The Witness (57 page)

“You’re welcome, but I get to sit on it, too.”

She sat, pulled him down. “Look at the hills, so green as the sun lowers, and the sky just starting to hint at reds and golds. Oh, I love this spot. Can we get married here? Right here?”

“I can’t think of a better place. Since I can’t”—he pulled a ring box out of his pocket—“let’s make it official.”

“You got me a ring.”

“Of course I got you a ring.” He flipped the top open. “Do you like it?”

It sparkled in the softening light, like life, she thought, like the celebration of all that was real and true. “I like it very much.” She lifted her eyes, drenched now, to his. “You waited until now to give it to me because you knew it would mean more. No one’s ever understood me the way you do. I don’t believe in fate, or in things being meant. But I believe in you.”

“I believe in fate, and in things being meant. And I believe in you.” He slipped it on her finger.

He kissed her to seal it, then opened the champagne with a quick, happy pop.

She took the glass he poured for her, waited while he poured a second plastic cup. Then frowned when he added a small amount to a third, and set it on the ground for the dog.

“He can’t have that. You can’t give champagne to a dog.”

“Why not?”

“Because …” She stared at Bert as he tilted his head, watched her with his pretty hazel eyes. “All right, but just this once.”

She tapped her cup to Brooks’s.

“Soon, and for the rest of my life, I’ll be Abigail Gleason.”

And while the dog happily lapped at his share of champagne, she leaned her head on Brooks’s shoulder and watched the sun lower over the hills. Of home.