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It’s perfect for her.
I hoped. Christ, my nerves were bunching my stomach in tight knots. Yanked even tighter when I heard Willow’s laugh toward the front of the tent. I snapped the box shut and stuffed it into my light brown costume jacket.
Because we were performing As You Like It in the amphitheater, Martin wanted a picnic-like feel to reflect the lightness of the comedy. The cast wore 19th-century pastoral clothing—smart trousers, jackets, and high-collared shirts for the men. The women wore Victorian-style dresses, except for Willow. As Rosalind, she spent much of the play disguised as a man named Ganymede, instructing my Orlando on how to win Rosalind’s heart.
I already had Willow’s heart, and for the last three years, my happiness was something out of a goddamn dream.
I spent nearly all of my $7 million on the Harmony Community Theater and its restoration. The City Council approved it quick because my only condition was Martin Ford be named artistic director and manager. He had final say over everything, until such time as he retired or wanted to move on to something else.
I expected Wexx to retaliate, instead they backed off. Or rather, they retreated without surrendering, putting their resources into Xavier’s legal team, gathering lawyers like an army. Because the lack of evidence meant Willow’s accusation had no bite, Xavier’s lead attorney was going with a strategy he actually called “the slut defense.”
Little did he know, Willow’s single act of bravery started a chain reaction. Her words broke down a wall of silence, leaving her bruised and bloodied, true. But also leaving a hole that more women came through, ready to tell their stories.
Four more women accused Xavier Wilkinson. One of whom had DNA evidence.
Xavier was sentenced to seven years in prison. It was as if the last cloud on the horizon lifted. Willow came alive in Harmony. We bought her house in The Cottages with some backend money from my last movie. We fixed it, remodeled it, and put in some air conditioning.
While it was being renovated, I did a short, six-week turn off-Broadway, playing Tom in The Glass Menagerie. Willow played Honey in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf to intense acclaim a few doors down. But we always came back to Harmony. Came home to the life that was more precious to us than anything in New York.
I always thought being tucked away in this corner of the world would be stifling. Instead, with Willow, I found the Harmony of my youth. The town I knew before my mother died. Recast as my home, with Marty and Brenda as my parents, Benny as my little brother.
And now, hopefully, with Willow as my wife.
My nerves tightened. I had a speech planned out. A declaration of my love, because she deserved all the words of my heart.
Martin came up to me, glanced once over his shoulder, and gave me a grin. “Can I see it again?”
Willow was deep in conversation with Lorraine. I quickly showed Martin the ring.
“It’s not too much, right? But not too small either. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Just as they did every time he looked at the damn ring, Marty’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s going to love it. It’s exactly her.”
I snapped the box shut again and stuffed it in my jacket. “Holy fucking shit.”
Martin laughed. “You’re going to wait until the cast party tonight? Please tell me you are. The play’s halfway done. Almost there.”
“Yeah, I’ll wait. If she says no, I’ll be the most depressing Orlando you’ve ever seen. Turn your comedy into a tragedy.”
“You know she’s going to say yes,” he said. “But if you ask her before Rosalind and Orlando are done falling in love, they’ll have that… What’s the word young folks like to use? Insta-love?”
I laughed. “It took us six years to get here,” I said, my voice turning soft. “I could’ve asked her to marry me the day I came back to Harmony. Or any minute in between. But I wanted her to trust me. That I could be here in Harmony and be happy.”
Marty sniffed. “You need to save those words for her.”
“I have more. A lot more.”
“After the show.” He looked around behind him. “Someone wants to say hi, if that’s okay.”
I glanced over his shoulder and saw Benny—Ben, now—at the tent. I grinned. “Send him over.”
Martin left and Ben took his place, staring around, his hands jammed in the pocket of his jeans. Nineteen now, he was tall and solid; the kid I’d known was gone.
He’s the same age as I was when I met Willow.
“Hey, man,” I said, rising to give him a hug. I laughed at his dubious expression as Len Hostetler belted an operatic-sounding vocal warm-up.
“Theatre people are the weirdest,” he said.
