Nineteen
Camila and Jakob are three months old now. Big, beautiful, healthy, perfect.
And we have not gotten one single moment alone. I don’t mind. Not really. But I would like some time with You.
You, of course, recognize this. Beth is called in, because apparently babysittingisin the job description when one is Logan Ryder’s assistant. Plus, Beth has experience, as an older sister had twins, and Beth often babysits them.
So, the twins in good hands, Logan tells me to put on a fancy gown, some killer heels, and a little makeup; time to go out.
Once again, he takes me to Gourmand, the restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen he owns. We are regulars there now, a booth near the kitchen permanently reserved for Logan, Camila, Jakob, and me.
But this time, something is different.
The entire restaurant is empty, not a single soul in sight.
Odd indeed for a Thursday evening.
The lights are low, a single table near the center of the dining room lit with a candle, set for two.
My heart pitter-patters a little; You’ve shown me enough movies to know a setting like this indicates a proposal to follow.
I am ready.
More than ready, indeed.
A trio of musicians sets the mood: a guitar, a mandolin, and a violin, playing soft, beautiful music off to our right. We have wine, salads, soup, entrées, more wine, dessert. No ring, no proposal.
I am beginning to doubt my assumption, and to feel some level of disappointment now.
When we are done, you rise to your feet. Extend Your hand. “Did you know there’s little garden on the roof of this building?”
I didn’t, and accompany You up an elevator and then a flight of stairs, out through a dented, rusted metal door and onto a rooftop garden. It is tiny, intimate. Trellises form a maze, roses and lavender and wisteria and honeysuckle climbing and blooming, filling the air with a heavy, heady scent. Strings of soft white lights are woven through the trellises as well, shedding a golden glow on the magical scene. I hear the door open, but it is far away, somehow, and out of sight. I hear mandolin strings quaver, and then the violin joins in, and the guitar follows; the musicians have followed us.
You lead me through the maze of trellises to a hidden corner of the rooftop, where the trellises form an arch over a wrought-iron bench. Nearby is a little fountain, water spilling and chuckling over rocks, the pool lit from within.
The city seems an impossibility from here, sitting on the bench, in this garden, surrounded by flowers and lights and a fountain, music in the background.
“How have we never been up here, Logan?”
You grin at me. “Because it didn’t exist a month ago.” A modest shrug of a shoulder. “I had it built, just for us, for today.”
“It is . . . a fantasy, Logan. Beyond beautiful.”
You point at something on the other side of the little clearing in the garden, a small wrought-iron table, over which is draped a red velvet cloth. “Go look.”
I rise, pull the cloth away.
Gasp, breath stolen, tears immediately stinging my eyes. “Oh, Logan.”
“I’m not a master carver, but I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“You made this yourself?”
A shrug. “Of course.”
It is a wooden box. Two feet square, one foot deep. And despite his claim to the contrary, it clearly was carved by a master. It is... lovely isn’t a good enough word. Breathtaking. The wood is a rich deep brown, polished to a shiny gleam, shot through with reddish streaks and whorls. The hinges are brass, as is the simple catch mechanism.
I tug on the lid; it is locked.
