Peter didn’t answer, and when I turned to look at him, he seemed distant.
“You’re doing it again,” I said. “You look tense.”
“Sorry.”
“What is it, sweetie? Is it about your family?”
He shrugged and squinted at the sun glittering off the ripples in the water beyond the deck. He had told me his mom had died of heart failure in her forties and that he hadn’t talked to his father in more than ten years. But getting him to share anything else was impossible. I couldn’t understand the distance and the secrecy. I really couldn’t.
“You should call your dad.” My eyes studied his.
“Ana, there’s something I want to tell you.” He stood and raked his fingers through his hair.
“What is it?” My feet walked to him slowly. “I can handle it.” Right?
He didn’t say anything; his gaze was on the water.
“Is he in jail?”
“No. Not that.”
“Runs a meth lab?”
“No,” he said, his voice rising.
“Sorry.” Why did I have to try to be funny?
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “Why don’t we go in and pack? That’s what we need to be thinking about, huh? Honeymoon?”
“Come on, tell me.” I should have kept my mouth shut. I rested my hand on his arm.
“No, I don’t want to spoil things.”
“Peter, you’re not going to spoil anything. You drive me crazy sometimes, you know?”
“Sometimes?” He kissed my neck and squeezed me. “You drive me crazy all the time.”
“You know what—”
An awful horn-honking cacophony approached the house, and we looked at each other, puzzled, before walking around to the front.
“Whoa,” I said, when I saw Dad in a brand-new red midsize truck.
He hopped off and looked at Mom, who’d parked the SUV and was almost to us.
“For me?” I beamed, looking at the keys he held in my direction.
“Honey, you’ve got to drive something, and I’m not sure it’s worth fixing the Thunderbird and shipping it back.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So here’s your new ride.”
“I love it, Dad. Thank you.”
Dad put his arm on my shoulder and showed the truck to me. “It has room for you to carry flowers, dirt, groceries, and whatever else you may want to.”
“Even kids.” I laughed and poked Dad’s chest as I checked out the roomy backseat.
“Yes.” Dad blushed and then mumbled, “Even kids, of course.”
“No kids yet.” Peter scratched the back of his neck. “We are not ready.”
Where did that come from?
“Well, thank you, Dad.” I wrapped my arms around him. “It’s perfect.” I looked into his eyes before reaching out to hug Mom.
Glad I got back on the pill fast.
The next day, I stood on the edge of the porch for a moment to enjoy the sight of my wedding before becoming part of it.
No, we weren’t at a church. But there was a refined elegance to our romantic wedding. Farm tables with vintage china and linen napkins created a rustic charm. Light orange hyacinth, blush peonies, and cream English roses decorated every table, the wide aisle, the altar, and the arch.
We each had about fifteen guests. No wedding party. I didn’t have close friends, and Peter didn’t have parents present. Our guests were seated in short rows of cross-back style chairs decorated with blush and cream tulle sashes. Most people knew each other well and were engaged in lively conversation.
The string quartet, four elegant ladies in blush dresses who sat to the left of the altar, ended the prelude and began playing the last movement of Bach’s Cantata 147.
Dad walked my way, all talk ended, and all heads turned. My family and our guests stood.
Everyone looked at me in my sweetheart tea-length wedding dress, and dozens of smiles warmed me and encouraged me. I’d put on three pounds since I’d quit dancing, but I didn’t feel guilty. I felt beautiful and womanly. I’d wanted a new life—a different one. Well, here it is. New life, here I come.
As I came down the back porch steps, the full, ivory skirt of my satin gown danced to the perfumed cool breeze, and looking at Peter, my heart danced too.
The physical distance between us reminded me of the day I’d come back to the ranch—the day I’d spotted him from the boat and wondered if it was really him. Thank you for letting me come back. Thank you for letting me stay.
Dad reached for my hand. “You look so beautiful.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“Shall we?” He offered his arm.
As we walked, I could almost hear the piercing voice of the Celtic Woman ladies I’d seen on YouTube before going to sleep. I’d wanted to know what “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” was all about before walking down the aisle to it.
The lyrics of the English version are beautiful, but I’d struggled to identify a unifying theme. A close-to-literal translation of the original German poem didn’t correspond to the common English version, but even though the text was choppy, the theme was clear and touched my heart: a close friendship with Jesus. A friendship that was simple, constant, and familiar.
Fifty feet of fine-bladed zoysia grass was all that separated me from Peter and my happily-ever-after. Jesus, I want what that poet had—has—or however it works. I know it’s not a bunch of coincidences. I know it’s not just in my mind. Once things slow down, we’ll find a church.
I acknowledged Mom with a warm smile and a nod before taking the final steps toward Peter.
Help us, Jesus. Bless our marriage.
Peter stood, displaying the usual boyish grin, but there was a peculiar satisfaction in his face and a security to his stance. He looked stable—almost as if planted on the ground, like a centennial tree.
He’d looked somber the night before, and I’d worried, but his wedding-day quiet happiness assured me and made me happy too. Whatever it was that had bothered him in the hours leading up to the wedding seemed to be behind us.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
“Her mother and I do.” Dad kissed my cheek and sat next to Mom.
I took Peter’s hand. He looked fantastic in a three-piece beige suit, ivory shirt, and beige tie. The lighter ensemble softened his midnight blue eyes to a lighter shade. His wavy brown hair was combed back, and he wore a citrus fragrance that was also light and lovely.
“Hi,” he whispered when he stood by my side.
“Hi,” I whispered back, resting my hand on his strong arm. I am the luckiest girl in the world. In just a few more minutes, I will be Mrs. Peter Engberg. Mrs. Engberg. Ana Engberg. Oh, how I love the sound of it. Engberg. Engberg. Engberg. The search is over. The hurt is over. This is it. This is the best day of my life.
“Do you, Ana, take this man, Peter, to be your husband, according to God’s holy decree; do you promise to be to him a loving and loyal wife, to cherish and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, to be faithful only to him as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
Twenty-four hours later we were bundled in a rowboat, floating on San Francisco’s Stow Lake.
“I’ve never seen so many ducks in one place before.” I tossed my last bread crumbs in the sparkly green water. “Look at those right there,” I said, pointing at a group of red-eyed ducks with shiny green and purple feathers that were separated by white stripes. “What are they?”
Peter, who’d been looking intently at the greenery on the shore, scanned the water. “Wood ducks. They’re probably passersby, flying south for the winter.”
“Maybe these will follow us to Georgia.” My heart warmed to the idea.
“Probably not.” He reached out to touch my cheek. “We’re in the Pacific Flyway here, and in Georgia we are in the Atlantic Flyway.”
“What? They have highways for birds?”
“Kind of. It’s what they do.�
� He shrugged. “They stick to a pattern.”
“Can’t they pick a back road and end up in Georgia? Just for the fun of it?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “I’m no bird expert, but I don’t think so.”
“Let me guess—that’s the female version?” I pointed at two gray-brown ducks with white teardrop shaped patches surrounding their dark eyes.
Peter nodded. “Soon they’ll pair up. You can see them at Callaway sometimes. Then in the spring, they return home paired and ready to breed, which may be why the wood duck is the only North American duck that produces two broods every year.” He shrugged. “Bird trivia.”
“It’s cool.” Frankly, all the talk about pairing and mating and breeding had me thinking about what Peter had told my dad when I’d gotten my new truck.
“I won’t bore you with any more of it.”
“You’re not boring me, I promise.” I reached out and touched his hand. “But I am curious about why you told my dad we’re not ready for kids.”
He laughed and clapped his hands together. “How did you go from ducks to babies?”
“You were talking about breeding grounds and broods.”
“Alright, mama duck.” Peter chuckled and nodded. He patted the spot next to his, and he held my hand as I moved carefully to sit by his side.
“Can you give me a year or two?” He drew circles on the palm of my hand.
“Sure…” Resting my head on his chest, I breathed him in. “But why wait?”
“I just don’t want to rush into it. I feel like a bit of a kid myself.”
This is probably not a good time to mention that he’s in his thirties and has been in his thirties for a while. “But you do want kids?”
“Yes.” His lips touched the top of my head as he played with a long strand of my brown hair. “Just not right now.”
Nothing wrong with waiting, I guess.
My eyes turned to three turtles sunning on a log, and I remembered the ones from the little lake in Germany. So much about Stow Lake reminded me of the Warmer Damm Park in front of the Hessisches Staatstheater in Wiesbaden.
“What should we do tonight?” Peter’s voice got me back to the present and to the boat.
“Fisherman’s Wharf? Dinner at Alioto’s?”
“Let’s do it.” He put his arms around me. “We can ride the cable car there.”
“Hanging off the running boards, Doris Day-style?” I planted a tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth.
“Why not?” We both chuckled. “Come here and give me a proper kiss.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he tapped his lips.
A proper kiss? I sat on his lap carefully and put my arms around him, my lips teasing his until he groaned and gathered me against him. Losing myself in his masculine scent and protective warmth, I was transported to a place in my heart I hadn’t been to in a while, the place where dreams take shape and grow. I could do this forever. I had a new dream. He tightened his embrace as autumn leaves danced to the music of a steady breeze. I moaned against his lips, holding on to him with fisted hands. I want to love you like I do right now forever.
When we walked out of the boathouse, Peter shrugged.
“What?” Had my kiss not been proper or the time on the lake not fun?
He looked at me, puzzled.
“You shrugged.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did too.”
He shook his head and held my hand as we walked in the direction of the hotel.
After almost two weeks in northern California, we returned to the ranch with great memories of Fisherman’s Wharf and Stow Lake, a love for Sausalito, and ten small sequoias from a nursery near Muir Woods. Peter insisted we could get coastal redwoods to thrive in the South, so we brought them home and planted nine near the existing tree line at our lake and one at the azalea bowl at Callaway.
Married life suited me well, and as fall turned into winter, I hardly ever thought about Claus, Germany, the Met, or any other aspect of a life I didn’t have. I was perfectly content with the one I had.
Peter spent his days working at the park, and I visited often. I’d also found a surprisingly good ballet school in LaGrange and went there three times a week— mostly just for fun, but also in hopes of dropping a couple of the pounds I’d gained since coming home.
In November, I helped Mom clear the dying spring and summer blossoms from her garden, and we planted some hardy bushes to serve as background for the flowers she would plant in future seasons.
She chose yellow delight pansies and crown scarlet viola pansies, both of which added beautiful color and life to her gray house.
Neighbors who saw us working asked for advice, and I offered to help. By Christmas, I had landscaped fourteen houses in Mom’s neighborhood, and everyone was asking me to help in the spring months too.
We didn’t need the money, but I enjoyed the work, so I spent the second part of the winter researching gardening magazines and looking through Peter’s school books to get ideas for the warm months.
On a Friday night in late February, Peter and I were home watching Nights in Rodanthe when my breasts felt suddenly and uniquely heavy. This is a first… As I crossed my arms in front of me, I remembered two missed pills in late December.
It can’t be. I only missed two. It could take six months or more for a woman to get pregnant after being on the pill for a long time like I had been. I’d only taken a two-month break toward the end of my time in Germany. I should be okay.
But what if?
I looked at Peter. He’d brought home the movie, fresh red roses, and a crisp North Georgia wine he was able to get from the executive chef of the main restaurant at the park. He loves me. Certainly, he would be happy if I turned up pregnant, right? An unplanned pregnancy, too soon for him, but still a happy event, right? More than once, I’d caught him teary-eyed as he watched dads and children playing at Callaway. I know he likes kids.
And then I panicked. Claus. No, it can’t be his. I went back on the pill soon after Peter and I got back together. When was the last time I was with Claus? Early September? No. Mid-September. I did the math. Mid-October, mid-November, mid- December, mid-January, mid-February. Impossible. I would be five months along.
I’d gained almost seven pounds and had to buy new pants, but the weight gain was probably from dancing very little, cooking rich foods every night, and eating lunch at Mom’s almost every day. I can’t be five months pregnant. I haven’t even missed a period—not one.
I looked at Peter. I’m not five months pregnant. He caught my glance and winked, his expression gentle. It’s Peter’s and it’s recent.
If it’s anything at all.
It has to be Peter’s.
The next day the discomfort was gone, but by the end of February, I’d gained another pound and missed a period.
“Enough with the wondering,” I mumbled on the morning I flipped the calendar to March.
When Peter went to work, I went to the store and got a test.
Back at the house, I fumbled with the packaging and read the instructions. Can’t be that complicated. Let’s do this already. Even though telling Peter would be hard, I hoped the result would be positive. He would probably be mad at first but then warm up to the idea. That’s if I’m pregnant.
Before I had a chance to put the test on the cold counter, the result was already obvious. The two pink lines that would change our lives materialized right in front of my eyes, in my hands, as I put the cover back on the tip of the test. Maybe if I waited the prescribed three minutes the result would change. I put the test on the vanity and waited. I don’t think it can change.
Three minutes went by. No change.
This is it. It’s positive. “Wow,” I whispered. “I’m going to be a mommy. Wow.” A smile grew on my lips, and I spun from room to room, humming “The Sleeping Beauty Waltz.”
“Pa-ra-ra-rarararara-rara-rara. Pa—”
“So that’s what you do when I’m not around,” Pe
ter said, smiling by the front door.
I stopped and giggled. “What are you doing at home?”
“Just picking up a tray from the greenhouse.” He placed the mail and his keys on the china cabinet and approached me.
Might as well tell him. “I have some big news,” I said, fidgeting. “Wanna know?”
“Hmm … I don’t know.”
I cocked my head.
He chuckled. “Of course I want to know. What is it?”
“It’s not exactly how we’d planned it—I know—but it just happened…”
“What just happened?”
“You’re going to be a daddy.”
“Oh, no. Please … no.” He groaned and ran out the back door.
What in the world? I opened the door and ran after him.
He stopped by the swing.
I caught up and placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
“Please don’t touch me right now.”
“Okay.” I moved back.
“What happened, Ana?” His eyes riveted on the lake. “I thought you were on the pill.”
“I am. I started soon after we got back together.”
“Then what happened?” He faced me this time. “How can you be pregnant?”
“I don’t know. I got back on the pill two or three days after we got back together, so there were those first few days, but I would have to be really far along, and I doubt I am.” Please don’t ask about Claus. “My bet is New Year’s—I missed a couple of pills around New Year’s.” I cringed. “I’m sorry.”
“Ana, how come you didn’t tell me? We could have used protection.”
“I’m sorry.” Why is this such a big deal? I don’t get it. “We were getting married, and then we were married. I know we’d agreed to wait, but it just happened. I didn’t plan to get pregnant. Promise.”
He shook his head. “We talked about this. I told you I wasn’t ready.” He had his eyes fixed on the lake again.
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