“When you look back on our marriage,” he said, keeping his arm firmly around her shoulders so her revolution ended facing him. “What do you remember most? What is the memory that flashes into your mind?”
She considered the question for a long time, appreciating it, and wanting to give it an honest answer.
“There are snapshots,” she finally said, sliding an arm around him so they could walk around the crossing. “Not like thephoto album, but more real life. The moment you said ‘I do,’ and the look on your face when they put Nic in your arms.”
He smiled, squeezing his eyes as though that got him.
“I remember you coming in from working on the property, looking a lot like”—she eased back and brushed his jacket—“this. Rugged and outdoorsy and strong and…” She didn’t finish but laughed.
“Say it,” he teased.
“Sexy.”
He chuckled, liking that. “What else?” he asked, obviously enjoying the answers.
“I remember I used to wake up in the middle of the night.” She slowed her step and came to a stop, knowing she was about to confess something she’d never told him, but wanted him to know. “Next to you, of course. You sleep on your back, and I could see your profile in the darkness of our bedroom, your chest rising and falling. I could hear your breath and feel your warmth, our toes touching under the blanket.”
She saw him swallow as he looked down at her, silent, listening, remembering.
“That’s when I loved you most,” she whispered. “Those moments in the middle of the night. I felt so safe and secure, so protected and loved. I was often overwhelmed by how much I loved you. I would kiss your shoulder. I’d just lean over and press my lips right here…” She touched the front of his shoulder. “And I would mouth the words, ‘I love you,’ over and over.”
He let out a soft whimper and closed his eyes. “I slept through that kind of love?”
“It was my secret.”
Without answering, he slid both arms around her, pulling her into his chest, looking down at her. “When I think about us, all my senses get involved.”
She frowned, searching his face, not following.
“I hear you laughing with MJ in the kitchen, and that was like music to me. I can smell the baby shampoo on your hands after you’d bathed Nic and came to cuddle on the couch with me. I see you rushing to the door to greet me after a trip…” He flinched. “There were way too many trips, Cin.”
She felt her shoulders sink. “And now you’ve hit the bad stuff.”
For a long, long time, he looked at her. His gaze was soft, but not the look of a man about to kiss her. This was something else entirely.
“I know you’ve forgiven me,” he said. “We’ve talked about that, and I know it. But I want to tell you something you need to believe.”
She inched back, the sheer force of his words hitting her. “Yes?”
“I never really stopped loving you, Cindy.” His voice was gruff, and low, and so genuine. “I loved you pretty much from the day we were here and kissed thirty-plus years ago, to right this minute and all the ones in between. I’ve never loved anyone else, and I don’t think I will.”
“Oh, Jack.” She heard her voice crack. “That’s…”Dizzying, she thought as she darn near swayed in his arms. “Wow.”
He tightened his grip. “I know it’s been ten years. I know we hurt each other. But I also know that marrying you was the best thing I ever did and losing you was the worst.”
Her eyes stung.
“I’m not asking for a miracle,” Jack continued. “But is there any possibility, any at all in heaven or hell, that we could try again?”
She felt the whole world tilt sideways as her next breath caught in her chest. “Are you serious?” she asked on a ragged whisper.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I am.”
She inched back, pressing her hands to her chest, staring up at him. “Jack…” Of course she wanted to say yes. She wanted to melt into this moment, under the spell of the mountain and the man she’d first kissed in this spot.
It would be so easy. So exciting. Like having a past and a future again, instead of feeling stuck in a slightly dreary present. Like living in color, hearing music, or tasting cake, or…giving in to temptation for something that could hurt her again.
She dug for common sense and a different memory—the ease with which he’d walked away, the look of resignation when she told him it was over, the dozens and dozens of times he chose skiing and work and travel andsomethingelseover her.
