50 Harbor Street - Debbie Macomber [68]
Never having asked a man to marry her before, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Her first inclination was to invite him to a fancy restaurant, the way she’d seen it done in the movies. That would create the requisite romantic setting, with champagne and classical music, but it wouldn’t allow them much privacy. And if they went to The Lighthouse, elegant though it was, she’d be sharing one of the most intimate moments of her life with far too many of her friends and neighbors.
So, no restaurant, which left one other option. Fortunately Grace loved to cook. She enjoyed every aspect of it—choosing the recipes, the trip to the grocery store, the preparation itself. She didn’t even mind washing the dishes. She felt comfortable in her kitchen. So—in an effort to start the new year right—she invited Cliff to dinner on Sunday.
“Any particular reason?” Cliff asked when she phoned him at the ranch. He seemed to guess that this wasn’t an ordinary invitation.
“It’s New Year’s Day.” Grace couldn’t very well admit she planned to propose to him. That would come over thick slices of homemade apple pie served with French vanilla ice cream, his favorite. Or maybe she’d do it during a romantic champagne toast…
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Grace just hoped he’d be as easily persuaded when she asked that all-important question.
Not wanting to speak without forethought or reflection, she carefully wrote out what she intended to say. She wanted to review their relationship, starting with the early days when they’d first begun seeing each other. They’d met due to a credit card mix-up three years ago—had it really been that long? After thirty-five years as Dan’s wife, she’d been nervous and uncertain about entering into a new relationship, and in some ways she still was.
She remembered how gentle Cliff had been with her. Following Dan’s memorial service, she’d collapsed from grief and fatigue, and Cliff was the one who’d stayed with her, who’d comforted her, who’d encouraged her to grieve for her husband. She’d buried Dan that day, and so much more—all the memories, good and bad. Through it all, Cliff had been at her side, a constant support.
They’d been separated for a while and during those long, lonely months Grace had understood how foolish she’d been and how much she loved Cliff. She’d made an error in judgment. She was sorry about it. Either Cliff accepted that or he didn’t; it was time to find out.
For dinner Grace went all out. The most elaborate meal she could think of was individual Beef Wellingtons, along with a baked potato casserole and fresh young asparagus shoots. The salad was a special recipe from the Food Channel, with greens, blue cheese and roasted spiced pecans. She blew a good third of her monthly food budget on this meal alone, but it would be worth it.
Cliff was to arrive at six. The table was set with her mother’s china, used only on the most momentous occasions. The wine—a French Merlot that came highly recommended—was open and breathing. She hadn’t spared any expense on that, either. The candles were ready to light.
“What do you think, Buttercup?” she asked the golden retriever, who lay on her dog bed in the kitchen. Buttercup wagged her tail enthusiastically—approving, Grace was sure, of her plans. Sliding her hand inside her apron pocket, she fingered the half-dozen index cards she’d placed there. These cards were her security and her talisman. On them she’d written her feelings—her love for Cliff, her hopes for them both.
At ten minutes after six,