I worried that I wouldn’t recognize her after all these years, but when I saw the blond in the Beemer convertible I had no doubt that this was Carol in the flesh. My husband emails his cousin regularly, but the distance between Richmond and Denver prevents a lot of face-to-face contact. “Elaine” she asks, a question mark in her voice. I had prepared her for the red hair but not the other changes in my appearance. We pull away from the hotel, hair flying in the dry hot air. I gasp as the Front Range rises before us, looking close enough to touch, brown and gray and slightly out of focus. The suburban Denver streets are a series of four way stops, traffic moving inefficiently and comfortably until we reach a little funky area of shops and boutiques. We finally park and walk the few blocks to a restaurant and find seats on a cozy patio. The Bloody Mary is hot and spicy with added horseradish from the bar. Our eggs come with smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce. The chat soon turns to astrology, my lovely cuz in law’s sideline occupation. I should have known we were both Scorpios. The eyes are a dead giveaway. We order a second drink, we talk, we eat, we understand each other. After brunch we walk through the street fair viewing the fresh produce, the Irish dancers, the fiddlers who do not seem to fiddle. Back in the car another winding path takes us to her home and into the office where she does the business of metaphysics. My girl has the chart of a surgeon, my middle son, a teacher. Interesting, she says, looking from the hieroglyphics on the page and into my soul. “Have you ever thought of becoming a writer.” I laugh and give her my blog address. Perhaps the naughty one should wait for later.