Two weeks later, we were together every weekend and evening.
A year later, we were at a Gordon Lightfoot concert. At intermission, I said, “I’m going to buy a house. I’ve lived with my parents long enough.”
“Really?” She was surprised. “That would be great!”
It took a month, but we finally found something we liked. It sat on the side of a hill with a view of the cove below. A bald eagle and an osprey fished in the waters, as we viewed the property. We agreed, this was the one.
The day the mortgage closed, I bought a bottle of champagne and called Georgia. “Let’s go to the new house and celebrate.” We grabbed a couple of lawn chairs—I didn’t have furniture—and rushed off.
We popped the cork and sprayed the house with bubbly—my first house. Inside, we sipped champagne, hugged and kissed. It was a night to be happy. I was on my own.
Georgia didn’t know it, but I’d taken her topaz ring and had a goldsmith create a beautiful setting for it. He made a ring that lifted the stone off the finger and allowed the light to shine through. It was a work of art.
Georgia sat in an old reclining lawn chair, with the back rest lifted. The seat was made of cloth. Years of weather had rotted the fabric. I knelt in front of her, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the ring. The cloth in the chair ripped. Georgia sank to the floor, as I asked, “Georgia, will you marry me?”
To be continued…
This is the first part of a five part series.
I found love, lost it, and found it again.
I love your comments. I like to include a few with each post.
I received some wonderful ones in the last few weeks, but because of my computer troubles, I lost them all. Please forgive me. Please mail your old comments to me via the Message Center. Just click on my name, then click on “get in touch with this writer.” Also, feel free to post comments on this story.
