It Happened on Maple Street

And that’s when he really let it all fly. He just couldn’t pretend anymore. Not to himself. And not to anyone else.

Will you marry me and walk behind me the rest of my life?

He got the whole line out without a single misspelled word.

Are you drunk?

Maybe. Will you marry me?

Will you remember asking me in the morning?

Yes.

Yes, I will marry you, but I won’t walk behind you, ever. Or in front of you, either. I’ll walk beside you.

Okay

And just to be sure, he texted one more time.

You’re going to marry me.

Yes. But you have to ask me again in the morning when you’re sober.

Okay. I will.

And he did.

I moved to Ohio in March of 2007 to join Tim in his home until we’d saved enough money for a new life in the Southwest. And early in the afternoon on August 4 of that same year, I finally heard the words I’d waited more than half my life to hear with this man by my side.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to join this woman and this man in the bonds of holy matrimony . . .”

I stood there, one of only four people in the room, dressed in a beige and brown sleeveless shift with a lace tie its only adornment, my hair down around my shoulders and wedge sandals on my feet, and faced Tim, who was wearing a pair of beige Dockers and a dark, short-sleeved shirt.

We were in front of a stained-glass window, surrounded by antiques, in the formal living room of a 100-year-old house that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast. My wedding dress was upstairs. His tuxedo was there, too. Guests would start arriving in a couple of hours. Our formal wedding was scheduled for late that afternoon.

We’d rented the whole house, and some of our guests, my mother and little brother included, would be spending the night.

We had a D.J. coming, a gorgeous cake, a photographer, flowers, a catered dinner, and cases of champagne. But the most important moment of my life was already happening.

Tim and I wanted our family and friends to share our joy with us. We just had to have this moment, this most precious and sacred ceremony, take place with just him and me.

And the owner of the bed-and-breakfast who was our witness, and the minister who was officiating both ceremonies.

And when, after we’d read our own handwritten vows to each other, he pronounced us husband and wife—when I was, in the eyes of God, Mrs. Timothy Lee Barney—I whooped out loud with joy. I’d finally found my own happy ending.

Epilogue

I AM TARA GUMSER. I’M OLDER. I’M TATTERED AND TORN. I’m less naive. The days of my life haven’t happened like I’d envisioned them. There are things I can’t undo. I have bad spells—times when I struggle to understand, to accept, to remember, and to forget.

And still, I am living proof that the love I write about, the love that is strong enough to heal all hurts, really does exist. Here. In our world. In daily life.

Tim and I have been married for almost four years and are closer now than ever. We’ve struggled, and through the struggles, we’ve grown together. He stayed true to his word to remain by my side, to “go together or not at all.” Every single day he gives me the privilege of caring for his deepest heart as he cares for mine. And he remains steadfastly adamant that while Tara Taylor Quinn is a welcome visitor in our home, she is not the star of my show.

I am Tara Gumser, and I know two things. I write for Harlequin Books. And I am married to my own Harlequin hero. Finally.