“Do you see anything else?” I ask in a shaky voice, realizing he’s just proposed marriage here in the rink. “An alternative future?”
“Is there an alternative?” His expression grows intensely serious. “’Cause I can’t see any future for you that doesn’t include Andrea and me.”
Leaning close, I gaze with him into my palm, open there on his knee. “That’s funny,” I say. “Neither can I.”
Wordlessly, he clasps my face within his large hands, drawing my lips to his for a kiss. “I love you, Rebecca. It’s deep and scary and intense. But it’s right. God, I know that it’s right.”
Covering his hands with mine, I notice something. “You took off his ring,” I say, feeling tears sting my eyes.
“It was tough, but it was time.” He nods. “Time for the future.”
“I’m still frightened, Michael.” I close my eyes, feeling his lips brush against mine. “But I’m determined to run free this time.”
“And I’ll run right with you, wherever you take me,” he promises with a kiss. “As far as you want to go.”
For some reason, kissing him there in that chilly ice-skating rink, I recall surfing. Riding high and charging the waves on my knees, free like the wind, like the unhindered little girl I used to be. Alex wanted me to surf so I’d understand that feeling, I think, because he lived that way. And so I’d recognize it when it came again for me, like it has today.
Free, free like the wind, I think, as I kiss my fiancé one more time.
Epilogue: Michael
Fall in Monterey Bay brings crisp hues of blue and gold against an azure sky—nothing like the hazy scrim holding fast over Los Angeles, with the Santa Ana winds kicking fire and smoke and moodiness down our way. No wonder October’s always been my favorite time to escape to Santa Cruz; and no wonder Alex made such a point of bringing me here that first fall we were together, walking me out the length of the pier until we leaned over the railing and listened to the sea otters barking. We stood there, feeling the fresh wind and brine in our faces, and I knew I’d found my lost home.
No wonder I made such a point of bringing Rebecca here today. ’Cause she needs to know this world—his world—because it’s more a part of me than any of the countless towns where my father’s lived and ministered. It’s my world now too.
We came up yesterday to spend the night and go to church with Ellen this morning. Surprisingly, I managed to sit through the service without squirming too much; I liked Father Roberto’s style. I should’ve known that anyone Allie loved would have been someone I’d relate to. Now that the service is over, everyone’s filing out of the small historic church.
My dead partner’s childhood priest is standing in the portico of St. Anthony’s, greeting his parishioners as they move into the dappled sunlight. I’ve heard so much about Father Roberto over the years that it’s almost weird to think I only met him one other time before—Alex’s funeral. He sure knows a hell of a lot about me.
Alex often confided in him about my spiritual standoff, and from what I’ve heard, Father Roberto often counseled patience to my partner. Yeah, boy, the good father’s sure gonna be surprised to see me here today. He catches sight of Andrea first, and his weathered face lights up. “Hey, Father Berto!” She bounds up to him, slipping her pale arms around his rotund, robed body.
“Why, Andrea Richardson!” He laughs jovially, reaching deep into the sleeve of his robe for a handkerchief to wipe his perspiring brow. “Nobody told me you were here visiting.”
“We kind of snuck in,” she says, looking between Rebecca and me. That’s a good way to put our last minute visit to Santa Cruz this weekend, so that Ellen could finally meet Rebecca before we begin planning our upcoming wedding in earnest. I needed to tell her in person, and like I expected, she cried. But she looked very pleased too, fussing over Rebecca and our engagement—to the point of embarrassing both of us. Maybe it’s easier for Ellen this way somehow, me winding up with someone so completely different from her son.
Father Roberto glances at me, clearly surprised to see me in church for once. Extending my hand boldly, I remind him of my identity, not that he’d have any doubts. “Michael Warner,” I announce. “Good to see you again, sir.”
Then remembering myself, I indicate Rebecca, knowing this one’s gonna shock him for sure. “Uh, Father, this is my fiancée. Rebecca O’Neill.” But he doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as I expect him to be. Maybe Ellen debriefed him ahead of time? Then again maybe not, since he asks with twinkling eyes, “Irish Catholic?”
Becca smiles and shakes her head. “Southern Methodist, sorry.”
“We’re happy to greet all kinds in the house of the Lord,” he affirms, then turning back to me, “Where are you going to be married? Do you know yet?”
“Back in Georgia,” Rebecca answers. “At my home church that I grew up in.”
“Ah, lovely. That will be just lovely. A southern wedding.”