We entered the rose garden and circled the outermost concentric heart; in time, the lights from the tent behind us grew dimmer. The fountain burbled like a mountain brook. Jane said nothing; instead, she simply absorbed the surroundings, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure I was close. On the far side, only the roof of the tent was evident. Jane stopped and scanned the rosebushes, then finally selected a red bud and broke it free. She plucked the thorns before approaching me and tucked it into my lapel. After adjusting it until she was satisfied, she patted my chest gently and looked up.
“You look more finished with a boutonniere,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Did I mention how handsome you look all dressed up?”
“I think you used the word . . . great. But feel free to say it as often as you like.”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Thank you for what you did here. Anna’s going to be absolutely amazed.”
“You’re welcome.”
Leaning in close, she murmured, “And thank you for tonight, too. That was . . . quite a little game I came home to.”
In the past, I would have seized the opportunity to press her about it and reassure myself that I’d done well, but instead I reached for her hand.
“There’s something else I want you to see,” I said simply.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a carriage led by a team of white horses out in the barn,” she teased.
I shook my head. “Not quite. But if you think that might be a good idea, I could try to arrange something.”
She laughed. As she moved closer, the heat of her body was tantalizing. Her eyes were mischievous. “So what else did you want to show me?”
“Another surprise,” I offered.
“I don’t know if my heart’s going to be able to take it.”
“Come on,” I said, “this way.”
I drew her out of the garden and down a gravel path, toward the house. Above us, the stars were blinking in a cloudless sky, and the moon reflected in the river beyond the house. Branches dripped with Spanish moss, scraggly limbs stretched in all directions like ghostly fingers. The air carried the familiar scent of pine and salt, an odor unique to the low country. In the silence, I felt Jane’s thumb moving against my own.
She seemed to feel no need to rush. We walked slowly, taking in the sounds of the evening: the crickets and cicadas, leaves rustling in the trees, the gravel crunching underfoot.
She stared toward the house. Silhouetted against the trees, it was a timeless image, the white columns along the porch lending the home an almost opulent air. The tin roof had darkened in color over the years and seemed to vanish into the evening sky, and I could see the yellow glow of candles through the windows.
As we entered the house, the candles flickered in the sudden draft. Jane stood in the doorway, staring into the living room. The piano, cleaned and dusted, gleamed in the soft light, and the wood floor in front of the fireplace where Anna would dance with Keith shone like new. The tables—with white napkins folded into the shape of swans set atop the gleaming china and crystal—resembled photographs of an exclusive restaurant. Silver goblets at each setting glittered like Christmas ornaments. The tables along the far wall that would be used for the food on the weekend seemed to vanish amid the flowers between the chafing dishes.
“Oh, Wilson . . . ,” she breathed.
“It’ll be different when everyone arrives on Saturday, but I wanted you to see how it looked without the crowd.”
She released my hand and walked around the room, absorbing every detail.
At her nod, I went to the kitchen, opened the wine, and poured two glasses. Glancing up, I saw Jane staring at the piano, her face shadowed in profile.
“Who’s going to be playing?” she asked.
I smiled. “If you could have chosen, who would you pick?”
She gave me a hopeful look. “John Peterson?”
I nodded.
“But how? Isn’t he playing at the Chelsea?”
“You know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Anna. The Chelsea will survive without him for a night.”
She continued to stare at the room in wonder as she approached me. “I just don’t see how you could have done all this so fast . . . I mean, I was just here a few days ago.”
I handed her a wineglass. “Then you approve?”
“Approve?” She took a slow sip of wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the house look this beautiful.”
I watched the candlelight flickering in her eyes.
“Are you hungry yet?” I asked.
She seemed almost startled. “To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it. I think I’d like to enjoy my wine and look around for a while before we have to go.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. I was planning on having dinner here.”
“But how? There’s nothing in the cupboards.”
“Wait and see.” I motioned over my shoulder. “Why don’t you relax and look around while I get started?”
Leaving her side, I went to the kitchen, where the preparations for the elaborate meal I’d planned were already under way. The crab-stuffed sole I had made was ready to go, and I set the oven to the proper temperature. The ingredients for the hollandaise sauce were already measured and set aside; the contents simply needed to be added to the saucepan. Our salads were tossed and the dressing made.
As I worked, I glanced up from time to time and saw Jane moving slowly through the main room. Though each table was the same, she paused at each one, imagining the particular guest who would be seated there. She absently adjusted the silverware and rotated the vases of flowers, usually returning them to their original position. There was a calm, almost content satisfaction about her that I found strangely moving. Then again, almost everything about her moved me these days.
In the silence, I pondered the sequence of events that had brought us to this point. Experience had taught me that even the most precious memories fade with the passage of time, yet I didn’t want to forget a single moment of the last week we’d spent together. And, of course, I wanted Jane to remember every moment as well.
“Jane?” I called out. She was out of my sight line, and I guessed she was near the piano.
She appeared from the corner of the room. Even from a distance, her face was luminous. “Yes?”
“While I’m getting dinner ready, would you do me a favor?”
“Sure. Do you need a hand in the kitchen?”
“No. I left my apron upstairs. Would you mind getting it for me? It’s on the bed in your old room.”
“Not at all,” she said.
A moment later, I watched her disappear up the stairs. I knew she wouldn’t be coming back down until dinner was nearly ready.
I hummed as I began rinsing the asparagus, anticipating her reaction when she discovered the gift awaiting her upstairs.
“Happy anniversary,” I whispered.
While the water came to a boil on the stove, I slid the sole into the oven and strolled out to the back porch. There, the caterers had set up a table for the two of us. I thought about opening the champagne but decided to wait for Jane. Breathing deeply, I tried to clear my mind.
Jane had by now surely found what I’d left her on the bed upstairs. The album—hand stitched with a carved leather binding—was exquisite, but it was the contents that I hoped would truly move her. This was the gift I’d assembled with the help of so many for our thirtieth anniversary. Like the other gifts she’d received this evening, it had come with a note. It was the letter I had tried but failed to write in the past, the kind that Noah had once suggested, and though I’d once found the very idea impossible, the epiphanies of the past year, and particularly the past week, lent my words an uncharacteristic grace.
When I finished writing, I read through it once, then read it again. Even now, the words were as clear in my mind as they were on the pages Jane now held in her hand.
My darling,
It’s late at night, and as I sit at my desk, the house is silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. You’re asleep upstairs, and though I long for the warmth of your body against my own, something compels me to write this letter, even though I’m not exactly sure where to begin. Nor, I realize, do I know exactly what to say, but I can’t escape the conclusion that after all these years, it’s something I must do, not only for you, but for myself as well. After thirty years, it’s the least I can do.
Has it really been that long? Though I know it has, the very thought is amazing to me. Some things, after all, have never changed. In the mornings, for instance, my first thoughts after waking are—and always have been—of you. Often, I’ll simply lie on my side and watch you; I see your hair spread across the pillow, one arm above your head, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes when you’re dreaming, I’ll move closer to you in the hope that somehow this will allow me to enter your dreams. That, after all, is how I’ve always felt about you. Throughout our marriage, you’ve been my dream, and I’ll never forget how lucky I’ve felt ever since the first day we walked together in the rain.
I often think back on that day. It’s an image that has never left me, and I find myself experiencing a sense of déjà vu whenever lightning streaks across the sky. In those moments, it seems as if we’re starting over once more, and I can feel the hammering of my young man’s heart, a man who’d suddenly glimpsed his future and couldn’t imagine a life without you.
I experience this same sensation with nearly every memory I can summon. If I think of Christmas, I see you sitting beneath the tree, joyfully handing out gifts to our children. When I think of summer nights, I feel the press of your hand against my own as we walked beneath the stars. Even at work, I frequently find myself glancing at the clock and wondering what you’re doing at that exact moment. Simple things—I might imagine a smudge of dirt on your cheek as you work in the garden, or how you look as you lean against the counter, running a hand through your hair while you visit on the phone. I guess what I’m trying to say is that you are there, in everything I am, in everything I’ve ever done, and looking back, I know that I should have told you how much you’ve always meant to me.
I’m sorry for that, just as I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve let you down. I wish I could undo the past, but we both know that’s impossible. Yet I’ve come to believe that while the past is unchangeable, our perceptions of it are malleable, and this is where the album comes in.
In it, you will find many, many photographs. Some are copies from our own albums, but most are not. Instead, I asked our friends and family for any photographs they had of the two of us, and over the past year, the photographs were sent to me from across the country. You’ll find a photo Kate took at Leslie’s christening, still another from a company picnic a quarter of a century ago, taken by Joshua Tundle. Noah contributed a picture of the two of us that he’d taken on a rainy Thanksgiving while you were pregnant with Joseph, and if you look closely, it’s possible to see the place where I first realized that I’d fallen in love with you. Anna, Leslie, and Joseph each contributed pictures as well.
As each photograph came in, I tried to recall the moment in which it was taken. At first, my memory was like the snapshot itself—a brief, self-contained image—but I found that if I closed my eyes and concentrated, time would begin to roll backward. And in each instance, I remembered what I’d been thinking.
This, then, is the other part of the album. On the page opposite each picture, I’ve written what I remember about those moments or, more specifically, what I remember about you.
I call this album “The Things I Should Have Said.”
I once made a vow to you on the steps outside the courthouse, and as your husband of thirty years, it’s time I finally made another: From this point on, I will become the man I always should have been. I’ll become a more romantic husband, and make the most of the years we have left together. And in each precious moment, my hope is that I’ll do or say something that lets you know that I could never have cherished another as much as I’ve always cherished you.
With all my love,
Wilson
At the sound of Jane’s footsteps, I looked up. She stood at the top of the steps, the hallway light behind her obscuring her features. Her hand reached for the railing as she began moving down the steps.
The light from the candles illuminated her in stages: first her legs, then her waist, then finally her face. Stopping halfway down, she met my eyes, and even from across the room, I could see her tears.
“Happy anniversary,” I said, my voice echoing in the room. Continuing to gaze at me, she finished descending the steps. With a gentle smile, she crossed the room toward me and I suddenly knew exactly what to do.
Opening my arms, I drew her close. Her body was warm and soft, her cheek damp against my own. And as we stood in Noah’s house two days before our thirtieth anniversary, I held her against me, wishing with all my heart for time to stop, now and forever.
We stood together for a long time, before Jane finally leaned back. With her arms still around me, she stared up at me. Her cheeks were damp and shiny in the dim light.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I gave her a gentle squeeze. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I led her through the living room, toward the rear of the house. I pushed open the back door and we stepped out onto the porch.
Despite the moonlight, I could still make out the Milky Way arcing above us like a spray of jewels; Venus had risen in the southern sky. The temperature had cooled slightly, and in the breeze, I caught a scent of Jane’s perfume.
“I thought we could eat out here. And besides, I didn’t want to mess up any of the tables inside.”
She looped her arm through mine and surveyed the table before us. “It’s wonderful, Wilson.”