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 and potentially life-changing moment for Luke and for me.
“Well, this is awkward,” Luke said, trying to sound funny but coming off as ticked. “Hang on a second. I’ll try to figure out what happened. Malcolm? Did you check the breakers?”
A second became a minute and then several. The breakers were fine. Luke, Malcolm, and a couple of other men emerged from the house with flashlights and started checking plugs and connections.
I left the dance floor and found a chair near Nan. Blixen, Nelson, and Stuart were curled up near her feet, sound asleep. So was Maisie. After the first few dances, when I’d carried her in my arms, Maisie’s wriggling made it clear she’d had enough, thank you. She’d pranced off to join her buddies in the dog pile.
Malcolm shone a light up high onto one of the tent poles and yelled, “I see it! There’s the problem. Hey, Luke, bring me a ladder—the big one.”
The ladder was produced and steadied, Malcolm climbed to the top, muttered and cursed and fumbled with cables, eventually finding the loose connection. When he pushed the plug back in place, the lights re-illuminated. At the same time, a spark flared.
The spark didn’t shock Malcolm, but it startled him. He jerked backward, a reflexive response, then lost his grip, fell ten or twelve feet, landed on the ground, and didn’t move.
This time there was screaming, screaming and shouting and chaos. Nan catapulted from her chair and was kneeling next to Malcolm before most people really understood what had happened. A crowd closed in around her, making it impossible to see what was happening. Luke was there, too, hidden inside the scrum of bodies, but I had spotted him kneeling next to Nan before the curtain of onlookers closed. I could hear him telling people to move back, give Malcolm some air, and call 911.
I got to my feet, picked Maisie up from the ground, and held her to my chest—fighting panic, hearing voices.
“Move back! Give us some room!”
“The ambulance is on the way.”
“He’s not breathing. Oh my God! He’s not breathing! Who knows CPR?”
“I do!”
“Wait, wait. Hold on a second. He’s breathing!”
“Malcolm! Malcolm, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
“Yes . . . I . . . I’m all right. I just got the wind knocked out of me. I’m fine. Really. Somebody help me up.”
Then there were cheers of relief and applause, probably because Malcolm did indeed get up from the ground, seemingly unharmed, but I couldn’t be certain because I didn’t see it myself. By that time I was already running across the lawn and up the path to the front of Nan’s house, clutching Maisie close, running as fast as I could from the sounds and voices and frightening scene.
As I jumped into my car, I thought I heard Luke calling my name. I pulled into the street and drove away just as an ambulance and a firetruck arrived. The luminarias were still burning.
Looking into the rearview mirror through a blur of tears, I saw Nan’s house growing very small and Luke on the lawn, watching me leave, backlit by the flame of two hundred candles and a strobe of lights, pulsing blue, red, and white.