Page 68 of Promise To Marry You
I love him, but I’m terrified that won’t be enough. ThatIwon’t be enough.
I can’t. Not over the phone.
And not today, when I have to face the darkest moment of my past all over again.
When the taxi drops me off at the cemetery gate, the grey clouds overhead match my mood. I’ve always struggled with this day. The anniversary of the accident that took my parents’ lives. And this year feels especially hard, knowing Grandpa won’t be waiting at home for me with a mug of hot chocolate and open arms. The flowers he always had delivered to Mom’s headstone won’t be there as I walk up the hill to where they lie. The house I grew up in is no longer my home.
I’m alone.
But as I crest the hill, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the left, two rows in and five spots down, I stumble to a stop.
Because there, in front of the dark charcoal slab of stone, is a beautiful splash of colour. Pink and orange, vibrant, and full of life.
“What the fuck?” I whisper as tears start to stream down my face. “How is this possible?” I make my way over and sink down on the cool grass, my hand trembling as it reaches out to finger the soft dahlia petals.
Did Grandpa set up a recurring order? Did he ask someone else to take over the tradition? Or was I wrong all along and it was never him doing it? I need to know.
The screen of my phone is blurry from my tears as I look up the florist whose tag is stuck in the back of the vase. I’ve never bothered to call before, so sure it was Grandpa and he simply wanted to keep his gift a secret, for some reason. But he’s not here anymore, and if someone else is responsible for ensuring I never feel alone in remembering my mom and dad each year, I need to know who.
A cheerful voice picks up the phone. “Hello, Brandon Beautiful Blooms, how may I help you today?”
“Yes, hi. I, um, this is a weird question, but I’m hoping you can tell me who keeps ordering flowers every year for my mom and dad’s grave.” The words stumble over each other as I get them out, and silence falls down the line.
“Oh okay, well, that is a unique request.” The woman sounds unsure, and for a moment, I panic, thinking she won’t tell me.
“Please. I know you might have rules or something, but I need to know. For about, I don’t know, maybe ten years, maybe more, these flowers appear and it makes me feel like I’m not alone on this day. I thought it was my grandfather, but it isn’t because now he’s gone, too, and I —”
“Honey, it’s okay, there are no rules. Just take a breath and we’ll figure this out.” Her soothing voice interrupts my sob story, and I draw in a ragged breath.
“Thank you,” I whisper, swiping the tears away from my cheeks.
I tell her the bouquet, and the delivery location, and a few minutes later, she comes back on the line.
“Alright. It seems this is a standing order we confirm each year with a gentleman in British Columbia.”
“Beckett,” I breathe, and the lady at the florist makes a surprised sound.
“Yes. Says here, it’s a Beckett Donnelly. You know him, I assume?”
“I do,” I start, then choke on a sob, this one filled more with love than grief. “He’s my husband.”
“Oh! Well, isn’t that…sweet?” The poor woman sounds flustered, and I can imagine why. What kind of husband doesn’t tell his wife that he’s the one responsible for the one thing that eases the pain of this day every year? But I don’t have time to get into it with her now. I need to go home.
“Thank you for your help, have a good day,” I say hurriedly, hanging up the phone. Looking back down at the flowers, and then at Mom and Dad’s grave, I smile for the first time in several days. “Hi Mom, hi Dad, I’m sorry I can’t stay. I love you both, and I miss you, but there’s someone else I love and miss. And I need to get to him right away before it’s too late to try and fix this.”
Pressing a kiss to my fingers, I touch the top of the gravestone before standing up. Thinking quickly, I reach down and pluck one of the dahlias out of the vase. “Hope you don’t mind, Mom, but I’m going to take one of these.”
With my heart pounding, I whirl around and take off at a jog back down the hill. I’ll call a cab to go back to the hotel and try to change my flight to leave tonight.
I need to go home and talk to him.
But then for the second time today, I stumble to a stop. Because there, at the entrance to the cemetery, is a tall, beautiful man unfolding his body from a taxi. A single solitary ray of sunshine pierces through the clouds, hitting his rich brown hair, illuminating him to perfection.
“Beckett?” I say, my voice hoarse.
He lifts his head from paying the cabdriver, and the play of emotions that cross his face fills my heart.
“What are you doing here?” I say as we both slowly walk toward one another. The cab speeds off behind him, leaving us alone.
