“And you look—”
“Like a complete idiot,” he said, looking down at his costume. “The sequins are one thing, but these tights?” He groaned. “There’s no one on earth I would do this for besides you, Grace. No question about it; I must be in love.”
At the far end of the garden, under the twinkling canopy of lights Luke had hung himself, the band began to play a waltz. Luke kissed me again.
“Let’s dance.”
He grabbed my hand and I ran alongside him down the path and across the grass, excited and already a little breathless, my heart hammering and my mind reeling.
He loves me?
Chapter 40
Grace
Let’s dance.
I was beginning to think those were the two most wonderful words in the English language. The band was fantastic. Luke and I danced, and danced, and danced to that beautiful music. But I had the feeling that even if there had been no band, no waltz, no sweet, soulful trumpet or tinkling piano, still we would have danced. We would have danced in silence, in darkness, and perfect happiness, as long as we danced together.
There was dinner at some point, and breaks for the band, and speeches, thank-yous, and appeals for the rescue, pictures and prizes, too—Nan, Malcolm, and company won, of course, and there were two runners-up, but I don’t remember who they were or what they wore.
There was dancing, and Luke, and me. And the question.
He loves me?
When I looked back, I realized I’d known it was true for a long time, maybe even as far back as our accidental date, the dinner and the dancing that left me giddy and breathless, the surge of emotion I wasn’t prepared for. Maybe I knew then. But if not, then the coffee shop encounters should have tipped me off. And if even that didn’t do it, then the table should have.
Luke was a good, kind, and considerate man, but he wasn’t perfect and far from a saint. Already his little cracks and flaws had been exposed—he was grumpy in the morning, a bit of a perfectionist, very stubborn and determined almost to a fault. When he wanted something badly, he kept after it until he got it. And what he wanted was me.
He loves me.
Was I ready to love him back?
The love I felt for Jamie was a fact. I loved him deeply and eternally for always and forever. Nothing would change that. I didn’t want it to. There was no question there.
The question was this: Is it possible to experience true, deep, eternal love twice in one lifetime? Is it possible to wholly commit your heart to one man without diminishing the love you bore and always would for another?
That was the question I had been wrestling with and running from since that first night on the dance floor, when my head dropped onto Luke’s shoulder and I felt deep desire, but also profound peace. It felt like coming home.
And that scared me.
When Grammy taught me how to sew, all those years ago, I had to concentrate as hard as I could to get my brain and needle to cooperate. But now, twenty some years and thousands of stitches later, the moment I pick up that needle, muscle memory takes over. My fingers just know what to do and I hardly have to think at all. That’s what I love about it. It feels so easy and natural, and results in something so beautiful.
Maybe love is like that, too, an emotional muscle memory, something that comes more easily if you’ve been lucky enough to know it before.
He loves me. Do I love him? Can I? Should I?
It was late, drawing closer to midnight and the end of the ball. The band played a fox trot, “Just in Time,” an old standard that’s been covered by every crooner from Bobby Darin to Tony Bennett. The lead singer, with his black tuxedo and crisp white shirt, channeled Frank Sinatra, leaning into the mic and singing about the kind of love that comes just in time, just when you need it the most, the unexpected, undeserved, unplanned-for love that changes lonely lives in one lucky day.
“Was that supposed to be a message?” I asked, laughing and flirting with Luke when the song ended.
“No, but this is,” he said, then bounded up onto the bandstand and whispered into the piano player’s ear.
A moment later he was back on the dance floor, holding me in his arms, and we were dancing again as the pianist played and sang alone. The song was “Make You Feel My Love,” a lovely old Bob Dylan lyric that’s tender and vulnerable and brave, like a love letter written in secret and finally read aloud, a pledge that risks rejection, knowing that the desired beloved hasn’t made her mind up, yet exposing his heart in the most raw and unguarded way possible.
That night, it was more than a song. It was a message from Luke to me, a prayer for love requited, a promise of love unending, a pledge of protection in the raging storm, of constancy, presence, and persistence for a million years and more, a vow to do whatever it took, to travel to the ends of the earth and back again, so I would feel his love.
Luke held me close as we swayed and turned in time with the music. As the notes pulsed and slowed into the final phrases, I began to believe his message was true and to think that maybe, just maybe I could promise the same to him. In a minute more I might have. Then the lights went out.
There were no screams—the moon was out and the stars were bright, so everyone could still see—but there were whoops of surprise followed by titters and nervous laughter. It wasn’t just the lights that went out, all the electricity did, including the power to the electric keyboard, interrupting not only the song, but a romantic
