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Grace
As countless men have done in countless movies and in life, he took a ring from a small black velvet box. He held it out to me in his hand. I suspect he had no idea what I would do. Neither did I.
"What is this?" I asked.
"An engagement ring," he answered softly, matter-of-factly.
That first instant, I looked around. I couldn't help it. Old habits die hard. Many means were at hand. My steak knife. The water glass, which I could break against the side of the table. The bottle of wine—over the head or, broken, against his throat. The skewer that waiter over there was using to prepare something flambé. Hell, the gun nestled against my lower back, the one he had given me for protection.
"What is this?" I asked, pointing at the stone.
"That is a ruby."
"What is that supposed to stand for? Blood spilled?"
"No," he said. "Passion. Taking a chance. Maybe a small reference to my past… And yours," he added quietly.
"I don't rate a diamond?"
"Diamonds are too cold for you."
I could have wept.
"What if you change your mind?" I asked him.
"I am not going to change my mind," he said firmly.
"Everybody says that. I just have to believe you?"
"Yes" is what he said. The word was a small one. But it meant I could leave if I wanted to. And if he left, it would hurt. It would really hurt. If he left. That pain would be so unbearable. If I say no now, will I have to kill him to spare him that pain? I wondered. How do people live with that pain? How would I?
"I trust you," he whispered, his face near mine.
I stopped thinking about ways I could kill him. He already knew that, in more ways than one, his life was on the line.. And he didn't mind. He thought it was worth the risk. He has something I never had—crazy as it sounds (and as he is): faith.
The whole thing was incredibly romantic.
54
Sam
Writing this was an exercise, one not without benefit. Based on some intensive reading on the subject—which began at a hair salon (where my intended had idly picked up an old copy of a woman's magazine) and continued on the Nexis database—Grace had insisted we participate in the latest innovation in couples therapy for, as she put it, the maritally inclined. All the best research suggested that we should note on paper our reasons for wanting to get married, along with any ideas we had as to what impediments we might face, now or in the future.
The writing was for each of us alone, never to be read by another living soul. It would be difficult to argue with the proposition that understanding one's motivations as best one can before taking the big step helps give a marriage an unusually firm foundation. We both want that.
Grace has not told me what she plans to do with her essay; I have no voice in the matter. I suspect she will keep it with her, to look at sometime in the future. I shall burn mine. I have never been one for holding on to evidence.
Though I had never dared to think in these terms before, it is with a great deal of optimism that I envision the future. And Grace— well, she finally has a present.
55
Grace—Twelve Months Later
I've been rereading this, posthoneymoon, still newly wed. It's astounding the chance we took with each other. And yes, we're quite happy. Actually happy, if you can imagine that. I understand now. Like all the big things—life, death, health, relatives—it isn't anything you deserve. It just happens sometimes.
We're planning to move out to the country soon, probably the Southwest. Wide-open spaces mean freedom. And you can see people coming before they see you. Though we will keep Sam's place in the city, of course.
And we're thinking about children. Maybe two. A boy and a girl. That would be nice.