And then he was beside her, matching her stroke for stroke, examining the blue sky above them and the few fluffy clouds, as she was doing. She remembered his teaching her to swim when she was five years old and terrified of water. He had taught her how to put her head under andhow to open her eyes—and then he had taught her all therest. He had been nine years old—totally dependable, totally adult.
“You wretch,” she said when they were standing again in water that reached almost to her shoulders. “John, thatwas a dreadful thing to do.” But she was putting her armsup about his shoulders and leaning her body against his andlifting her face for his kiss.
“John, you wretch,” she whispered again, shocked, after a minute or so when she felt his hands hoisting her shift toher waist. He lifted her in the water, parting her legs towrap about him. He was inside her with one firm thrust.
It took very little time. The mix of buoyancy and cool water and heat at their core was delirious. It seemed thatthe lessons would never end. There was always somethingnew.
He floated onto his back when they were finished, and she swam beside him in a lazy crawl.
“You are going to be tired,” she could not resist saying.
“No future tense about it,” he admitted, smiling lazily at her. “Shall we go back to the towels?”
“Yes,” she said. “We can lie there drying off in the sun and you can tell me your story.”
They walked hand in hand up the beach. She knew he was tired. But it was the tiredness of healthy exertion. Afterhe had told his story, she would let him sleep and she wouldstay awake to make sure that they did not bake too muchin the sun.
He had decided to tell her his story. There should be no secrets in marriage, he thought, except perhaps details ofone’s past that could only hurt. She should know that theJohn who had recovered from consumption and consummated their marriage and lived with her ever since was notquite the same John she had loved all her life and married.
Perhaps she would not believe him. But he thought she probably would. She loved him and trusted him enough toknow when he spoke truth to her.
Their flesh had chilled in the walk up the beach. They toweled off briskly and then he spread the dry towel on thesand so that they could lie down and relax after their swimand their lovemaking and be warmed by the sun. He heldher hand in his, turning her ring between his thumb andforefinger. Life was very good, he thought, and had beenvery kind to them.
“John,” she said, “don’t fall asleep yet. You have a story to tell me.”
“And so I do.” He turned his head to smile at her.
“Well?” she said after he had been silent for a few moments.
He had had a story to tell her. Something important. Something he had felt she had a right to know. He frowned.His mind was a blank. “I cannot remember,” he said.
“Don’t tease.” She shook his hand. “Tell me. It had something to do with the miracle that has happened toyou.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. Yes. It explained the how, he had told her earlier, but not the why. He knew the why.But what on earth was the how? “I—It has gone. It couldnot have been very important if it has gone, could it?”
She was gazing at him, her head turned to one side. “How did it happen, John?” she said. “You hadconsumption. In its final stages. You were coughing blood. Itwasa miracle. Nothing else could have saved you. Howdid it happen?”
How? He knew how it had happened. He concentrated hard and had fleeting images of her ring in a velvet pouchand of his being afraid to touch it; of a red horseless carriage; of a blond woman. Disjointed, meaningless imagesthat would not form themselves into any graspable thought.And then he knew again. Of course. He looked at her insome relief.
“I have remembered now,” he said. “It is this place, Adèle. When you were kind enough to marry me, to sAdèleyourself with a dying man, I had just one thought in mymind. I had to come here with you. It was madness. I hadno strength left. I had only a few weeks left at most. But Iknew that I had to come here. That if I brought you herethe miracle would happen. I knew it. I had to come herewith you as my wife and you had to be wearing the familybetrothal ring. I swear I knew it. It is this place, you see.”
Her eyes had filled with tears. Two of them spilled over and ran diagonally across her cheeks as he watched. “Iknew it too,” she whispered. “I thought you would die onthe journey, John. You were so very weak, so very ill. ButI knew that if I could only get you here to Cartref all wouldbe well.”
“The world would think us mad if we offered this as an explanation,” he said.
“The world may think what it will,” she said.
“Adèle.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the ring. “I know that for many years I was too busy to loveyou as you deserved to be loved. I had to be near death tounderstand how far more precious than anyone or anythingelse in my life you are. Will you stay here with me for the rest of our lives? Will you work with me here in this neighborhood? There is much we can do. There is a lighthouse to build, for one. Will you have our children here and bringthem up with me here?”
Her eyes were soft and huge with wistfulness and love. “You will miss England,” she said. “And London. Youwere always restless.”
“No longer,” he said. “I am where I belong and where I want to be—for the rest of my life. Why leave heavenmerely to go back to earth?”
He saw final surrender in her eyes then to faith and trust and love. She finally believed in him. It was the greatestgift she could have given him. Though he almost changedhis mind a few moments later.
“John,” she said softly. “About those children. I think—I am not quite sure, but I think I am with child.”
For all the heat of the sun beating down on their bodies then, he took her into his arms and held her close. He kepthis eyes tight shut. He did not know how the miracle hadhappened or why. But it had happened. He had been giventhe gift of a new life and he was going to give back thegift of love for the rest of his life. Every day of it.
