“When you graduate, you’ll be able to do anything you want,” he tells me. He sets a plate of thick-cut bacon in front of me. I snatch a piece, biting into the perfectly crispy goodness that has a hint of maple syrup.
“Sometimes my mind races with all the work there is to do for kids,” I say. “And here I sit in this mansion by the beach. Should I feel guilty?”
“No,” Jackson says. “Never feel guilty about what you have. But you can give back even more. With your knowledge and assertiveness, and my money, we could make one hell of a team.”
“What are you saying? We should start our own charity?”
“Why not?” he says, like it’s that easy—you have an idea, and you do it. “It could focus on mentoring at-risk kids like you keep talking about. I bet there are some people in the office who would be happy to do it. One of my senior vice presidents, Rachel Sullivan, would be a great female role model. It could really work, Em.”
“Our own foundation,” I say, testing the words out.
“You just tell me what to do,” Jackson says, “and I’ll do it.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “Just like that, huh?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Then I want a kiss, and stat.”
“That’s an easy one,” he says, coming around to me. He wraps me in his arms, one hand still holding a spatula, and kisses me. He tastes of coffee and pineapple. He tastes of love and home and security.
“So what do you want to do today?” I say when he goes back to the stove.
“What do you think about taking a walk?”
I look out the window. “It’s pretty windy out there. Looks like it’s going to rain.”
“Not on the beach,” Jackson says. “Down the aisle.”
My heart is bursting. I’ve never felt so much love in my life. I am filled to the brim with everything Jackson is giving me.
“We don’t have to,” he says quickly, coming back to me. “If you want to wait, or do something more traditional, we can. I’ll wait. However long you want.”
“That’s not it,” I say, crying. He holds me to his chest, so strong and comforting. “I think it’d be perfect, just the two of us. Can we have a party back in Boston for my family and friends, though?”
“Of course,” he says. “I told you—anything you want.”
This is everything I never knew I wanted. I never imagined a life like this. I know that no matter what happens, Jackson and I can take it on because we’re a team.
“I can just see the write-up in the society pages,” I say. “‘The bride wore a white wool sweater and Huntington boots and the groom sported denim pants and a Patagonia jacket.’”
“Just like I always imagined,” Jackson says.
We drive into town, fill out the paperwork and are married in the judge’s private chambers. Our witness is a woman named Betty who is there to pick up a permit for the gazebo she’s building for her granddaughter’s wedding next summer.
When Jackson looks into my eyes, holding my hands, there is no one else in the world. “I will honor and protect you in good times and in bad,” he says. “I’ll be your strength when you feel you have none, and your light when you find only darkness. I will work every day to prove my worthiness of your love. I promise to laugh with you, to listen to you and to love you until the last breath leaves my body.”
It’s a good thing I’m not wearing much makeup because I am a slobbering mess by the time our little ceremony is over and the judge has declared us husband and wife. When we kiss, Betty lets out a little whoop of joy.
Jackson carries me across the threshold, even though I tell him it is not necessary.
“I’m not even wearing a wedding gown,” I say.
“All the more reason to go through with the tradition,” he says.
He takes me upstairs to the bedroom and lays me on the bed. He pulls my sweater and boots from my body. He runs his hands down my arms and across my belly.
“My wife,” he whispers.
Jackson makes love to me slowly, like we have all the time in the world. And we do—we have a lifetime together.
Afterward, we are lazing in an afternoon post-coital haze of tangled sheets and sweat drying to our naked bodies. We both jump when the phone rings.
“God, I can’t remember the last time I heard a land line ring,” I say.
Jackson hops into a pair of flannel pants and walks across the room to a little table, on which sits a black old-fashioned phone.
“Hello?” Jackson says. I figure it must either be a wrong number or maybe Sandra calling from the office, checking to see when—if—he’s coming back. “Is that totally necessary?” he says. His face has changed—his features are pinched, no longer relaxed. “It has nothing to do with me…. When would I have to be there? That soon? Alright…fine, I’ll call for the jet…. I’ll be there.”