“No.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I thought I’d be doing this over dinner. Or in the moonlight. Hire a flash mob or an airplane banner or something. But...”
My heart trembled. “We have a lot of history with this boat,” I said. When I was twelve, Trey and Jo had taken the boat out together. I had tried to follow, with disastrous results. “You saved my life.”
“You changed mine. Amy...”
I stopped him, taking my fate and my oar in my own hands. “What did you mean, differently?”
“What?”
“You said you loved me differently than Jo.”
“Well, yeah. Because I do.”
Right. I closed my eyes, willing the pain away.
“Because I loved her the way a boy loves a girl. But you... I love you the way a man loves a woman. Amy, look at me. Please.” I did. He watched me anxiously, everything I ever wanted to see in his dark eyes. His heart. Our future. “I love you. Will you marry me?”
The moment hung suspended, floating between the blue sky and the bright river. The sound of children’s screams and laughter drifted down the bank. Life wasn’t perfect. But there were moments like this one that felt perfect, shimmering with happiness, shining and transient as reflections on the water.
My heart overflowed.
“Yes,” I said.
EPILOGUE
Abby
Too many cooks spoil the soup, my mother used to say.
But not today, I thought. Not on Thanksgiving, with my family all gathered together at Oak Hill.
The restaurant was closed for the season, but Eric had been in the kitchen since early morning. I’d baked pies—pumpkin, apple, and chocolate pecan. Meg brought mac and cheese. “Not from a box,” she said smugly. “I used Jo’s recipe from last year.” Even Phee contributed her hummingbird cake.
“And what did you make, missy?” she asked Jo.
“Green bean casserole,” Jo said.
“With the crispy onions?” Alec asked hopefully.
She grinned. “Absolutely.”
Bryan glanced over from the football game he was watching with John. “I love crispy onions.” His attention darted back to the TV. “Come on. Just throw the ball!”
“It’s all about clock management,” John said in his coach voice.
This past Sunday, Jo and Eric had made the three-hour drive toWinston-Salem—Alec practicing his highway skills behind the wheel—to watch Bryan’s last soccer game of the season and bring him home for the holiday. Maryland was knocked out in the second round of the tournament, but beyond grousing to John (“I hate losing to a North Carolina school”), Bryan seemed to be recovering from his team’s disappointment.
Amy and Trey arrived in a flurry of hugs and hellos, bearing wine and a harvest centerpiece. Part of me missed the pinecone turkeys she’d made in second grade that always sat on the Thanksgiving table at the farmhouse. But the flowers were lovely. I admired her arrangement and accepted a glass of wine from Trey.
He poured wine for Phee and Meg. “Dan?”
Dan was sitting apart with Patches on his knee. Daisy perched beside them, chattering nonstop. He smiled briefly. “I’m good, thanks.”
My motherless boys.
“I’ll take a beer,” Alec said.
Jo smacked him lightly. “In your dreams.”
