The Power of Love

August, 1985; Red Rocks Amphitheatre; Morrison, Colorado

“I can’t hear you!”

She continued clapping, turned her head and repeated, enthusiastically, “I love Huey Lewis!”

The boy next to her was laughing with his friends, so, undoubtedly, that was one reason he could not hear. Naturally, being in the middle of a Huey Lewis & the News concert, singing and dancing along to “the Power of Love,” with scenes from “Back to the Future” on the big screen ahead did not help the audio in the concert venue.

“Me, too!” he finally acknowledged and yelled back (in a friendly manner). “Me, too!” And, just like that, his attention turned back to his friends. The girl’s attention turned back to hers as the concert continued for the next couple hours. Surely, there were some smiles and pleasantries once the concert ended and everyone filed out (to the extent they could in an efficient manner).

           Emerging from Red Rocks Amphitheatre that night had been a breeze (compared to exits from other concert events they were told) – and quite breathtaking when gazing upon the horizon of the mountainous region that defined Colorado. With Denver behind her and the landscape before her, the girl and her friends stopped, amidst the throng, to take some pictures of each other with the amazing backdrop. In a couple weeks they would all leave for their respective universities – no one going to the same place as any other, and all vowing to ‘stay in touch’ as much as possible. Of course, they would write and call and visit and ensure to ‘get back together’ when on vacation at home. The power of friendship would see to it. Naturally, all would get ‘good jobs’ or marry and have children, but, yes, all would remain ‘best friends forever.’

           As to the boy and his friends in the same row – the group with whom the girls seemingly bonded before having seen Huey Lewis, during the dinner when all happened to run into each other at the pizza restaurant in the city – well, they would likely fade off into the sunset. A distant memory. Yes, that one to her right was cute. These boys were all in town for a resort vacation in Aspen-Snowmass and had driven the four hours back to Red Rocks to see the Neville Brothers’ opening act and, then, of course, the star performers, Huey and the News. Just like the girls. A shame that she did not get his last name. She only knew his first name. Marc. And that he was from Aberdeen, Scotland. Interesting (sort of) that she and her friends had literally flown in the day before from Cardiff, Wales, to see Huey. Not that she would see him again – honestly, Aberdeen and Cardiff are closer than Aberdeen and Denver, but it’s not like they were down the street. They might well have been on two different planets. It took an age to get a letter to someone nowadays. She should know. She had like 25 pen pals around the globe. Some in English. Some in French. Some in German. Some in Dutch. She should have thought to exchange phone numbers in addition to the addresses exchanged with Marc. Oh well, she would probably meet some nice Welsh boy her parents would approve of. And that would be that. Going to St Andrews, she was sure of it.

***

August, 2005, Edinburgh, Scotland

Juliet Norman must have been daft. After an hour-long conversation with a very ornery-sounding man named Marcus Thorn Something (fitting), she had agreed to sign all of the paperwork. All of the paperwork, that is, to buy the little hamlet (well, literally, Little Hamlet) bookstore on St Stephen Street in Edinburgh. She walked with her luggage, from her hotel, toward the store to begin a new chapter in her life.

           At uni she thought for certain she would have thrived in art and architecture and become a professor. Her love was that of the eighteenth century, and her favorite painter was Sir George Romney. She had written a thesis on one of his noted pieces, a portrait of Miss Juliana Willoughby. Who was she? Who were her family? Why was she painted, and all of the basic questions. All of the obvious analysis, but some of the nuanced analysis as well – how this painting defined George Romney, etc., etc. She had received top marks, and graduated top in her class at St Andrews. Her job with the British Museum in London was a dream. But her real love was that of books. She loved music and movies, travel and literature. And, based on an advert, she hopped on the phone, had numerous discussions, including via email, with the original owner (She had surmised it was a family store.) of this bookstore who wanted to sell. Something about how he wanted to travel and take a hiatus to go on a ‘Grand Tour.’ She could empathize. Of course – whom was she kidding – one of the other catalysts for her own ‘grand adventure’ to Scotland was her divorce. Married just after university, she should have known it would not last. Surely, John was funny, kind and intelligent. But he did not share Juliet’s love for travel, books, photographs or even music. He was patient when Juliet stopped at every little place along a path to take pictures. But he always seemed to be gritting his teeth. The two parted as friends, but Juliet decided she wanted to see the world, be on her own for awhile. So, with her kitten Jasper and dog, Mustard, she set off. Just to hold onto some nostalgia from her younger days, and to remind herself of her friends and school days, her parents had encouraged her to take along her scrapbook she had made. Just before going to university. So she did. Her parents, siblings and two best friends (yes, the two from her Red Rocks concert) wished her well.

           As Juliet sat on the train, she was reading Pride and Prejudice. Putting a bookmark at page 123, she decided to take a peek at the scrapbook for fun, as she had some time before her train was due in Edinburgh. Time for a trip down ‘memory lane,’ as it were. She had turned the pages slowly enough to enjoy each picture but quickly so as not to get teary-eyed. Then, she stopped. The Red Rocks pictures were plain as day, and she wanted to soak up as much as she could from that memory. Four pictures in all. Two of the stage and two of the friends against the magical mountains. But wait. There were two stray pictures that were not held fast on the paper. There was one that was taken just of Juliet with Huey playing in the background. And the other…that boy. What was his name? Right, Marc Something. He was cute then. She had almost forgotten about him. She and her friends had talked about everything with Marc and his friends at over a Margherita Pizza and fries that night. Marc. Why couldn’t she remember his last name? Months of letters – very personal ones at that – back and forth had cemented him in her brain. Until uni classes and her job just sort of pushed him out of the way. People grow apart. She found that out the hard way with her ex-husband. But Juliet was ready to make a comeback.

Marc Thurman, Thorn, something. Ironically a similar name to this bookstore owner. Anyway, Marc was a nice memory. Now she was headed to Edinburgh to make new ones.

           The image on these photos were recurring for Juliet as she unpacked books this morning, awaiting the arrival of the bookstore owner. As soon as she signed the paperwork, the store would be hers. Hooray!

           The bells to the store rang, and her dog and cat both almost ran out from under her to greet the newcomer.

           “Hello?” Juliet called

           “Hello? It’s Marcus Thornfield. The owner of the establishment,” this most-handsome-and-dashing-of-all-men called as he proceeded up the blue carpet to the front register.

           Juliet had to blink twice to be sure she was not dreaming. The sunlight was at his back streaming in, so she was having a hard time making out the details of his face, but she knew in an instant (well, believed) that one of her Jane Austen characters had come to life. She walked around from the counter to greet the man. Ready to make the store her own. Or maybe travel through time to become a bookstore owner for the ton of Edinburgh and plan her own ball later that night.

           Juliet was preparing to greet the man when he appeared just before her. He was looking down to bring the papers out from the folder he was carrying. He was tall, muscular and certainly well-dressed. Nice shoes. Perfectly-manicured fingernails and strong hands. But something about him seemed oddly familiar. There was no basis for it. It just was.

            And then. Then. He looked up. “Mrs Norman?”

           “Yes, I am she. Juliet Norman. Juliet, please.”

           “Marcus, Marcus Thornfield. At your service. Marcus, please.” He extended his hand. Juliet took his hand to shake it, and the electricity was palpable. Why?

           “I have the documents for your signature. If you’ll just sign here,” and he pointed his pen to the signature line, alongside where he had dated the page. That handwriting. His name. The printing. Something was very, very familiar. Familiar but yet not. Classic but advanced in a way that a fine wine might age. She signed and handed the paper back to him.

           And then. Then. “Juliet, what is that you have there on the counter? May I please see?”

           They were her photos of Red Rocks (the one of her and the one of Marc) she had not yet placed into the album.

           Marcus took the photos. He studied them. For long seconds until he looked up. “Juliet?”

           “Yes, Marcus?” The look in his eye said it all. She knew. He knew.

           “Juliet, what would you say to a co-ownership?”

           There was silence for a moment,. Neither spoke. Customers who had been browsing now had stopped in their tracks. Watching. Listening. Absorbing.

           “Juliet, I had no idea. I mean, what are the odds? You must know I thought of you often. Wondering where you’d gone. What you were doing. Why, you haven’t changed a bit!”

           “Well, you have no idea. But thank you! And you! I hardly mean to sound facetious, but, Marcus, where have you been?” Jasper and Mustard were listening intently.

           “I had read about your lectures from the British Museum. The Cambridge English Department is a big fan. Yes, I have been a professor there and still am when I want to be. I knew it was you when you called!”           

           “But you said nothing!”

           “I had to be sure.”

           “And now?” The pair moved closer together – the bookstore the last thing on their minds.

           “I am sure. More than sure. That concert? Our eighteen-year-old selves? This is what it has all led to.”

           “I’m willing to give this a go. I think it is a sign from the universe.”

           “It has to be. And, well, it was always.” Marcus smiled. “You know, Juliet?” They moved closer still. Marcus had to be at least six feet now – he towered over Juliet. She looked into his very deep emerald eyes.

           “What is it Marcus?”

           “You know, even though the Millennium is upon us, I miss the 80s. Thanks to Huey Lewis and the News, we have our own ‘Back to the Future’ moment. And…”

           “The Power of Love.” Juliet and Marcus laughed heartily. Embracing in a first-love-second-love-first-kiss moment. To the glee and delight of all surrounding. Much like in a Jane Austen novel. Surrounded by family and friends. And the Power of Love. Indeed.

In the Little Hamlet. On St Stephen. In Edinburgh. A love that traveled fourteen years, 5,110 days, 122,640 hours, 7,358,400 minutes, 441,504,000 seconds. And 4,416 miles.

August, 2019; Red Rocks Amphitheatre; Morrison, Colorado

“You know,” Juliet mentioned, as Marcus and she revisited where they first met having taken a much-needed holiday to Aspen-Snowmass and, then, throughout the Rocky Mountains. “’They – the experts, naturally – say Shakespeare never travelled outside of England.”

“You’d never know it.”

“I do wonder what he would say about reliving a memory in a photograph. Travelling in your mind’s eye.”

“As Shakespeare wrote in Twelfth Night, ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ We'll make our own 'Grand Tour.' Together." Marcus winked and smiled what Juliet had lovingly recalled his trademark smile – with a few new lines on his amazing face.

The End