A Brush with Death

by Joan Smith

  “I can't feel too cut up about them. At least they deserve their fate. They were only thinking of themselves. I keep thinking of Vincent."

  “You keep calling him Vincent, as if you were on a first-name basis."

  “You kind of feel that way after you've read his diaries and letters. He's the one I feel sorry for. All he wanted was to do good, to help people, and look at his short, pitiful life. Everything turned out wrong for him. The Gauguin live-in didn't work out; he cut off his ear as a gesture of repentance. He didn't get the girl, and he didn't get a scrap of recognition when he was alive. And just when he was starting to make it, he couldn't take it any longer and killed himself. Only thirty-seven. I'm over thirty. I'm not going, to make that mistake."

  “I had no idea you were contemplating suicide!"

  “No, just marriage.” He patted his vest pocket. I noticed a suspicious bulge, about the size of a ring box.

  I poked his ribs with my elbow. “You prefer a slow death."

  “I'm going to grab the good times while they're going. You and me, we're going to enjoy our lives, Cass. Which reminds me, I promised you the fur coat if we cracked this case. What kind do you want?"

  “No furs till we're married.” I nestled into the deep luxury of the limousine and snuggled against his arm. “Let the good times roll."

  “What do you say we go for a diamond instead, as in ring?"

  His right hand left the wheel and he slid out the box, a little blue velvet one. While he was still driving, he pressed the lid and it popped open. I found myself blinking at a huge emerald-cut diamond. He shoved it at me. I took it, literally speechless. I heard a deep sigh of bliss hover on the air. “Well, do you like it?” he asked warily.

  “Stop the car, John."

  “Is that a yes or a no?"

  “Stop the car."

  He pulled over to the side of the road and examined me with a worried eye. My expression of undiluted bliss reassured him. “I say yes,” I whispered in a trembling voice, and kissed him. “Yes, yes, yes."

  “I want those McGill jocks to know you're taken."

  It was quite a bit later when we turned on the radio and heard Bing Crosby moaning “White Christmas,” as the miles of snow slipped by beyond the window. It was the best Christmas ever. I didn't care if we never got home. I was with John. I was home.

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