In Paris, Tim had investigated every arch and ornament of Sacred Heart, Notre Dame and the Arch of Triumph, and she had bought an oil painting from a street artist in Painters’ Square. Tim had helped her dicker the price down, using the French he’d learned in college in order to impress a student teaching assistant in the French department.
They’d kissed for the first time atop the Eiffel Tower after watching the sun set, much as they now stood on an Austrian rooftop watching the same sun come up. Holly had felt as though she’d been waiting for that kiss her whole life, just as she now felt she’d waited for this mountainside. Later, they’d taken a moonlight cruise on the Seine, and Tim had whispered French endearments in her ear as the boat slid past couples locked in torrid embraces in the shadows along the bank.
They’d become lovers again that night. Oh how glorious it had been to touch him again! To be touched by him in intimate places. His body was the same one she’d loved and his instincts were the same as always as he made love to her. He had discovered, she had remembered. Together, they had shared the magic.
They’d experienced Germany with the perspective of lovers, finding romance in the quaint ruins of picturesque castles, mountainside vineyards and the legend of the Lorelei Rocks as an excursion boat carried them down the Rhine. They saw Gutenberg’s printing press and visited the cathedral at Worms and bought cologne in Cologne. In Rothenburg, they’d driven through an ancient arch where coaches had passed centuries before, and together they’d cringed at the displays of thumbscrews and iron maidens in the Medieval Torture Museum.
Tim had waltzed her through Mad King Ludwig’s Hall of Mirrors and whispered naughty suggestions in her ear in Ludwig’s grotto. She had bought a cuckoo clock and a wood carving of a mountain climber. Tim had bought several beer steins with pewter caps, and an Alpine mountain climber’s hat.
After a thorough inspection of the Oberammergau Cathedral, they’d headed south to Austria, to the historic buildings of Salzburg, to Mozart’s home, to the quaint village of Mittenwald, famous for its violins. Then, following narrow winding roads on hillsides so steep they marveled that the dairy cows could keep their footing in the pastures, they’d reached this centuries-old gasthaus outside of Bergenz.
They’d shared a lifetime of memories in a matter of weeks.
“Holly.”
His voice drew her from deep reflection. His tone was serious. Holly held her breath. Whatever he was going to say was momentous, and she didn’t want to miss a syllable.
“If I could hold you like this forever, I would. You’d never be any farther way from me than you are right now.”
Holly released the breath she’d been holding and pressed her forehead against his sternum. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Someday, we have to go back to the real world,” he said soberly.
“Not today,” she said. “Not tomorrow. Not even next week.” Down the road, Italy awaited their awe and exploration. The canals of Venice. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. The parks and art of Florence. The ruins, the fountains and cathedrals of Rome. Hand in hand, they would stand in the Sistine Chapel and absorb the splendor of Michelangelo’s genius.
“Marry me,” he said.
Speechless, Holly tilted her head back so she could see his face.
“The way I feel about you is not going to change, no matter where we go,” he said. “I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.” He grinned. “Not even a conk on the head could make me forget that I’m not whole without you. I want you with me, here—” He took his arm from around her to place a fist over his heart. “Forever, Holly. Or at least for the rest of our lives.”
A moment passed in absolute silence. And absolute perfection. Holly wondered if there would ever be another moment when she felt joy as pure as the joy filling her, spilling over, bathing her like the morning sunlight.
“Holly Bennett, will you marry me?”
She tilted her face up toward his and smiled. “You would ask me when I’m wearing house slippers and a chenille robe!”
“And sexy hair,” he said, mussing it playfully, then combing his fingers into the tangled curls to caress her scalp. He kissed her, and the kiss absorbed the perfection of the moment and added to it. It held all the words they didn’t need to say and all the feelings they had only to look at each other or touch each other to express.
“Don’t I get an answer?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you’ll marry me, or yes, I’ll get an answer?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she said.
“I love you, you know.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I know.”
All she had to do was look into his eyes, and she knew it with all her heart.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8639-9
Look into My Eyes
Copyright © 1995 by Glenda Sanders Kachelmeier
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