Part 36 (1/2)
”I know it sounds silly, but I thought it would make the decision to get engaged easier. You know, like weighing the pluses and minuses of a situation? Anyway, what I realized is that listing things like confidence and reliability is all well and good, but what truly matters is that we love and trust each other, enjoy being together, and agree on the important things in life. We do agree on the important things in life, right?”
Marco pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. ”I think we do.”
”I do, too. I mean, we both believe in justice, honesty, and solid values. We both have strong morals and close family ties. We're hard workers, know how to save money-”
”And want to have a family of our own,” Marco supplied.
”Not a big family, though.”
”Two?”
”Two. Someday.”
”In the not-too-distant future.”
”We'll need to discuss that further . . . along with the long hours you put in on your various jobs. But that's what's great about our relations.h.i.+p. We can discuss these things.”
Marco eyed me warily. ”Are you going to start another list?”
”Maybe I should.”
”You actually wrote down my pluses and minuses?”
I shrugged. ”Like I said, I thought it would help me decide.”
”Did it?”
”Well, yes.”
”And?”
”And what was my decision?”
”Yep.”
”My decision was yes.”
”So that's your answer, then?”
”To what?”
We were standing alongside my yellow Corvette in the cold, in the dark, in the snow. Marco reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet box.
”To this.” He opened the box, displaying a diamond ring inside.
I stopped breathing.
He took the ring out of the box. ”Will you marry me, Abby?”
Oh, the thoughts that raced through my mind as I stared at the sparkling token of commitment: children, my family, Marco's family, our careers, money, wedding plans, change!
Okay, Abracadabra. What will it be? Say yes or pull up that protective s.h.i.+eld?
My eyes filled with tears as my gaze s.h.i.+fted from the glittering diamond to the face of the man I loved. Was there even a doubt?
I nodded, smiling through my tears. ”Yes, Salvare. I will.”
Don't miss the next delightful.
Flower Shop Mystery,
Dirty Rotten Tendrils.
Available in October 2010 from Obsidian.
Monday.
My destination that morning was Bloomers, my cozy flower shop located across the street from New Chapel, Indiana's, stately limestone courthouse. I was taking a circuitous route to get there, however, because, strangely enough, the public lot where I usually parked was full. So I'd left my refurbished and much-beloved 1960 yellow Corvette under a shady maple tree across from the YMCA and started off for a leisurely stroll around the square, soaking in the suns.h.i.+ne of the brilliant early-spring day.
I love my small town. In New Chapel, unlike big cities, you won't experience heavy traffic snarls, clouds of toxic exhaust fumes, or frustrated drivers honking horns at every tiny irritation. What's more, you can park in a public lot for about two dollars a day or, as in my case today, along any side street for free. Try to do that in downtown Chicago.
I sniffed the air to catch a whiff of the crocuses blooming in the old cement planters that rimmed the courthouse lawn. They'd be followed by daffodils and tulips, and then by Knock Out roses, all of which would suffer benign neglect by the parks department employees until the winter snows blanketed them once again.
Up ahead I saw Jingles, the ancient window washer, wielding his squeegee with extreme precision against a boutique's display gla.s.s. ”How's it going, Jingles?” I called.
”It's a different kind of morning, Miss Abby,” he said solemnly, then pulled the wet squeegee from the top of the pane to the bottom and dried it with his yellow rag.
Jingles wasn't normally given to deep thought, and for him, that comment qualified as one. ”It'll be fine, Jingles,” I called. ”We've got solid citizens in New Chapel. They're not going to go crazy because a local boy who took first place on a reality show is coming back to town.”
Jingles just kept wiping the gla.s.s. On the other side of the window, the shop's owner was setting out an array of tropic-bright purses and stylish spring jackets. She waved and smiled.
Another benefit of small-town life was the friendliness of the townsfolk. Also, the easy pace. You could amble down any sidewalk and not be bothered by rus.h.i.+ng commuters, jostling crowds, jackhammer drilling, or vendors shouting- ”Hey! Look out!”
A man in a cherry picker gestured frantically toward an old wooden sign dangling by one nail over the gift shop's doorway. With a gasp, I jumped back seconds before the sign broke from its tether and crashed onto the sidewalk in front of me, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
The shop owner, Mr. Hanley, who was about one hundred forty years old, called from the recessed doorway, ”Sorry, Abby. Gotta get my new signage up today, you know.”
His signage? He pointed to a s.h.i.+ny new sign leaning against the side of the store. Instead of HANLEY'S GIFTS, it now said YE OLDE GIFT SHOPPE.
”No harm done, Mr. Hanley.” I shook detritus from my hair, brushed off my navy peacoat, took a deep breath, and continued up Lincoln Avenue toward Franklin Street.