the past.
It was almost Christmas, ’87. He’d been working for a friend of his dad’s, warehousing fruit for extra money to buy Meg an engagement ring. Late on the day he’d been in town to get the ring—a simple solitaire, less than a third of a carat, set in gold—she called him and asked him to meet her at the tree.
“Just come over here,” he told her. By then he’d been living in the shed for two years; they spent most of their free time there.
“No, I…I’d rather be outside, okay?”
“Sure.” Distracted by his excitement about the ring, he missed the tension in her voice. Instead, he thought of how he could give her the ring there at the tree; that was a better plan than the elaborate fancy-dinner-bended-knee thing he’d been thinking of doing. Outdoors, at their spot—a much better plan.
The sun was low, the temperature dropping with it. He threw on his denim jacket, tucked the ring box into one pocket, and hurried through the groves, past the lake, rehearsing his proposal in his head. When he got to the tree, hands in pockets, the box square and promising in his right hand, he saw Meg’s expression and pulled his hands out, empty.
“What’s the matter?”
She was sitting at the base of their oak tree, arms wrapped around her knees. “I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“Waste of time,” he joked, nervous without knowing why. She shrugged and looked past him, biting her lip. He squatted in front of her. “Just spit it out.” Whatever it was couldn’t be so bad, not for the two of them anyway. Must be it had to do with money and the Powells’ farm—the talk was that Spencer was about to go bankrupt.
“It’s over, Car,” she said, looking down at her sneakers. She was about to wear a hole through the left one, at the big toe.
“I heard. What are they planning to do?”
She looked up sharply. “Who?”
“Your parents. Are they filing for bankruptcy or what?”
She shook her head and stood up. “No, I mean
us.
I…I’m…Did you ever think how we might actually be bad for each other?”
“What, are you nuts?”
She looked it, wild-eyed and flushed. “No, I’m serious. You…you need to experience other…you know, date other people. We—we’re too close. It’s unhealthy. I mean, you’ve never had any other serious girlfriend.”
“You like it that way,” he said, mentally scrambling to catch up to what she was saying. “What do you mean, too close? We’re just right, we’re perfect.” The box in his pocket was the proof that he firmly believed his words. Why didn’t she? Why all of a sudden?
“No, we’re just…you know—
kids.
We need to get some space between us and…and…and see what else there is in the world.
Who
else,” she added, her voice hoarse.
“We’re not kids. I just turned twenty, you’re nineteen—both legally adults.” It was a weak response, he knew. The force of her insistence emanated from her like a magnetic field. Already he could feel the futility in arguing.
She looked around them, as though enemies might be hiding in the brush. “I can’t see you anymore,” she said. “It’s for both our good.” He grabbed her wrist, but she was already in motion, already running away before even taking a step. “I love you, but I have to go.”
She broke free, and he watched her run, the copper hair he loved so much streaming out behind her like a wild mare’s mane. He would let her run; she wouldn’t go far. He was sure of it.
C ARSON COULDN’T COMMIT TO ANY OF THE WEDDING BANDS ON DISPLAY IN the Philipsburg jewelry shop. Each silky platinum or diamond-encrusted gold band looked good, but he couldn’t quite see himself wearing any of them. Too plain, too elaborate, too gaudy, too wide, too narrow; Val and the salesman, whose English was approximately as good as Carson’s Dutch, frowned at him as he pondered.
He pushed the navy blue velvet tray away. “You know, our flight’s in ninety minutes….
It was almost Christmas, ’87. He’d been working for a friend of his dad’s, warehousing fruit for extra money to buy Meg an engagement ring. Late on the day he’d been in town to get the ring—a simple solitaire, less than a third of a carat, set in gold—she called him and asked him to meet her at the tree.
“Just come over here,” he told her. By then he’d been living in the shed for two years; they spent most of their free time there.
“No, I…I’d rather be outside, okay?”
“Sure.” Distracted by his excitement about the ring, he missed the tension in her voice. Instead, he thought of how he could give her the ring there at the tree; that was a better plan than the elaborate fancy-dinner-bended-knee thing he’d been thinking of doing. Outdoors, at their spot—a much better plan.
The sun was low, the temperature dropping with it. He threw on his denim jacket, tucked the ring box into one pocket, and hurried through the groves, past the lake, rehearsing his proposal in his head. When he got to the tree, hands in pockets, the box square and promising in his right hand, he saw Meg’s expression and pulled his hands out, empty.
“What’s the matter?”
She was sitting at the base of their oak tree, arms wrapped around her knees. “I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“Waste of time,” he joked, nervous without knowing why. She shrugged and looked past him, biting her lip. He squatted in front of her. “Just spit it out.” Whatever it was couldn’t be so bad, not for the two of them anyway. Must be it had to do with money and the Powells’ farm—the talk was that Spencer was about to go bankrupt.
“It’s over, Car,” she said, looking down at her sneakers. She was about to wear a hole through the left one, at the big toe.
“I heard. What are they planning to do?”
She looked up sharply. “Who?”
“Your parents. Are they filing for bankruptcy or what?”
She shook her head and stood up. “No, I mean
us.
I…I’m…Did you ever think how we might actually be bad for each other?”
“What, are you nuts?”
She looked it, wild-eyed and flushed. “No, I’m serious. You…you need to experience other…you know, date other people. We—we’re too close. It’s unhealthy. I mean, you’ve never had any other serious girlfriend.”
“You like it that way,” he said, mentally scrambling to catch up to what she was saying. “What do you mean, too close? We’re just right, we’re perfect.” The box in his pocket was the proof that he firmly believed his words. Why didn’t she? Why all of a sudden?
“No, we’re just…you know—
kids.
We need to get some space between us and…and…and see what else there is in the world.
Who
else,” she added, her voice hoarse.
“We’re not kids. I just turned twenty, you’re nineteen—both legally adults.” It was a weak response, he knew. The force of her insistence emanated from her like a magnetic field. Already he could feel the futility in arguing.
She looked around them, as though enemies might be hiding in the brush. “I can’t see you anymore,” she said. “It’s for both our good.” He grabbed her wrist, but she was already in motion, already running away before even taking a step. “I love you, but I have to go.”
She broke free, and he watched her run, the copper hair he loved so much streaming out behind her like a wild mare’s mane. He would let her run; she wouldn’t go far. He was sure of it.
C ARSON COULDN’T COMMIT TO ANY OF THE WEDDING BANDS ON DISPLAY IN the Philipsburg jewelry shop. Each silky platinum or diamond-encrusted gold band looked good, but he couldn’t quite see himself wearing any of them. Too plain, too elaborate, too gaudy, too wide, too narrow; Val and the salesman, whose English was approximately as good as Carson’s Dutch, frowned at him as he pondered.
He pushed the navy blue velvet tray away. “You know, our flight’s in ninety minutes….
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