Spirit Walk_ Old Wounds (Book 1) - Christie Golden [42]
“That’s a sad thought. It’s such a vibrant vessel, it’s hard to think of it being decommissioned. But I guess it’s inevitable. Better that than getting blown to bits in a battle, I suppose.”
“It would all depend upon the reason for the battle,” said Kim with just a touch of melodrama.
Libby went cold inside. Even the thought of losing him, now that she had gotten him back after thinking him dead for so long, was painful. She slipped her hand in his as they continued to walk the decks.
Changing the subject, she said, “Well, we certainly don’t need a holoprogram to travel back in time here.”
“No, we don’t. This is an amazing place, Libby. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
He bent and kissed her. She’d sensed something was up; she could tell by his kiss.
That night, they had dined at a place called the Castine Inn. Built in 1898, the building exuded quiet elegance. “The current owners are the descendents of the Mr. Vogel who built it,” Libby had told Harry. They walked through the gardens, stepped up on the wraparound porch, and went inside. The dining room was a delight, with a mural of the town covering all four walls.
“Gorgeous!” exclaimed Harry. Having a captain who loved to paint had taught him an appreciation of art.
“It was painted way back in 1989,” Libby said. “The really interesting thing is, this is the town exactly as you would have seen it at the time if there were no walls. It’s a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. And all the people were real, too, known personally by the artist, Margaret Parker Hodesh.”
Kim looked admiringly at her. “You really have done your research,” he said.
“All a part of being a good guide,” she replied.
The room was lovely, but it was the meal they had come for. Libby started with a butternut squash soup with saltwater cranberries for her appetizer, and Harry selected white truffle oil risotto with fresh herbs. They each had a salad of mixed greens and mushrooms with an olive oil and blueberry balsamic vinaigrette. For his entrée, Harry chose loin of lamb with pickled fiddle-head ferns—like nearly everything on the menu, a local delicacy—while Libby selected lobster. Looking ruefully at the red crustacean on her plate, she explained to Harry, “This is the fellow who tempted me to add fish to my hitherto pure vegetarian diet. I couldn’t live in Maine and not eat lobster.”
For dessert, they decided to split a decadent-looking blueberry cobbler. When the server brought it out, Libby saw something shiny nestled in the whipped cream topping. She gasped, and both joy and regret flooded her.
Fishing out the diamond ring from the creamy whiteness and cleaning it with a napkin, Harry said, “Well, maybe the whipped cream bit wasn’t the best idea, but it sounded awfully romantic. Libby, will you marry me? I’d carry you over the threshold even if there weren’t any stairs.”
She had turned a stricken expression to him and had to endure the wrenching sight of disappointment flooding his sweet face. Libby was keenly aware that the waitstaff and even the inn’s proprietors were lurking in the doorways, watching, ready no doubt to bring out a celebratory bottle of champagne. Why on Earth hadn’t Harry done this in a more private fashion?
Because he had every reason to believe from your behavior that you would say yes.
She wanted to say yes.
“Harry, I—”
He swallowed hard. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I thought—”
She leaned forward and kissed him hard. Whispering in his ear, she said, “I love you so much, but I just want a little more time. This isn’t a ‘no,’ it’s a ‘not yet.’ ”
He brightened a little at that, but nonetheless excused himself and went to talk to the waitstaff. They seemed disappointed. Libby felt her face turning bright red and stared at the napkin she was twisting into knots in her lap.
She was too miserable to do more than poke at the cobbler. They decided against coffee and returned to her cabin. He had