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For about four hours, we stood next to each other greeting the public beside a large model of a PSA aircraft, the BAe-146. A lot of people who came by wanted to share tales of their most memorable PSA flights.

Lorrie wasn’t at all flirtatious toward me, and I also remained professional toward her. But I was waiting for my moment. As the event wound down, I said to her, “Why don’t we go get a drink?”

“There’s a commissary down the hall,” she told me. “If you’re looking for a vending machine, you can find one there.”

She wasn’t getting it, but I wasn’t giving up just yet. “I meant a cocktail,” I said. “In a bar.”

She looked at me, this weary pilot with a lot of Ss and Ls in his name and a confusing opening line, and I suppose a part of her took pity on me. She agreed to accompany me to a nearby Ben-nigan’s. We had that drink, talked for a bit, and as she’d later admit, there wasn’t any wild attraction on her part. She assumed she’d never see me again. But I was interested. I asked for her phone number and she gave me her PSA business card, which had only the 800 number on it for the airline’s marketing department.

I tried to be clever. “You must be in great demand,” I said, “if you have your own eight-hundred number.”

She resisted rolling her eyes at me and just smiled, and then she gave me her local phone number. I gave her my card and she finally saw my name spelled out. We made a date for a couple of days later.

By the time Lorrie got home, however, she had decided she wasn’t ready to date anyone, and in any case, she wasn’t really up for dating me. She called me and left a message on my answering machine that she had to work the night of our date.

Listening to her message, I clearly sensed her lack of interest, and I figured that was that. But days later, Lorrie told a close friend that she had decided not to go out with me. Her friend told her, “No man is going to find you if you’re sitting home on the couch.”

Lorrie argued that the couch was just fine for her. She wasn’t looking for a man, anyway. Still, her friend’s words stayed with her, and a week later, she was surprised to find herself calling me.

When we spoke she admitted that she had been less than truthful when she canceled on me, and that she was nervous making the call. She said she’d like to accept a date with me if I was still interested. Of course, I was.

We lived fifty-five miles apart, but we ended up seeing each other for dinner three Friday nights in a row. After the second dinner, I walked her to her car, leaned toward her, and kissed her. Lorrie thought I was being forward. The way she tells the story now, she was “taken aback a little bit.” But I kissed her for a reason. I wanted her to know that I wanted to kiss her, and that I found her attractive. I’m glad I kissed her. I’d do it again. (In fact, I have.)

That kiss was a turning point, and she began warming up to me, too. For more than a year, we went back and forth between her home in Pleasant Hill and mine in Belmont. Eventually it just felt right to move in together. In early 1988, we settled into my place.

I’ll never forget coming home to Lorrie for the first time after being away on a four-day trip. The house was glowing. She had music on, the food on the stove smelled wonderful, and the house was warm and inviting. “If I had known it would be like this,” I told her, “I’d have insisted we move in together sooner.”

Marriage was the obvious next step, and on the morning of our wedding, June 17, 1989, I wrote Lorrie a letter: “I can’t wait to marry you. I want you and need you and love you with all my heart.”

I meant every word of that, but it’s hard for a groom on his wedding day to fully understand all the challenges of marriage. Lorrie and I would have to learn to face a lot of obstacles together. There were adventures ahead that we never could have predicted.

LORRIE PROVIDES a lot of the color in our lives. She’s intuitive, emotional, creative, more at ease with people, and more outgoing. In certain ways, she’s more innately optimistic than I am. It can take a