There were many sidewinders that year. I saw them as I drove through the desert on frequent trips between Moab and Cisco. Funny, though I was living in Mormon Utah, the thought of bigamy had never entered my mind. I was reared Catholic, which meant mass twice a week and confession every Friday.

Harlan was my hero from the start. The first time he looked at me as I passed by the store front window of the cafe, his eyes never left me. It was as though he'd found someone he'd been missing. I'm not used to men making that bold a statement. I usually have to talk them into things. It was refreshing.

"I like your hat," he said, pointing at my purple cap sitting in a vacant chair across from me. "Thanks," I said. He was a tall, big man with gray hair and he glided past me like a cross between Astaire and a football player. I later found out he'd been an NHL goalie. You knew you'd been visited. All his physical motions in life were committed.

"Harlan Bellows is my name," he said the second time we met at the counter waiting for coffee. He extended his hand and after that, I knew I had to know him though I was "happily married" and didn't play around. "Come sit by me, Harlan Bellows," I said four months later. "Will you go with me to look at a kayak?" he asked. "No, I'm sorry, I can't."