he saw them entering the food store and he stood there for a while, thoughtful. Then he smiled and drove home.

Paul Vaillancourt was born and bred in Maine. He graduated from the University of Maine at Orono at 22 and left to Boston where he studied in medical school for a few more years. He loved Boston. Paul was not especially fond of the countryside for a Maine boy. He had planned to stay in Boston after grad school and his mother's death but life decided otherwise.

Life was called Helen, for that matter; a beautiful 22 year old who was student-teaching in Maine and dedicate herself to teaching because she loved children and teaching was the most beautiful occupation in the world, actually, it was not an occupation, it was a destiny, don't you think, Paul, honey?

Of course Paul thought so. He thought every thing Helen thought. So he came back from Boston after graduation and accepted a job in Waterville's hospital until he could open his own practice. After 6 months of working 16 hours a day, killing himself in night shifts, Helen announced that teaching was not exactly what she had expected. Two months later, as Paul came home one night with a nice engagement ring that he could definitely not afford, Mrs. Huxley, Helen's charming-but-not-quite-delighted-to-see-her-daughter-dating-a-Catholic-French-Mainer-mother told him that she had quit her job at the junior high and left 2 days before with William Grey, this charming young man who had such a brilliant future as a lawyer in New York City. She was going to marry him, you see Paul, you're a very nice boy but Helen has to think of her future, hasn't she?

Paul could have left Maine after that episode, but he did not. After a pathetic suicide attempt - he tried to blow his brain up, but the shotgun slipped from his hand and he nearly shot his left foot - he decide to stay home. After all, he did not need anybody to be happy and at least, in Maine, he could go skiing whenever he felt like it. But for an obscure reason, he had always been mad at Maggie for having voluntarily abandoned the Big Apple to come to Maine - or maybe it was because Maggie reminded him of New York and New York of Helen. Maggie loved going skiing, though.

Paul often went skiing with her, up in the mountains, on the other side of Moosehead Lake, at Sugarloaf resort. That was the time when they were getting on the best. Probably because you don't talk a lot when you ski. And in winter, the air and the wind are too frozen in Maine's mountains to stop on the top and take a sunbath in a deck chair, drinking hot wine. If you take off your gloves, your hands freeze; if you take off your hat, you ears fall off.

The first and only time Paul and Maggie had sex together was on a weekend, right after one of these ski days. Maggie was pissed off because she had not skied for a long time and she had fallen quite a lot. Paul had kindly tried to help and gave a few pieces of advice. They were not appreciated.

After they drove back to the valley, Maggie had spoken bitterly about the good Maine skier's patronizing tone and Paul angrily about some superior bitch's fucking temper. They had a big fight after which Maggie confessed she had not had sex for a very long time. Paul was sure it was longer for him. So they tried not to waste even more time. However, Paul had not felt comfortable facing Maggie's aggressive temper. He thought she was making love with him as if she was taking some kind of revenge on something or someone. They did not renew the experience, although Paul could not help sighing sometimes when he was home alone and happened to think about that night, one time, after a hard skiing day. After that day, Maggie improved her skiing skills and did not fall so often.

The day Maggie's friend came to town was a Friday, on the eve of Columbus weekend, in mid-October, when the forest that covers two third of Maine's ground looks like it is on fire and reflects its flames in the lakes at sunset. Lakes and forests... that is all you see in the fall in Maine. But then again lakes and forests make 80% of Maine's landscape, whatever the season.

That day, Paul dropped by Margaret's place at dinnertime, when he knew she would be home with her college friend. Maggie's house was a little out of town, away from the college campus where she was teaching fiction writing and US literature to students she was not always sure had a brain to think with.

"So what?" Paul said once. "Who needs brains to write? Feelings. That's what counts."

Maggie had given him the sorry look and remembered out loud that the only thing he had probably ever written were prescriptions. And maybe crossword puzzles.

Paul knocked on the door confidently, knowing perfectly that Maggie was aware of his presence the second she had heard the car pull over. Professor Peterson's old but still fit Land Rover was parked in front of the house.

"Hi, Margaret," Paul said when she opened the door. "Sorry to bother you."

"Not. What do you want?"

"Good to see you too. I was wondering if you could give me a ride to Bangor tomorrow. Tim Henry told me you were going there and my car needs revision. It goes to the garage first thing in the morning."

She thought about the offer a very short moment. "I'm leaving at 8."

"No problem. I'll be here."

She shrugged. "All right. I'll see you then."

She was about to shut the door in his face, but he anticipated the reaction and interrupted her.

"Am I disturbing something," he asked, having a peek inside, over her shoulder. That was not very difficult, actually. Paul was not a very tall man, but he was still taller than Maggie.

Becky was sitting on a chair at the dinner table in the back of the room. Maggie sighed and passed her hand in her short dark hair. "I'm having an old friend for diner."

"I see," Paul replied, smiling. "Can I come in?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, Maggie. Let me in! Aren't you at least gonna introduce me?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Oh, Maggie, please."

"And then what?"

"What, what? you know, she's gorgeous, even from over here."

"That's it. I'm going to let a walking penis in my house and introduce it to my best friend. Right. Keep dreaming.

"I'll behave. You let me in your house usually."

"So?"

"So what tells you I'm not a walking penis usually?"

She stared at him for a second, surprised and then laughed. "Bad flattery, now. Come on in, Doctor." And she opened the door wide and let him in.

He walked in and went straight to the dining room table. "Hi, good evening," he said, putting on his best smile for Becky.

"Hi," she replied.

So Maggie introduced them. "This is Rebecca Mathews, an old friend from college. Becky, this is Paul Vaillancourt, our local GP, 100% Mainer born and bred."

"I studied in Boston," Paul added, shaking hands with Becky. "Please to meet you. Are you from New York City too?"

"Yes."

"Becky works at the UN," Maggie said.

"Wow! That's impressive!"

Becky got up, smiling. "Not that much. I'll make some coffee. Would you like some, Paul?"

"Paul's in a hurry, aren't you, Paul?" Maggie said, glancing at him with insistence. He smiled. "Not really. Yes, thanks, I'd love a cup of coffee. So, tell me, Becky... you're modest too."

Maggie rolled her eyes. Becky was behind the kitchen counter, at the sink, running water into the hot pot. She was still smiling and Paul could not take his eyes off her.

"Maggie always exaggerates about my professional abilities. She's always trying to find me a husband."

Maggie laughed. "Not today, I'm not! Believe me!"

"Cute," Paul said with a grin.

Becky looked at them for a short moment and smiled again. "It just hit me. You two are old friends too, aren't you?"

Paul cut a slice of the apple pie that was on the table, stole Maggie's spoon and took a bite. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"I thought you were going to Boston for Columbus Day," Maggie said sharply, staring at him.

"Can’t," Paul replied, chewing his pie. "Dr. Huseman’s been sick for three days. He asked me to take over his patients in the meantime. But I don’t regret I didn’t go to Boston," he added, glancing at Becky.

"Thank God," Maggie sighed. Becky looked on, quietly amused. She was definitely the kind of woman any man could fall in love with at first sight. Beautiful, gentle, brilliant. At a second glance, she also revealed an incredible sense of humor and irreverence. Because of all that, because of her irresistible smile, her long, shiny dark hair, the perfection of her face and of her blue eyes, Paul fell in love at first sight. Helen had been a nice girl, probably a good spouse now somewhere near Central Park West; Maggie was more of an insidious and addictive disease; Becky was like a charm, a wonderful spell that Paul had no wish to break. Looking at her he suddenly knew why God had not let him marry Helen, why he was still living in a small town in Western Maine. It was all clear.

"So," he said, staring at Rebecca. "What do you guys plan to do this weekend?"

Becky shrugged. "Don’t know. I’ll follow Maggie, I guess." So Paul turned to Maggie.

"I don’t know yet. We’ll figure something out tomorrow," she answered.

Paul frowned. "Too bad Sugarloaf isn’t open yet. Too early and too warm. Do you ski, Becky?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Not that much," she said and while she was having this gesture, she was so incredibly beautiful that Paul stayed there, staring at her, his mouth open. He realized that when he heard Maggie snorting and felt a little stupid.

"Maggie loves skiing," he immediately said, glancing nastily at her.

It was like he had stung her with a needle. She always had this reaction whenever he dared talk sarcastically about skiing in other people's presence, as if everybody suddenly knew what happened between them, once, after a hard skiing day. He knew that sooner or later he would have to face a scene in which she would repeat again that she just wished she had broken her leg that day and spent the night in the hospital and what on Earth possessed her when she decided to do it with such an immature idiot, and so on and so forth. However, on that Friday night, the first day of Becky's visit to Maine, Paul did not care, because the look on Maggie’s face was certainly worth a scene later.

"We could go up to Rangeley tomorrow when back from Bangor. It’s very nice at that time of the year."

Becky nodded, sipping her coffee. Maggie was not that fond of the whole idea, though. "We?"

"Sure," he replied, pretending he did not understand. "Doesn’t bother me, you know. Thought it’d be good thing if you had a real Mainer with you to show Becky around. What do you think, Becky?"

"I’ll be delighted." And she actually looked pretty happy about the idea.

"Probably the first time he’s proud of being a Mainer," Maggie mumbled.

He ignored her and decided to do so the rest of the evening. Only Rebecca. That was all. He did not even notice the very nice and quite tight red sweater Maggie was wearing that night. In other circumstances, the thought of that sweater on Maggie’s skin would probably have kept him awake part of the night, but not that night.

Eventually, Maggie threw him out after a few more cups of coffee and reminded him that he had better be on time to leave in the morning. She sighed, relieved, when she finally shut door behind him.

"That was Paul," she sighed, looking at Becky.

"He’s very nice," Rebecca said, quietly smiling, still sitting at the dinner table.

Maggie had a laugh. "Doctor Paul Clement Vaillancourt, 32, born and bred in Maine, swears he dreams of moving to Boston or New York, away from the country side, the forest, the moose and the lobsters but always finds a good excuse not to leave. One day it’s a colleague who needs to be replaced, another a girl he’s going to marry. The truth is he’ll probably never leave Maine because he’d probably not survive anywhere else. And I think that’s fine. But the most annoying, irritating thing about all this, the thing that really drives me crazy is that crap he keeps giving about how he hates Maine. God, he can be such a jerk!"

There was a short silence. Becky took another sip from her fifth cup of coffee and then smiled again. "So you like him, huh?" Becky was laughing gently.

Maggie shook her head, amazed. "He’s - he’s a hell of a good skier," was the only thing she could come up with.

Continued in Part 2.