The Marriage Test

1

Ihurry toward him, my hair damp from my shower and the taste of seawater still on my lips. “Sorry,” I say as I throw my arms around his neck and lift up on my toes to kiss him, his lips always surprisingly soft for a man so tall and strong.

“Mmmm,” he mumbles. “Salty.”

“And spicy and sweet,” I say, dropping down to cradle his face in my hands and look him over, a habit inherited from my grandmother, who likes to check that those she hasn’t seen for a while are well.

For Justin and me, it’s been two weeks since I returned from his home in New York City. He is freshly shaved, his bronze eyes bright, his black hair recently cut. I catch the scent of his aftershave and notice his shirt is new and freshly pressed. Thick emotion wells in my throat, as it does every time I see him after we’ve been apart, like I’ve not drawn a full breath since we saw each other last.

Satisfied that he’s really here, I release him.

He holds out my chair. “How was the rig?”

“Amazing. Best one yet. It’s why I’m late. I couldn’t help it. Blame it on the sea lion cub who captured my heart.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Maybe. He was almost as cute as you, and a better swimmer.”

“I’m wounded.” He slaps his hand to his chest. “About the swimming part, of course.”

I scoot my chair so it is beside instead of across from him and drape my leg over his, wanting to be close. He sets his hand on my knee, warm through the thin cotton of my dress, and his touch sends a current down my spine that causes a blush.

Noticing, he arches a brow, and a secret smile passes between us.

Never before have I felt such attraction to someone, like there’s an electromagnetic connection between us that causes my skin to flame whenever he’s near.

“I can’t believe you got a reservation at this place,” I say as I scan the magnificent deck that overlooks the Pacific and, tonight, twinkles with holiday lights and garlands. “The chef is my favorite.”

“I know. I actually listen . . . sometimes.”

I open the menu, though I already know what I want. “Mushroom stroganoff,” I announce. “Annabelle’s famous for it. She even has her own mushroom forager who she sends all over the world in search of wild mushrooms.”

“Mushroom forager, now there’s a job I never considered.”

“Could you imagine? Traveling to the world’s forests in search of mushrooms for one of the world’s greatest chefs?”

“Sort of like diving in the world’s oceans to save the marine ecosystem,” Justin says with an eyebrow lift.

“Yeah, I know. My job sucks.” I glance at the ocean stretched out beyond the rocky beach, a billion stars and the moon glinting off its surface, and sigh a happy sigh. The dive today was stupendous, the reef Walton and I are trying to save the biggest one yet, the size of a city block and teeming with life. “You should have seen it. We saw a pair of seahorses. Do you know how rare that is? Incredibly romantic animals.”

He sets his menu aside. “More romantic than sea lions?”

“Way. They grow up floating the ocean in search of another, and when their paths finally cross, they spend days dancing together, trying to sync their rhythms to see if they are compatible, and if they manage it, they tether their tails and spend the rest of their short lives drifting the ocean as one.”

“Wow, days? That’s serious commitment.”

“In seahorse terms, that’s a very long time. Walton couldn’t stop photographing them; they were so beautiful.”

Justin tries not to react to the mention of his former best friend but does a poor job of it, his body tensing and his smile going stiff. “Seahorses and sea lion cubs. I’m surprised you came up at all.”

“I might not have if I had more air.”

The server appears. “Something to drink?”

“Do you have a white burgundy?” I ask, feeling like something bright to match my mood.

The server points to the French section of the wine list.

“Oh,” I say, as the list is limited and pricey. “I only want a glass. I’ll just take a—”

“A bottle of the finest white burgundy you have,” Justin interrupts.

“Justin—”

He waves me off.

The server leaves, and I lean in to kiss him. “I love you.”

“For ordering a bottle of wine?”

“For ordering a bottle of wine to make me happy.”

I sit back again, and he returns his hand to my knee.

“Good evening.”

I look up, and my breath catches. Standing a foot from our table is Annabelle Winters, my chef idol since college. She’s five feet tall with narrow shoulders and wide hips. Curls of wild black hair escape her white cap, flour dusts her black chef coat, and in her hands is a cutting board with a round loaf of bread.

“I understand tonight is a special occasion,” she says, a Mediterranean accent rounding the words. I tilt my head as Justin nods. “In my home country, we have a tradition: remarkable moments are celebrated by the breaking of bread. So, I made this loaf specially for you.” She sets the board on the table, wisps of steam spiraling from the golden, flaky crust. “This is pogača, the bread of my childhood and a symbol of love.”

With a small bow, she pivots away.

“That . . . that was . . . I can’t believe it . . . that was Annabelle Winters.”

Justin smiles wide, a proud grin that crinkles his cheeks.

“You told her it was a special occasion?”

“It is,” he says. “We are together.”

I look at the loaf. “Wow. Pogača. My grandmother told me about this bread. It doesn’t use eggs or milk, and it’s cooked on a hearth over an open fire.”

“It’s still warm,” he says. “It must have just come out of the oven.”

I lift it to my face and inhale deeply, warm yeast and flour filling my nose. “Mmmm.” I hold it toward him.

He takes a breath, then leans back and nods. “Well, go on . . . break bread.”

Grinning like a kid at Christmas, I grip the edges and start to twist.

“Wait!” Justin yelps, stopping me, the loaf suspended.

He falls from his chair to the deck, my leg flopping from his lap along with his napkin.

I giggle. “What are you doing?”

“Okay,” he says, now kneeling on one knee. “Keep going.”

The people at the table behind us have stopped what they were doing and are now looking at us, and I notice Annabelle Winters beside the entrance watching as well. I look at the bread, then at Justin, then back again, and blood rushes to my face as I realize what is happening.

“Really?” I say.

He nods toward the bread.

Cheeks spread wide, I tear it in two, sending gold crumbs raining onto the tablecloth.

Poking from the steaming center is the edge of a stainless-steel cylinder.

I dig my fingers in to pry it loose and set it on the palm of my hand. An inch and a half tall and two inches in diameter, it’s engraved on top with two doves surrounded by a ring of leaves.

The woman behind us shifts for a better view.

Heart pounding, I prize off the lid. Sitting on a bed of white satin is a stunning sapphire ring, the center stone blue as the deepest ocean, a single diamond baguette on either side.

“Ava Nicole Barnes,” Justin says, his voice elevated for the audience, “keeper of my heart, guardian of my soul, and woman of my dreams, will you make me the happiest man on this earth and do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

I look at him, then back at the ring—dazzling, glittery, and blue—the sort of ring you would see on a queen or Elizabeth Taylor.

“Babe?”

“Huh?” I lift my face and realize I haven’t answered. My skin goes pink half a second before I cry, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” My answer instant and certain. Like recognizing my own hand, from the moment I met Justin, I knew he was the one.

The world around us erupts, people clapping and cheering as Justin stands and sweeps me into his arms. He twirls me as people slap him on the back and congratulate us.

When the brouhaha settles and we are seated again, he asks, “Do you like it? The sapphire is because you love the ocean. And it’s reclaimed, not new.” He smiles. “No humans or animals were harmed in the making of this ring.”

I touch his cheek. “I love it. This whole night is perfect. I was just so surprised. I really wasn’t expecting it.”

He takes my hands and looks deep into my eyes, gold sparks in the bronze reflecting the flickering candle on the table. “I want us to be together,” he says, “always. A family.”

The last word carries weight. For me because my family is everything, my foundation and my strength. For Justin, the opposite, a void of hurt he hopes to fill someday with a family of his own.

I look again at the ring, foreign on my hand. “What made you ask . . . I mean, tonight, now . . . so soon?”

“I know how much it means for your grandmother to be at your wedding.”

The words are gentle but still cause an ache, the possibility of Granmama not being in my future still impossible to accept. A month ago, she was diagnosed with stage-three colon cancer, the tumor the size of a walnut. Because of its location and my grandmother’s age, the doctors feel they need to shrink it to the size of a pistachio before they can operate. Since Granmama told me this, I can’t pass a bag of walnuts or pistachios without crying. She’s one of the most important people in the world to me, the light that’s guided me all my life.

“Thank you,” I say, lifting my face to his.

Behind him, the holiday garland on the railing blinks red to white.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “The opposite. Something very, very right.”