Jonah sidles up beside me to look out on the lake, at our log cabin on the opposite side. “You’d never know this is here.”
“We’ll have to cut down some of these trees so there’s a view.”
He looks from our place to the cabin behind us. “We can’t get this done by Christmas. There’s no way.”
I exhale slowly. “Actually? I kind of already hired Steve and started the work. All the permits came through this week. They’re coming to cut down trees for a laneway and then they’re going to do all the exterior work and plumbing before the snow, so they can focus on the inside in November. This is why I decided to not go to Toronto, so I can be here to make sure the work happens. And I know we agreed to discuss big spending and this is way more than a thousand dollars, but I’m really excited about it. I was trying to find the right way to tell you because I was afraid you’d think I was insane.” I hold my breath as I offer him a hopeful smile.
Jonah’s jaw hangs. He stares at me, his expression unreadable beyond shock.
I want to offload all my fantastical planning before he blows up. “So, the laneway will branch off from our main drive over there.” I point to the far end of the lake. “And then we could use all that wood from the trees to build another cabin—something bigger—for Agnes and Mabel to live in, because I loved having them here, and I think that if there was a place for them to move in to, Agnes would agree to it—”
“Marry me.”
My rambling words die on a croak. “What?”
He collects my hands in his and pulls me into him. His earnest eyes roam my features. “Marry me, Calla.”
My heartbeat, which was already racing, now pounds in my ears as I search for words. “Because I went behind your back and spent a shit ton of money?”
“No.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath skating across my lips. “Because I want to be here when you renovate this old shack, and build a cabin for Aggie and Mabel, and build a thousand more cabins on our property, if that’s what you wanna do. I want to be here for it all.” His throat bobs with his hard swallow. “You’re thinking about the future? Well, so am I, and don’t want any future that doesn’t have you in it.”
I let out a breathy laugh. The last time Jonah intended to propose, it was a scripted event. Now, we’re standing in the thicket, I’m coated in bug spray, a gun slung over my shoulder. I was not expecting this. Not here, not today. “What about not rushing?”
He brushes strands of wayward hair off my forehead. “You think we’re rushing?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Me neither.”
A bubble rises inside me, of nerves and excitement and emotion, ready to erupt. My eyes burn with tears of happiness. “Are you sure, though? Because you can’t ask me something like this and then change your mind later.” A sense of déjà vu hits me, of an early morning in the airport last November, surrounded by the bustle of travelers, when I decided to alter the course of my life. Though, truth be told, it had been forever changed the moment I met Jonah.
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” he promises, cupping my face with his hands, brushing his lips against mine. “Is that a yes?”
“My answer will always be yes to you, Jonah. Yes.”
The kiss he presses against my lips is deep and slow. “I don’t even have your ring. I mean, I have it, but it’s at the house—”
“I know. I’ve seen it already.”
He pulls back, showing me his quirked brow.
“It fell out of your coat pocket. It was totally accidental, I swear! And it’s beautiful.”
His melodic chuckle carries over the water as he folds me into his arms.
* * *
I stare in shock as I set a Tupperware container of dinner—a spicy penne dish with beef and homegrown tomatoes—on the porch. “What the hell happened to your cast?” Roy’s appointment to have it removed isn’t until next week, and yet here he is, dragging the hose toward the chicken coop, no cast to be seen.
“I didn’t need it anymore.” He stretches his right arm out in front of him as if to prove it. It seems to be working just fine.
“So you, what? Cut it off?”
“Yeah. With a handsaw,” he says matter-of-factly, as if that’s a reasonable option.
A mental image of a rusted blade cutting through flesh hits me and I cringe. “Jesus, Roy. You could have cut your arm off! What would you do around here? How would you survive?”
He snorts. “No, you don’t sound like Muriel at all.”