He sat on the couch, working on his MPD laptop.
I had no time for a shower. No time for clean clothes. No time to wait or to waste. I marched straight to him, took the laptop and set it on the coffee table, and straddled his thighs. With my hands on his shoulders, I leaned in and looked him in the eyes.
“I love you,” I told him. “I don’t want to waste any more time. Will you marry me?”
After a few beats, he put his own hands on my shoulders and, his voice gravelly, said, “I love you too. I never again want to lose a minute of time away from you. Yes, moja kochana. Name the day and time. Name the place. But don’t make it too long from now.”
He leaned in to kiss me and I protested. “I’m all sweaty.”
“Makes no difference to me,” he reassured. “I’ll take you any way I can get you.”
Chapter 63
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
Marcel Proust
It was the typical Sunday afternoon gathering, but it held an intensity I didn’t anticipate. I looked with fresh eyes at every person present: Papa and Aunt Terry, who had loved and guided me my whole life; Wukowski’s mother Lena, who raised the man I loved and who tried so hard to overcome her fears after losing her daughter; my children, Emma and David, whom I in turn had guided and loved with the deepest, tenderest feelings one person can have for another; and their spouses, John and Elaine, who made my babies happy and who gave me the greatest gift of all—grandchildren.
And Wukowski, the most honorable, most difficult, and most tender and loving man I’d ever known. The man who both infuriated me and who taught me to trust and love, after years of holding back because pain might follow if I opened up again. My heart overflowed with more feelings than I could hold.
And then the twins, Patrick and Donald, and my granddaughter Angela, came running toward me with shouts of “Nonna” and arms extended for a hug. As I grasped them to me, I envisioned Spider and Magdalena’s little ones, hiding behind a screen from the “bad guys.” My fierce feelings of protectiveness and love surfaced and ran down my cheeks.
“Nonna, let us go,” protested Donald.
Never, I thought, but I released them and turned away to take a towel from the kitchen counter.
Angela, ever the perceptive one, circled me and, her face full of concern, asked, “What’s wrong, Nonna?”
I squatted down to her eye level and told her, “Sometimes the love just spills out, sweetie.”
“Yuck,” Patrick called out, breaking through the sentimentality.
The adults settled into the normal Sunday routine of stirring the sauce (Papa), putting the salad together (Aunt Terry), and preparing the garlic bread for the oven (Emma), while Elaine popped zabaglione into the fridge.
Aunt Terry guided me into the living room and placed a glass of wine in my hand before seating herself next to me on the couch. “How are you sleeping?”
“Now that Mick’s been exonerated and Artur is facing justice, I’m fine,” I assured her. “No more awful dreams.” Seeing the lines of strain in her face, I asked, “And you?”
“Not much. But wakefulness gives me time to pray and thank God for deliverance.”
I hugged her and said, “Let’s get together this week and talk. It’s too crazy here today.”
***
At the table, after supper, Papa turned to Wukowski and raised an eyebrow. “So?”
So what? I wondered.
Across from me, Aunt Terry lifted her cell phone—a forbidden object at the Sunday meal.
Wukowski, seated at my right, pushed his chair back from the table and reached into his pocket. “I’m honored to tell you that Angie proposed to me and I accepted.”
The table erupted in applause, with Papa and Lena wiping their eyes and Aunt Terry taking video while David snapped pictures.
Wukowski held up a hand. “It’s only fair to add that I was ready to ask her today… with a little prompting from Pat.” From his pocket, he removed a small box and popped it open to reveal a ring nestled in layers of black velvet. “Angie, it’s my turn. Will you take a chance—a permanent chance—on a hidebound cop who loves you very much? Will you marry me?”
“A double proposal! Of course I will.”
As Wukowski slipped the ring on my finger and kissed me, I vaguely heard the boys’ simultaneous exclamations of “ew” in the background.
Elaine bustled in from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and flutes for the adults, and another bottle of sparkling grape juice and glasses for the children. Papa let the corks fly, which prompted Daniel and Patrick to attempt to catch them midair.
When all was ready, Papa raised his flute of champagne. “To my beloved daughter and her fiancé. May you have many years of happiness.” After we all had a sip, he reiterated what he told my first husband. “Ted, you should know that there are no divorces in our family. But there are widows.”
“Doesn’t hold much terror, Nonno,” said David. “Dad’s still aboveground.”
“Nonna, may I please see your ring?” asked the always-polite Angela.
I realized that I hadn’t yet taken a look at it. “Oh, how lovely,” I said, admiring the silver band with a central diamond surrounded by the swirling depths of opals.
“The diamond is from a pendant that my husband gave me when our son was born,” Lena said, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“And the opals are from your mother,” Papa added. “She would be very happy today.”
Tears threatened to spill over yet again, but I blinked them back and said, “Thank you, Lena, and you, Papa. I will cherish this even more for knowing it comes from both families.” Then I extended my left hand for all to admire.
***
Later that day, as Wukowski walked his mother to her car, I hugged Aunt Terry and Papa and said to them,
