How We Met

Sometimes, you decide to clean out a drawer ... and find a whole new life.

Let's back up a moment.

In spring 2011, after months of fruitless dating, Penny was annoyed. She'd had it with dating. She had gone out with a handful of men over the winter and early spring, and even though they were nice, intelligent and sometimes even funny guys, there just wasn't a spark with any of them.

One day at home she was cleaning out a dresser and found three prints she'd bought at a Norman Rockwell exhibit years before. Two of them depicted sweet images of love -- in one, a high-school couple sat at a soda fountain, showing off her prom corsage; in the other, a hopeful young couple filled out the form for a wedding license.

Bah. Love. Blech.

Those prints had to go. (The third print had nothing to do with romantic love and thus could stay.)

Rather than pitch them in the Goodwill box, she decided to offer them to co-workers.

It was one of those seemingly minor decisions that end up changing the course of your life.

She took the prints to work and sent out a newsroom-wide e-mail, offering them to anyone who would give her a soda in return. She was flooded with responses; among them was one from this design guy named Bill Pliske. But as he was just one of about 40 respondents -- and not one of the first at that -- she pasted her "Sorry, they've been claimed" answer and sent it back to him, not giving it another thought.

But then he sent a playful answer back. She answered him but still didn't quite notice what was happening, as she had become engrossed in an e-mail debate with The Republic's art writer over the merits of Norman Rockwell's art. (The arts reporter found them to be so much dreck; Penny was a little offended because she had, after all, spent actual money on those prints.)

The next day, that design guy Bill Pliske stopped by Penny's cubicle and flopped down in her guest chair. She knew who he was, of course -- it's hard to miss someone who is 6-foot-5. She hadn't thought he knew who she was, though, and was surprised to see him in her chair, ready to talk some more.

After a few minutes of chatting, he had to get back to his desk two floors up. Penny returned to her computer screen and instant-messaged a co-worker, "I think this guy is going to ask me out."

She wasn't usually so confident about men. But it turned out she was right.

What she didn't know was that Bill had had his eye on her for a few months.

He'd been on Facebook one day, perusing a mutual friend's albums when he spotted this woman with a striking smile in photos taken at an ice rink. The photos were from Penny's birthday party the year before, and she'd had no idea how one guest's photos would change her life.

Like Penny, Bill had found himself back on the dating scene that winter. He dabbled a little in online dating, but he kept finding himself going back to those ice-rink photos. She was pretty darn cute.

He knew her, but only peripherally. They'd worked in the same newsroom for five years by then, but their paths had rarely crossed.

Still. That smile.

Then one day an e-mail popped into his inbox from her. Something about Norman Rockwell prints. As a bonus, he actually did like Rockwell's art, so it was a perfect opportunity.

By the time he sent his e-mail, the prints were gone. But the girl wasn't.

Over the new few weeks, they found themselves chatting more and more on instant-messaging at work. Still, Bill wasn't sure whether she was really interested until he went to Texas for a reunion with his old volleyball buddies. His phone dinged with a text from Penny: "I'm bored. Tell me something interesting."

And he knew.

Within a few weeks they had their first date, with Bill showing up an hour early to the movie theater to make sure he could get them good seats ("X-Men: First Class" had just opened that day). He gave her a single long-stemmed red rose and walked her to her car afterward, asking hesitantly, sweetly for a hug. She had been hoping for a kiss, but this was something, too.

Bill went home that weekend and canceled the handful of coffee dates he had lined up with women he'd met online.

It would take a few more days for Penny to get that kiss she was hoping for. The Tuesday after their first date, Bill got them front-row-center seats for "Les Miserables" at ASU Gammage. (One might point out that Gammage is shaped like a wedding cake, but then foreshadowing is often overdone.)

Just as the show was beginning, Bill leaned over and snuck a kiss. Penny was a goner.

Over the next few weeks and months, they slowly "came out" at work, met the other's family and introduced each other to their interests. They saw lots of movies, spent hours talking. Bill introduced Penny to his kids; Penny introduced Bill to "Veronica Mars" and "Firefly." They each met the other's dad and then offered support when their dads died six months apart. They cheered for the other when they took on new challenges at work. Bill sent Penny flowers, lots of them. Penny secretly started researching tips on stepparenting.

Slowly it became clear to each of them, in their own time, that this was the person they wanted to hang out with for the next 50 years or so. On the last day of June 2013, Bill gave Penny a diamond ring and all his hopes.

And a little more than two years after she'd sent that Norman Rockwell e-mail in frustration, Penny painted in a little more of her own sweet portrait of love -- and said yes.