CHAPTER TWO

Itook in a deep, startled breath—winter, Irish wool, coffee, and fresh-baked bread—and then pushed away with a jittery half-joke. Something like, "Watch it. I have pepper spray." "OK," he said with a broad baritone laugh. "Come for a walk, then. It'll be nice." I shook my head.

Alarm and skepticism warred with spreading, unsteady warmth behind my collarbone. "Walking around in the freezing dark with a total stranger is not nice," I said. I tipped a glance to the well-worn gaiters. "Planning to do some cross-country skiing?"

"Riding my bike," he said, and then added without apology, "I'm between vehicles."

He held the heavy door open expectantly. I moved the pepper spray from my purse to my coat pocket and followed my heart out under the clear, cold stars.

"What are you reading?" I asked, because that question always opens doors of its own. I was in the habit of asking the nuns at the bus stop, a barber who paid me to scrub his floor once a week, elderly ladies and children at the park. 

To this day, I ask people who sit beside me on airplanes, baristas at Starbucks, exchange students standing in line with me. 

Over the years, "What are you reading?" has introduced me to many of my favorite books and favorite people.