Gus

“Not a wine drinker?” She nodded to my still full glass as I stopped short as soon as I stepped outside.

Her backyard was utterly magical; something out of a garden magazine. Or it would have been with a little TLC.

Still, the enormity of the landscaping took my breath away.

Short, woven fences divided sections of the garden here and there, lending a slightly historic feel. Pea gravel paths spiraled around plantings, dividing the space into four quadrants. A Tudor-style shed stood in the back of the deep lot under the shade of the trees.

The whole thing looked weedy and unkempt. I’d never been a plant guy, unless you counted my weekly chore of mowing the lawn at home. Now, my fingers itched to give this bit of Earth the attention it deserved, bring back the magic I knew it contained. “Wow. This is gorgeous.”

“I haven’t been able to spend much time out here lately. I’m never home.”

“Did you design this?”

“A little. Granny bought this house when I was seven. After my mom died. She started this garden as a project for us. A way of helping us both heal from the loss. The look of it changed over time, as I grew older. Different influences flowed into my life and I poured them out in the garden. I’m sorry you’re seeing it now at its worst.”

“How long has it been since you’ve really gardened out here?”

“Three years.”

“Since Granny died.” I said what she couldn’t.

Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. Her crumpled face made my heart seize, but I didn’t make a move toward her. A hug wasn’t what she needed. Three years was too long for her not to be working this land. It had once been a tribute and a source of healing after her mom’s death. It would be the same for her granny.

“Can you teach me to garden?”

She looked up, surprised. Her lips parted, as if to argue. But she didn’t argue. She nodded. Something that looked like hope bloomed in her eyes.

Wind rushed through the leafy canopy of the tall, uplit trees in the one corner and their limbs bowed with a gracefeul arc. Decca’s face glowed brighter as the silver clouds pushed past the moon, unveiling the bright orb in its fullness.

White flowers and leaves appeared from under the blanket of night, like Decca’s white velvet skin against the backdrop of her black attire. I wasn’t sure if her look was intentional. I hoped so. I hoped she recognized the beauty in her cultivated look the same way this beauty was cultivated in her garden. I hoped she’d never felt anything less than bewitching. I hoped all her past boyfriend had lavished praise on her. I knew I would once we got there. Until then, I’d just have to save it all up. All my appreciation and desire.

I couldn’t help but stare at the shadows and light playing on her face as she fiddled with the matchbox and her wineglass, distracted by something.

In the center of the garden, the bonfire dominated the landscape—or it would as soon as it was lit. A small, stone wall rose out of the black slate of the wide patio, where logs rested in a teepee, waiting to be lit.

Decca placed her glass on the wide arm of one of the Adirondack chairs and slid open the box. Taking a breath, she struck the match, staring into the flame, making no move to light the kindling.

The match burned so low it licked her fingertips. She closed her eyes and waved her hand to blow it out.

Was I making her uncomfortable?

“You know, most people actually light the fire when they invite someone over for a bonfire.”

She laughed. “Uh, I haven’t lit it since . . .”

Stolen story; please report.

“Granny,” I finished for her.

She nodded.

“Okay. So, tonight we watch the moon.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief before taking a deep breath and a fortifying sip from her glass.

“Thank you, Gus. For everything. But mostly, for being gentle with me.”

I didn’t bother with a response. There would come a time—quite soon, if I had my way—where I wouldn’t be so gentle with her. I didn’t want to be thanked yet.

I lowered myself into the big chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. I could see why she liked it out here. Even in the humidity of the southern summer, everything felt perfect in this overgrown bed of weeds.

“I don’t like to make a big deal out of it,” I said lightly, answering her earlier question to change the subject. “But I’m not a big drinker.”

“Really?” She lowered her own glass from her lips.

“I drink for optics. I don’t want to unintentionally give people the impression I think I’m morally superior. I always felt like priests who drink are regular guys. Easy to talk to. Someone you can bond with. Someone who understands.”

“You don’t need to bond with me?”

“I don’t need alcohol to bond with you.” Her eyes were always doing something big and expressive. This time when I looked into them across the unlit bonfire, they softened. I cleared my throat. “And to keep up a small tolerance so I don’t get drunk during communion. I’m particularly good at nursing the same beer for over an hour without anyone noticing.”

“But it’s just a tiny bit, I thought. The communion.”

“The priests have to consume whatever’s left in the chalice.”

Now, her big saucer eyes opened up all the way. God, I loved that look of innocence.

“It’s not usually that much.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of anyone getting drunk off the blood of Christ, so maybe the whole wine into blood thing is on your side.”

She set her glass down again and clasped her hands in her lap.

“I’m not saying that so you stop. I’m only letting you in on my secret because it’s something a wife should know. I’m not opposed to alcohol. There’s a fully stocked bar in our church hall. Father Vasili shares a six pack with Dad once a week. I just…” I rubbed the nape of my neck where the hair was a tiny bit too long and itching under my shirt collar. “I don’t entirely trust myself. When I was young, I drank. A lot. I did things.” My eyes flicked up to hers before I glanced back at the wine. Her expression was tender, waiting. Not pitying, she was giving me the strength to continue. “You know what I did. Everyone knows.”

Her hand rested on my forearm. Squeezing lightly. Telling me it was okay. Except it wasn’t. It would never be okay. And no matter how much counseling, no matter how much forgiveness I received, I’d never believe it. “Everyone knows my deepest shame,” I continued quietly.

It didn’t even make me emotional anymore. I was resigned to my guilt. I couldn’t do any more work to move past it, so I worked around it. But that left Decca in an impossible position of giving me everything I wanted: the shelter of a lifelong companionship.

While I gave her so little in return.

“Dec, let’s not do this.”

Her lips parted, unspoken words on her tongue. Then a flickering anger in her eyes. “The marriage you mean.”

She knew I wasn’t talking about the therapy session. She sipped from her glass and lost her focus somewhere in the imaginary flames.

“Look, honey, it was a selfless, compassionate idea, but I can’t do that to you. There’s no out.”

Her eyes darted to me, not quite meeting my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to me marriage is for life. Even an arranged marriage. This isn’t some quick solution. I get something, you get something, then we go our separate ways. I’m not saying we can’t get divorced if we end up hating each other, but I’ll definitely lose my job. Priests aren’t allowed to divorce and remain in the priesthood, so if you’re doing this so I can be a priest, it just puts us in an even worse position when one day, you finally fall in love with the person you should have waited for.”

“There’s a lot to unpack in that suitcase.”

“Well, you want to be my wife. Start unpacking.”

She looked confused. Angry. “What makes you think I’m that callous when it comes to seven millennia of tradition—that we know of—and globally and historically recognized social customs? Why would you think I’d be that callous when it comes to you? You think I planned to marry you and if it doesn’t work out, we divorce a year later? I didn’t propose a hand fasting and trust me, I’m educated enough to know the difference.”

“And?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. The reflection of the moon in her eyes added to the bite of her words. But it was the bite of a kitten. Tiny needle kitten teeth so cute they almost didn’t hurt.

She deflated, sighing and swiping her bangs out of her face. “I don’t know the first thing about marriage. I’ve never even been in love, so I’ve never considered what I’d want out of a marriage. It’s fun to think about this as an anthropological experiment, but there’s got to be something deeper here we’re not touching on.”

“You want more than a list of rules. Not who gets the bathroom first, but—”

“I want the rules of love,” she looked at me. “I want to love you Gus, I want you to love me. But I don’t know what that means.”

Her words hit me in the chest like a hockey check. Until now, we’d been skating along, passing the puck and playing our positions. Then wham! Center mass. A solid granite block of truth knocked the wind out of me, jerking me backward off my feet and onto my ass.

Decca took a sip of wine and stared into her glass, probably just to give herself something to do while I recovered.

The hardest part was, I wanted the same thing.

I wanted to love her and earn her love.

That’s why I said yes. Not the promise of sex. Not so I could have someone to share meals with and talk through an annual re-watch of all the Lord of the Rings movies. I wanted to share life with her. All of life. The messy and the wonderful. She just happened to be the one brave enough to say it out loud.

“I’m sorry if that’s not—”

“That is what I want,” I didn’t wait to another second to reassure her she wasn’t alone in this. Not alone with the weird hopes or the we should probably know betters. “So let’s sketch out what love looks like for us. I mean, we’ll probably get it all wrong in the beginning. Think love looks like wearing socks to bed when your feet are cold instead of annoying your spouse, while in the end it’s something entirely different. But we need something to start with. A path.”

“A skeleton.” Her eyes looked warm with love already.

“The bones of love. I’m willing to dig if you are.”