She spoke lightly. There was laughter in her voice. But he felt a twinge of something he had been ignoring eversince accepting her proposal a month before—yes, it reallyhad been that way around. They had known each other fora month before that. And ignore it he must. He supposedit was natural to feel qualms about taking such an enormousstep as marrying. To him it was an enormous step, eventhough his best friend had commented half seriously that,after all, marriage was not a life sentence these days as itused to be. If it did not work out, then they could bow outof it and try again some other time with other partners.
That was another thing he hated about modern living— its basic cynicism.
He loved Allison. Certainly he lusted after her. She was tall and blonde and sleek. She was poised and articulateand ambitious and successful. Of course there were differences between them. Many of them. It was natural. Theywould work through the differences if they wished theirmarriage to be a success. That was the challenge of marriage.
He turned to look at her. She was lying with her hands locked behind her head, her legs crossed at the ankles. Shewas looking at him and smiling.
“It was a funny party, wasn’t it?” he said, grinning. “An engagement party without a ring.” It had taken place at hisflat just the day before yesterday.
“Who needs a ring?” She shrugged her shoulders. “And everyone was told about the family heirloom. It will besomething to show when we return. Are you going to insuremy finger for a million pounds or so?”
“I think you are a little more valuable than the ring,”he said. “Why not insure all of you?”
“Gallant John.” She smiled at him. “Or mercenary John?” She opened her mouth to say more, hesitated, andthen spoke anyway. “Do we have to wait until this evening? I know you have arranged a special candlelit dinnerdownstairs. But do we have to wait?”
He had the ring in his wallet. He had driven to Reading yesterday and got it from his father. His mother had diedeight years ago. The ring was for his bride now. Not manyof the family wives during the past three centuries had hadthe ring in time for their engagements.
He had always had strange feelings about the ring. His mother had not worn it a great deal, as she had had anotherengagement ring—the family ring had not come to her untilfifteen years after her marriage. So he had not seen it muchhimself. Whenever he had, he had felt—how had he felt?It was almost impossible to put the feeling into words.Breathless? Nostalgic? Excited? Afraid? None of the fourwords, except perhaps the first, really described his feeling.
And the feeling had returned yesterday. He had thought perhaps it was the value of the ring and the knowledge thatnow it was in his keeping and that soon it would be onAllison’s finger. But it was not so much the monetary valuethat had affected him as the historic value. Though thatword was too cold, too clinical.
He had put it carefully in his wallet. He had checked and rechecked ever since to see that it was still there, eventhough the wallet had never left his person. But he had notunwrapped it or touched it. There was something abouttouching it—well, something that made him breathless. Hecould put it no more clearly than that. And he did not haveto. He had never tried to explain the feeling to anyone else.“No,” he said now, reaching for his wallet. “There isno reason to wait. And I would rather do it here in privatethan in the dining room where someone else might noticeand somehow intrude.”
“I have not even seen it,” she said, sitting up.
He took the velvet bag out of his wallet and the tissue paper out of the bag. He unwrapped it. He had not yettouched the ring with his bare hand. His father had wrappedit yesterday.
He sat down on the side of the bed and held out his palm to her. “You see?” he said. “It can be the something oldand the something blue for our wedding.”He had said thatbefore.Deja vu hit him like a hammer blow, catching himsomewhere low in his stomach. He must be very tired fromthe long drive.
It was a large sapphire in a heavy gold setting. His father had had it cleaned just last week and sized for Allison.
“Mm, very nice,” she said, warm appreciation in her voice.
Yet for some reason the words cut him.Very nice?
“Well?” She was laughing and holding out her left hand to him, the fingers spread. “Are you going to put it on meor am I going to have to do it myself?”
He did not want to touch it. It was absurd. And he knew now that two of those words about his feelings were correct—he was both breathless and afraid. But afraid of what?Afraid of dropping it? Of losing it? Of sharing his familyheritage and therefore himself with a stranger? Good Lord,Allison was not a stranger. She was his fiancee. They hadbeen together for two months. Intimately together.
He picked it up. It felt warm, as if it had been worn recently. The heat from his body had warmed it throughhis wallet and through its wrappings. He slipped the ringonto her finger.
“There.” He smiled at her. “The deed is done. You are mine, body and soul. I love you, Allie.”
“I love you too.” The tears that brightened her eyes were unexpected. She was not an overly emotional person. Passionate, yes, but not emotional. “I do, John. I know we do not see eye to eye on everything. You half meant it amoment ago when you suggested coming here to live forthe rest of our lives, didn’t you? And I would die of suchan existence. But we do love each other. We will make thiswork. Won’t we?”
Allison did not usually need reassurance. She was abounding in self-confidence. She sounded anxious now,endearingly so. Sometimes, treacherously, considering thefact that he was living through the 1990s, he wished shewere a little more dependent. But that was certainlysomething he would never utter aloud.
“Yes,” he said, releasing her hand in order to wrap his arms about her. “Of course we will. We will adjust to eachother’s needs. Because we love each other.”
He kissed her and lowered her back onto the bed. He followed her down until he was lying beside her, his mouthstill against hers. Surprisingly, though, he found that it wasnot desire they shared but tenderness. Passion would comelater, in the night. Now was the time for love—in the moments following their official engagement. He reached onehand down to hers, to take her ring between a thumb andforefinger and twist it.
He was not sure at what precise moment he felt the other ring. At first his fingers merely brushed against it. Thenthey moved curiously to it and felt its smoothness. It wasa plain band, like a wedding ring. He stretched his handout along hers, palm to palm. Hers seemed smaller thanusual. It was as if the ring had dwarfed it. Her lips had softened to exquisite gentleness. For the first time he noticed her perfume—subtle and unobtrusive, but unmistakably lavender.
The drive had tired him far more than he had thought. He doubted that he was going to be able to get up fordinner. He even doubted—alarming thought—that he wasgoing to be able to make love to her tonight. He was sotired he could hardly exert any pressure against her handand against her ring—her rings.
And then, before he opened his eyes, he realized something. He realized that it was not Allison he held inhis arms at all. It was another woman. And in fact it washe who was lying inherarms.
Perhaps the most disorienting realization of all, though, was thathe knew who she was.
