“Look,” she says. “Snow.” She strikes a pose like a ballet dancer, arms out, palms up, to a pewter-gray sky.

“I don’t see any snow,” Rack says. We search the air over our heads, and sure enough, there are a million little gray specks swimming around against the whiteness. Grimshaw makes a sweeping gesture, as if she zipped open the sky, and suddenly, there is snow floating around us. She steps up on the running board of the pickup, arches her back, and leans out, hanging on with one hand. Snowflakes are everywhere swirling around us, fat and soft. Angel nudges me. Allen’s noticed Grimshaw. Her cheeks are pink from the wind and the cold. The wind is blowing her hair around her face. She turns her face up to the snow and sticks her tongue out. One feather lands on her tongue and melts. Then she sees Allen staring at her. Her eyes open wide. She jumps down from the running board and brushes snow off her sweater.

“Do you make other kinds of weather happen as well?” he asks. “Or mostly just snow?”

“Just snow,” she says.

“For the wedding,” Rack adds. Allen backs up a step and puts his hands in his pockets.

“Really,” he says finally. “Do you think the bride wanted snow?”

“Maybe,” Grimshaw says. “If I had a wedding at this time of year, I’d want snow, instead of all the gray.”

“It’s a weird time to get married, though,” Rack remarks. “Halloween weekend.”

Allen pantomimes cocking a shotgun.

“Ka-pow,” he says.

“I see,” Rack says.

“She’s a freshman.” Allen’s talking to his sister, but he can’t keep his eyes off Grimshaw. “It was love at first sight. That’s what Coach wants us to say. So they don’t cancel his contract.” He looks at Grimshaw. “How about you? Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I don’t believe in love at all.” Rack keeps her arms folded over her chest. “But the bride’ll probably need snow for the baby shower, too, then, if it’s that soon.” She turns to Grimshaw. “So it’s a good thing you didn’t go to California.”

“California?” asks Allen, moving in. “Pretty ambitious for a girl from Minnechaug Valley.”

“She’s starting a dance team,” says Angel. “She’s very talented.”

“Do you do cufflinks, too, among your talents?” Allen asks Grimshaw. I don’t think she’s met Allen before. He graduated three years ago and mostly comes back to sell cornfields to Scot. I watch her take him all in—the tux, the cufflinks, the dimple, the diamond.

“Sure,” she says carelessly. With a clink, he drops the gold cufflinks into her hand. She pushes up his tuxedo sleeve, folds the cuff over like a pro, and begins wrestling the cufflink through the layers of cloth.

“Great game,” Allen tells her. “I listened to the radio during milking.”