“But on my first day at Oregon State, a tall, skinny boy sat down next to me in freshman English. He had a really goofy grin,” I said, smiling. “And he wouldn’t stop looking at me, but I refused to look back. Every day for the next two weeks, he took the seat next to mine, even after I moved to another row. He asked me out twice. Both times, I said no, pretty forcefully.
“But he didn’t give up. I didn’t know until later, but he figured out who my roommate was, waited for her outside the library and talked to her, trying to find out everything he could about me. After that, he changed his tactics.
“He didn’t sit next to me anymore. But when my roommate told him my car wouldn’t start and I was upset because I wanted to go home for the weekend, he replaced my alternator. When I got a terrible case of the flu and couldn’t come to class, he took notes and gave them to my roommate to give to me. And not just for my English class, but all my classes. He actually sat in on my classes, courses he wasn’t even enrolled in, and took notes for me.
“It went on like that for three months. Every time I needed help, sometimes even before I knew I needed it, Jim Wilja was there. He didn’t tell me he loved me,” I said. “He showed me. And then he waited for me to figure it out. He waited for me to come to him.
“One day in December, I did. I sat down next to him in English class. When class was over, I asked if he wanted to go to the Christmas concert with me that night. He said yes, and that was that. Three weeks after graduation, we were married.”
My eyes had been fixed forward, looking straight ahead. Luke walked alongside me, silent as the dogs the whole time I was talking. Now I turned to look at him.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. “Be there for her. Be her friend.”
“And then?”
I shrugged. “And then who knows? Maybe she’ll fall in love with you. Maybe she won’t. But one thing I do know: Being in love with your best friend is the best thing that can ever happen to a person.”
Chapter 27
Grace
At the end of my redecorating project, every freshly painted room in my home was pristine and tidy, every surface free of clutter, every corner and counter a pleasure to look at, adorned with a carefully chosen and placed collection of accessories and artwork, like something out of a magazine. It was beautiful.
And after I finished discussing my business proposal with the very groggy Monica, it stayed that way for—let me see—about ten minutes.
Three days later, the place was an absolute wreck. My beautiful blue sofa was invisible under piles of fabric; the fruit bowl and cute counter accessories had been unceremoniously shoved aside to make room for my cutting mat, scissors, pins, and patterns; and the floor was so littered with stray thread that it looked like somebody had thrown a ticker tape parade in the living room.
I’d been sewing pretty much nonstop since getting off the phone with Monica, sleeping and eating only when I had to, not leaving the house except to walk Maisie. I was tired but still energized, thinking about how amazing it would be if I really could make this work. I’d already finished seven dresses and three skirts, each one a little more quickly than the one before, but there was still a lot to do. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I heard the doorbell ring—I didn’t have time for interruptions—and even less so after I opened the door.
“Oh. Luke. Hi.”
“Hi. I don’t want to disturb you. Just thought I’d drop by and say hello. I had some errands to run on this side of town,” he said, smiling and gesturing toward his white panel delivery truck, which was parked at the curb.
“Oh, well. That was nice of you.”
I stood there for a second, feeling awkward, wishing I hadn’t answered the door, wishing he’d go away. But then that Midwestern politeness that is woven into my DNA kicked in and I asked if he wanted to come in for a minute.
“Can’t. Thanks anyway,” he said. I tried not to look relieved. “But can you come out to the truck for a second? I’d like your opinion on something.”
I couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have in his truck that would require my approval, but how could I say no? After a moment of hesitation, I followed him to the curb and stood on the street while he rolled up the truck’s metal door.
“Well? What do you think?” he asked, waving his hand toward the compact but handsome farmhouse table standing in the middle of the truck bed, its light-honey finish fresh and gleaming.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said sincerely. “Who’s it for?”
“Well, that kind of depends. I won’t know for sure until I get your opinion.”
He hopped up into the truck, then turned around and reached out his hand to help me up. I grabbed it and climbed inside.
“Is it new?” I asked, walking around the table, admiring the pristine finish, the richly etched grain of the wood that shone through it.
“Yes and no. When I moved into my house, I found it in the garage. It’s good, solid oak, but there were about three different colors of paint on it. I stripped the paint, sanded the top, and refinished it. Do you like the color? I kept it nearly natural. I always think it’s nice to let the grain show through on old pieces like this.”
“Me too,” I said, running my hand over the tabletop. “So smooth. But it’s tall for a dining table, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I put on new legs to make it counter height
