The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [106]
“Franklin, I couldn’t. It’s much—”
“It’s not an engagement ring, though I’d be pleased if it were. It’s. to commemorate a wonderful journey because you rarely do nice things for yourself.”
It fit. I knew it would. I leaned over to kiss him, to see if my heart could open to what I knew he longed for—for me to feel for him what a woman in love should feel, more than the infatuation of Forest. I wanted what he felt to be a bridge to something more between us. His mustache tickled my lips, his breath was sweet, his mouth gentle. Sadly, there were no sparks, no thumping heart this time, as there had been that first night when he’d walked me to the door. Was I prepared to be a spinster all my life because I expected fireworks and frolic? Maybe true love didn’t demand one abandon all else for it.
“I like you, Franklin. We’re … Well, we’re like kin. We share a name,” I said. I started to remove the ring.
“Keep it, please,” he said. “It’s a gift to a friend and fine traveling companion.” I nodded. It was lovely. “I’d like more. This trip has shown me that. We could be a successful team.”
“We are a successful team,” I teased.
He said nothing. He was honest with me, and I needed to reciprocate, but the discussion made me want to chew my nails. “Perhaps I haven’t been fair to you, accepting your gift, your time. I surely haven’t paid you commensurate with all you’ve done. The side trip to Norway—”
“Was a highlight for me, to see you pick up stardust that links your family constellation.” He brushed at my cheek. “I want to make you want to explore our universe.”
“It’s been the most comforting time. I love to hear you think out loud. I enjoy your banter with other guests. I admire your … felicity with words and languages and the people. I love all of that about you.”
“But you don’t love me.”
“Love. Such a multilayered word with rich color, density, coverage.”
“Like a good pelt,” he said.
I nodded. “Could we see where this journey takes us?”
He smiled, but sadness crinkled at his eyes. “ ‘The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.’ Rabindranath Tagore. An Indian poet,” he explained.
“I guess I’m wandering through those outer worlds right now, knocking at every alien door.”
“What I know is that if one isn’t purposeful about affairs of the heart, they may never flower,” he said.
Experience entered into this conversation, but I didn’t want to know how he might have loved before and lost.
“Consider it, Clara,” he continued. “You’ll never find anyone who will love you more than I do.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving in his slender neck. “Promise me you’ll consider it. You could stay in Coulee City. You could continue life as you have it, but one day, we’d plan to be together, live and travel together.”
“Right now, I want to achieve financial security—or lose it—on my own.”
He sighed, turned back toward the sea. “I hadn’t thought about love as caught up in some financial endeavor, a sort of currency.”
“You invest. You risk. You can’t be certain of the outcome.”
“Or you double your money,” he said. He smiled then. “There is no real security in this world, Clara, save God and love.”
“Love is fickle and God distant from me,” I told him. “I’ll put my trust in the stability of funds. That’s what will open those doors to the innermost shrine.”
I truly thought it would.
THIRTY-NINE
Finding Home
Home in Coulee City felt right as I walked up the path to the porch. The wide boards had been swept of leaves, and the geraniums were spent-red, splattered into their grassy graves. “Anyone home?” I shouted.
Louise waddled out of the house, wiping her hands in her apron. She hugged me, admired my motor coat, and said we’d have to invest in one of those vehicles to wear it specially one day. “You look healthy and rested, Clara. The trip served you well.”
She’d gained weight in the time I’d been gone, or perhaps she’d been slowly gaining it through