“What are we doing here?” Mauve asked, feeling disappointed. As much as she loved Walter and Grace, she wasn’t in the mood to sit in their kitchen and endure small talk. Not with what she carried in her pocket.
“I have something to show you.”
He drove past Walter’s house and then, further down the driveway, past Reese and Roan’s. She’d never been to the back of the property, where the woods thinned and the land opened onto a long ridge at the edge of the Hayes family farm.
They arrived at the edge of a wide clearing. Jason killed the engine, drew in a deep breath, his hands still on the steering wheel. “You want to walk with me?”
“What are you up to?”
“You’ll see,” Jason said.
Cold air stung her cheeks, but she was warm in her parka and hat. He took her hand and led her up a small rise. When they reached the top, he halted.
“Here we are,” he said.
A quilt had been laid over a fallen log, with a thermos and picnic basket beside it. Beyond the clearing, the land dropped away in a long, slow slope into the valley below. Below the rise, a creek ran through a pasture, snow piled high along both banks, its water flowing under a thin lid of ice. In the wintry light, the bare branches of the maples were the color of copper, striking against the pale blue sky. And past all of that, the Green Mountains met the horizon in three long peaks of snow.
“Do you like the view?” Jason asked.
“It’s breathtaking.”
“Would you like to see it every day from your kitchen window?” He turned to face her, taking both her gloved hands. “This is part of the property my mom left Roan and me. It’s mine if I want it.”
“What do you mean?” Her heart seemed to beat between her ears.
“It’s zoned for a house.”
She couldn’t think straight, but, somewhere in the tumble of thoughts, she knew one thing. Before he said anything further, he needed to know what she was willing to give up for him. For them. “I have something for you.” She pulled the small box out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Open it. Before you say anything else. Please.”
He took the ribbon off first, then tore open the paper and lifted the lid off the box, taking out the envelope and sliding his finger under the flap, then pulled the paper out. He began to read, his gaze moving quickly over the words she’d written in the dead of night. A muscle in his cheek flexed. His body went still.
She held her breath.
“Did you already send this?” Jason asked.
“Not yet. I wanted to give it to you first.”
“What does it mean?” Jason asked. “Exactly?”
“That I’m willing to go with you. Wherever you go. If you still want me.”
“I want you. Let’s get that straight,” Jason said. “But I’m not letting you give up your life here.”
“I love it here. I really do. But I love you more.”
He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. When he opened them, his eyes shone with an intensity she hadn’t yet seen. “I want you to know that, as long as I live, I’ll never forget what you’ve offered me. Thank you for being willing to change yourlife for me. But you don’t have to. I have another idea.” He let go of her hand and strode to the car, opening the trunk and returning with a long cardboard tube. With a theatrical flair, grinning at her, he uncapped it and pulled out a roll of papers.
“Come sit with me,” Jason said.
He led her over to the log and spread the papers out onto the quilt, weighting one corner with the thermos and the other with a stone.
“This is my idea,” Jason said, “for our lives together.”
The first sheet was a site plan. Hand-drawn over a printed survey of the family property. There was a small rectangle at the top of the rise marked MAUVE’S HOUSE. There was a circle around it labeled footprint approx. 3,300 sf. Below it was a topographic line marked driveway. Underneath was a floor plan.
“We could have a house built right here.” He gestured toward the land all around them. “This doesn’t have to be the exact architectural plan. We can do whatever you want, but I wanted a prop, so to speak, to prove how serious I am.”
She was stunned into speechlessness, which for someone in her profession didn’t often happen.
