by Nora Roberts
“You’re sure?”
“How well do you know me?”
Smiling, she blinked away tears. “Pretty well.”
“Would I ask you to marry me if I wasn’t sure?”
“No. No, you wouldn’t. How well do you know me, Jack?”
“Pretty well.”
She brought her lips to his, lingered through the joy. “Then you know my answer.”
On the third floor terrace, the three women stood watching, their arms around each other’s waists. Behind them, Mrs. Grady sighed.
When Mac sniffled, Parker reached in her pocket for a pack of tissues. She handed one to Mac, to Laurel, to Mrs. Grady, then took one for herself.
“It’s beautiful,” Mac managed. “They’re beautiful. Look at the light, the silver cast to the light, and the shadows of the flowers, the gleam of them, and the silhouette Emma and Jack make.”
“You’re thinking in pictures.” Laurel wiped her eyes. “That’s serious romance there.”
“Not just pictures. Moments. That’s Emma’s moment. Her blue butterfly. We probably shouldn’t be watching. If they see us, it’ll spoil it.”
“They can’t see anything but each other.” Parker took Mac’s hand, then Laurel’s, and smiled when she felt Mrs. Grady’s rest on her shoulder.
The moment was just as it should be.
So they watched as Emma danced in the soft June night, in the moonlight, in the garden, with the man she loved.
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