She smiled too brightly. “Then all the more reason for a woman’s input. I can promise you, an additional feminine perspective never hurts.” Turning to my mother, she added with practiced sweetness, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
My mother eyed me over the rim of her glasses, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “That depends entirely on what sort of matter it is,” she said, a glint of mischief in her tone. “Do you want Anne to stay, darling?”
I got the distinct sense she was enjoying herself, indulging in the sport of watching me squirm.
Turning to my mother, I said firmly, “I’m planning a proposal, and I’d prefer to keep the details between us.”
The effect on Anne was immediate.
She went still, her smile cracking for a heartbeat before she reassembled it, brighter and more brittle than before. “Well, as a young lady myself, perhaps I could offer some insight—what women might appreciate in such a moment.”
“That’s very generous, darling, but I think this is best left to family.” My mother’s tone was laced with authority that Anne didn’t dare to challenge. “After all, this is one conversation I think a mother’s earned the right to keep to herself. At least for now.”
Anne’s smile faltered—barely, but enough to expose a thin crack in the varnish. “Of course,” she said, collecting her papers. “I’ll have the revised list on your desk tomorrow.”
She gathered her things with brittle composure. As she passed me, she paused just long enough to lean close. “You’re making a mistake.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
My mother removed her glasses and set them down delicately on the desk. Her mouth curved, half-smile, half-reproof. “You do pick your moments, darling” she remarked.
I met her gaze and saw the knowing there—the kind that had always unsettled me.
She crossed to the window and unlatched it, a wash of soft spring air pushing in as she angled the pane wider.
“Honestly,” she murmured, fanning the sill with one hand, “Anne always lays it on too thick with the perfume.”
She returned to her chair, a smile warming her face in a way that never failed to disarm donors, and tilted her head at me. “So….this ‘proposal’ revelation. Do you have ideas, or was that only to make poor Anne combust?”
When I hesitated for a second too long my mother asked, “Since when does my son look bashful?”
“I want it to be perfect for her,” I confessed, and the words came easier once I let them start. “Something she’ll never forget. Not a spectacle that would overwhelm her, but something private, beautiful, unforgettable… Ours.”
Her expression softened. “I knew she’d changed you. I just didn’t realise she’d made you a romantic.”
I chuckled under my breath. “You say that like it’s a weakness.”
“No,” she replied, a little laugh in her voice, “like it’s a miracle.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The quiet stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt…honest, in a way that we rarely were. I took the opening.
I leaned forward, forearms on my knees, and let the first idea unfurl.
“I was thinking about the Conservatory Garden. We close the gates after dusk, have Parks reopen for us. Lights hidden along the hedges—nothing theatrical, just a path that glows. A small ensemble tucked out of sight. She walks through the flowering arch and I’m by the fountain, timed to that hour when the city goes quiet and the air smells like new leaves.”
The scene bloomed in my mind so completely that I had to blink to come back to the room. It was ridiculous, how much I wanted it—to build something that beautiful just to see her face when she found it. For a second, I was almost light-headed with wanting it to be real.
“You’d rent out half of Central Park to ask a single question?”
“If it means she remembers it every spring for the rest of her life, yes,” I told her without hesitation.
She laughed, touched in spite of herself. “You sound like your father when he first met me—impossible, expensive, andsincere.” She tapped a finger against her notebook. “We’ll need a donation large enough to make bureaucracy sprint. Think of her shoes! Grass and silk are enemies.”
“I’ll lay a temporary walkway,” I said. “Stone if they’ll allow it, raised panels if they won’t.”
“Of course you will.” She smiled. “Go on.”
“The Chrysler,” I said, and I heard my voice lift. “The top. No one else. We clear whatever floor they’ll give me under the spire, polish the glass, warm the light to gold, shelter candles inside the arches so they don’t fight the wind. She wears that dress she loves and the ring reflects the city back at her.”
