The Story of Us (45 page)

He nodded.

‘But… but… what if I'd said no?
What if I'd accepted Richard's proposal?'

‘Then I'd just have had to work even harder to win you back. I wasn't ever going to walk away without fighting for you.'

‘But… you bought
a house
…' I was still stunned that he had done something so impulsive.

Jack shrugged, then looked suddenly serious. He pulled me back into his arms and his voice was husky as he spoke. ‘I'm not going to propose to you, because I know it's too soon for that,' his eyes held a glint of humour and irony, ‘and besides, everyone is doing that these days.' I gave a wry smile. ‘But I
do
want to give you something,' he continued. ‘Something so you'll know that I'm serious about us, that I'm committed.'

‘I think buying the house did that,' I said, my voice a little breathless.

‘Yes, well, you can't wear a house.' He reached into his pocket and palmed something from within it. ‘I'm in this Emma, one hundred per cent, all the way, committed.'

He slowly opened his fingers, to reveal an exquisite sapphire ring.

‘It's beautiful,' I breathed unsteadily.

‘Try it on,' he said softly.

I picked up the ring from his outstretched hand and looked up at him hesitantly. This wasn't a proposal, he wasn't asking me to be his wife, at least not yet. So which finger should the ring go on? His smile was gentle as he saw my confusion. He took the ring from me and held it poised over the third finger on my left hand.

‘It goes here,' he said, sliding the ring in place.

It was a perfect fit. Just as we were.

‘Come in,' I called.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw him standing at the open door. He looked so handsome in his suit, the crisp white shirt setting off the soft tan of his skin. His thick dark hair was, for once, almost tamed into place. His warm golden-brown eyes went straight to my face, and there was no disguising the love in them.

Something inside me instantly calmed and quieted when I saw him. Just looking at his face could do that.

‘The cars are here,' he advised, his American accent more pronounced by his lowered tone.

‘I'm ready,' I declared.

‘I thought we could walk down the stairs together. Make a bit of an entrance, you know?'

I smiled at the notion, recognising the sentiment behind the suggestion, and loving him even more because of it. I saw his gaze skim the room, moving past the small vase of flowers on the dresser and then return to it.

‘They're pretty.' I swear it was almost as though he knew.

‘Freesias,' I said, my eyes following his to the perfect white blooms. ‘They're actually from Richard.'

He nodded, but there was no real surprise on his face. ‘Shall we go?'

I slid my hand into the offered crook of his arm. He bent down low and gently kissed my cheek. ‘I love you,' he whispered, so we wouldn't be overheard by the people waiting for us in the hall below. His words brought a tear to my eye. I blinked it away, and smiled at the face I loved so much. ‘Right back at you,' I said, tugging gently on his arm.

He stopped just once before we got to the top of the stairs.

‘Where's your stick?'

I smiled at his worried expression. ‘It's in the hall by the door. I can manage the stairs perfectly well without it. I'm not going to fall.'

His handsome face still wore a look of concern, and his arm flexed firmly, as though preparing to take my weight in case I was wrong.

‘Hold on tight to me, Grandma,' he said tenderly, bringing yet another smile to my lips, as so many emotions welled up inside me. I loved all of my grandchildren, of course I did, but Scott, who resembled his grandfather not just in looks, but in every last mannerism and character, held a special secret place in my heart.

I paused on the first tread and looked down into the expectant faces of my family waiting for us in the hall below. Our two sons, our daughter, their partners and all our grandchildren were looking up, their faces wreathed in a sea of emotions. I smiled down at them all, hoping they would follow my lead. I began to descend the staircase, taking my time, not because I needed to be careful, but to give me the chance to study the gallery of photographs that lined the wall. The first pictures were of the Trentwell house and Jack's ranch, the homes we had lived in for the first five years of our life together.

The next picture was one I had taken. It was summertime and Jack and my parents were in the garden of the home we had bought them in the retirement village. It had been the perfect compromise for everyone.

‘Are you going to be okay here, Dad, really?' I had asked anxiously.

‘Home isn't bricks and mortar, Emma, you should know that by now, with the amount of time you spend flying back and forth across the Atlantic.'

I had smiled and squeezed his hand tightly.

We looked up then as one of the carers walked my mother across the lawn towards us. She was splattered with splotches of paint from the art class she had just attended.

‘Home is where the person you love lives,' he added gently.

The next portrait had been captured by Jack. It was of me; I looked exhausted, exhilarated and totally besotted as I smiled up at the camera from my hospital bed, cradling a small blanket-wrapped bundle. I touched the frame and was drawn back in time.

‘Well?'

‘Give me a minute.'

‘How long does it take to pee on a stick?'

I pulled open the bathroom door, my face lost beneath the width of my grin.

‘Yes?' he asked excitedly.

‘Two blue lines!' I cried.

Each photograph brought with it a memory and a smile. The gallery was a living breathing catalogue of our life together: birthdays, celebrations, homes we no longer owned, holidays…

The sun had been hot and the sky a brilliant blue and Jack and I were pictured in front of the Taj Mahal, a palace built by a man for the wife he loved. Supposedly one of the most romantic places on earth.

‘Emma,' began Jack, getting down on one knee before the beautiful white memorial, and taking my hand. ‘Will you marry me?'

Tourists taking photographs of the palace stopped their snapping and turned towards us; some even pointed their cameras in our direction. Locals just walked on by with indulgent smiles. They saw this a lot.

‘Well?' prompted Jack, his eyes warm. ‘Lucky number seven?'

I smiled and shook my head and smiled down at the man I loved with all my heart, who I would continue to love until that heart beat no more.

‘No, Jack, not yet.' He had a regretful smile on his face as he got to his feet. ‘I really thought that this place would be the charm,' he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me warmly. Around us the gathering crowd burst into a small ripple of applause. I guess they thought I'd said yes.

‘You got close that time,' I admitted in a whisper against the softness of his lips. ‘Just keep asking.'

We never did get married, even though Jack proposed a total of twelve times over the years. It became a source of amused indulgence in our family, how the man who'd wanted no commitment had continued to ask me. But I'd never needed the ceremony or the piece of paper to know that we would stay in love and be together for ever.

Each year we celebrated the day he had given me the ring, the one I still wore on my wedding finger. That had been our anniversary, the day we didn't get engaged.

I stopped beside the large colourful photograph, taken just a few months earlier, at our fortieth anniversary.

‘Emma Marshall, you are and always will be the love of my life.' Jack raised his glass and invited our assembled family to join in the toast.

‘To a beautiful story with a very happy ending,' he finished, fixing me with a tender smile.

‘Happy endings,' our loved ones echoed back.

We came to a final stop just three steps from the bottom, on a large square tread. Someone had opened the front door in readiness for our departure, and from this position I could see out into the road beyond, to the line of four long black limousines. My eyes were fixed to the first car, so full of flowers it was almost impossible to see the precious cargo it was transporting.

I felt my lip begin to tremble, but before any of my family could come to my assistance I heard his voice, whispering softly for me alone, ‘You can do this, Emma. You can. Just remember that I love you.'

I bit my lip and stood up straighter. But before moving on, I turned to the final portrait upon the wall. He'd never wanted me to put it up, but I had insisted, and won that particular battle. It had been taken a year after we'd met, and was the official photograph for the jacket of the book he'd come to England to write. There were hundreds of photographs that had been taken over the years, but this one remained my favourite. I'd been in the studio for the shoot, and in the instant before the shutter had clicked, I'd said something that had made him laugh and turn towards me. The moment had been perfectly captured by the photographer, with Jack's eyes twinkling with humour and alight with a look that was just for me.

I turned to the portrait and smiled into the face of the man I loved. I lifted a hand to my lips and gently kissed my fingertips. Leaning towards the picture, I spoke in a low whisper, but I knew that somehow, somewhere, he would hear me. ‘Don't go rushing too far ahead my darling.' I pressed my fingers gently against the glass covering his lips. ‘Our story isn't over yet. I'll be right behind you.'

 

 

 

 

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Acknowledgements

Notes for your Book Club

~

Dani Atkins

More books by Dani Atkins

An invitation from the publisher

Read on for a preview of

The night of the accident changed everything…

Now, five years on, Rachel's life is crumbling.

She lives alone in a tiny flat, working in a dead-end job, desperate with guilt over her best friend's death.

She would give anything to turn back the clock.

But life doesn't work like that… Does it?

~

The night of the accident was a lucky escape…

Now, five years on, Rachel's life is perfect.

She has a wonderful fiancé, loving family and friends around her, and the career she always wanted.

But why can't Rachel shake the memory of a very different life?

Can two different stories lead to the same happy ending?

Or will Rachel stay
fractured
forever?

My first life ended at 10.37 p.m. on a rainy December night, on a deserted street beside the old church.

My second life began some ten hours later, when I woke up to the blinding brilliance of the hospital lighting, with a large head wound and a life about which I had absolutely no recollection. I was surrounded by friends and family, and that should have made it better. But it didn't, as one of them had been dead for a considerable period of time.

I wanted to write down everything that had happened, to see if by committing it to paper I could make some sense of it all. Or perhaps I just needed to prove to everyone, even myself that I wasn't going crazy. For a long time I thought that this story should begin with what happened to me at the church, when my life literally came apart, but now I realise that to understand it all I have to go back much further than that. For it really all began five years earlier, on the night of the farewell dinner.

Long after the screaming had stopped, when the only sound to be heard was the soft crying of my friends as they waited for the ambulance to arrive, did I realise that I was still clutching the lucky penny tightly within my palm. My fingers refused to unfurl from around the tiny copper talisman, as though by sheer will alone I would somehow be able to wind back time and erase the tragedy around me.