Page 143 of My Wife
I speak and sign, “I sent Jessica on a wild goose chase to a local hockey pro shop to source me abagatelle.” I have to spell out the last word.
The older woman tilts her head back with laughter. “A doohickey? A thingamabob?”
I nod. There’s no such thing as abagatelle, but I needed to occupy her long enough to make a Bundt peace offering … and a proposal.
Dolly instructs me on how to make the perfect cinnamon spice Bundt cake. KJ helps with the icing.
She signs, “It may not have enough time to cool. But it’s the thought that counts.”
I nod while my son greases the tin cake pan, being sure to get in all the little nooks and crannies.
She signs, “I’m glad you finally came to your senses.”
“Do you think she’ll like it?” I reply.
“She’ll love it, but she also loves you. Never forget that because I think she’s been saving up a lot of love for a long, long time.”
Jessica’s early life makes me sad, but I intend to make up for it by loving the heck out of her now that she’s all mine.
After Dolly instructs me on how the cake is done and how to carefully remove it from the pan, she and KJ hit the road. He gives me a big hug and then dashes out the door with the dog.
At last, it’s quiet. Too quiet. I’ve come to like the activity in our home with Jessica breaking into random dance parties, singing out loud (in an endearingly off-pitch tone), and generally making every day merry even if Mrs. Kirby downstairs complains from time to time.
Taking a deep breath, I finish cleaning up and set everything out on the end of the long wooden table.
Keys jingle in the lock and Jessica enters, smiling. “It smells good in here. So good.”
“Smells like you,” I say.
“Like cake?”
I nod. “I made you one.”
She drops her bags. “You made me a cake?”
“A snickerdoodle Bundt. You said it’s your favorite.”
As if not quite registering, she says, “I got you the bagatelle, er, a baton, baguette, and a basket. I wasn’t really sure what you meant by bagatelle and the guy at the hockey store had no idea and so …”
I step aside so she can see the cake on the table next to some lit candles and the velvet box.
Her hands tent over her mouth and she steps closer, peering up at me and then back at the table.
I plant my palm on her lower back and say, “Jessica, you may remember that I was looking for this little box. It contains Grannie Bell’s engagement ring. She still wears her wedding band, but a little birdie from Brookking Sound may have chirped that originally Hendrix was going to propose to Colette with it. But may have changed his mind to go with something custom and gave it to me for safekeeping.”
“I’m glad you found it.”
“No, I found you. I didn’t know what I wanted or needed. Turned out it was right in front of me. I want and I need you. With this ring, I want to formally ask you to marry me.”
“But we’re already married.”
“I want you to know that I want to be married to you. I want you to have this, to be part of our family … to be mine.”
She gasps and turns to me, arms looping my neck. “Yes. I want to be yours and you’ll be mine. Mine all mine.”
She pecks my mouth with excited kisses in between happy squeals of joy.
I hardly have the ring seated on her finger when she fully wraps herself around me, hugging me tighter than I imagined while repeating the word, “Yes, yes, always yes.”
