He did not kneel, but he took her hand in his, his head bent close to hers as he spoke. I could not hear the words through the double-paned glass, but his lips moved with that slow, deliberate rhythm he used when he was explaining how to fix a broken latch.
He opened the velvet box.
The silver wedding band inside was thin, catching the grey afternoon light like a sliver of ice.
Rosie bounced on her heels, her face lighting up as she reached out to touch the metal. She did not hesitate; she slid her finger into the ring herself, her laugh reaching me as a faint, musical vibration through the glass.
Ben did not smile, but he pressed his forehead against hers for three long seconds.
I set the green metal watering can down on the gravel path.
Then the kitchen door creaked open, and the screen door let out its familiar double rattle.
Rosie stood in the doorway, her cheeks pink from the October wind.
“Look, Clara,” she said, holding her left hand out so the silver caught the kitchen light.
“It is silver,” Rosie said. “Ben says it matches the sky before the rain.”
“It’s very nice, Rosie,” I said, my voice sounding thin to my own ears.
“We are going to live in the yellow house,” she said, her voice warm and steady. “He told me we can plant the yellow flowers by the porch.”
“Did he?”
“He promised,” she said. She touched the ring with her thumb, turning it slowly. “He always keeps his promises.”
She walked back out to the garden, her canvas shoes making no sound on the grass.
The half-mile walk back to my own cottage was quiet, the wind bringing the smell of damp earth from the fields. I watched the dry leaves drift across the road, their brown edges curling in the cold.
The gravel in my own driveway was cold under my thin shoes by the time the sun dipped below the tree line. Ben was leaning against the tailgate of his truck, his bicycle already secured in the back with two yellow bungee cords.
“I saw you in the garden this afternoon,” I said, stopping three feet from his front bumper.
