liar—something she discovered before her birthday when she found out about the surprise party he was organizing. She still felt a little guilty about that, so she decided she would let him keep his secret. For now at least.
They were in the paint aisle, a detail she would never forget. He was standing behind the shopping cart, smirking at her. Three times now she had put him to a decision over whether Magnum Green or Monarch Green was a better color for the living room and, three times now, his reply had simply been “Yes.”
“We’ll have to live with this,” she exclaimed, waving the swatches in front of him. “We have to make a decision.”
“Are we marrying it?” he asked. His face went flush.
“What?” Emily replied. She wondered what was wrong with Edmund, why he was so flustered. Then he began fumbling in his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Emily asked. “What are you up to?”
“I’m making a decision,” Edmund said, getting down on one knee.
“Edmund...”
He withdrew a small, antique-looking ring from his pocket. He cleared his throat. “Emily Hawthorne,” he said, his voice cracking, “will you, and either Magnum or Monarch Green, marry me?” Then he held his breath and waited, his hands trembling just a little.
Everyone around them in the hardware store stopped to watch, as if they were the ones being proposed to. Emily would remember each of their faces for the rest of her life, the way they were suspended, phone conversations put on hold, debates over high—or semigloss paint postponed, all of them waiting to hear Emily’s decision.
She wasn’t sure how long the moment lasted, but it must have been longer than she planned because, all of a sudden, there was a small elderly woman standing at her side. She smiled up at Emily. “I’d go with the Monarch Green,” she said.
And then she laughed and the spell was broken and, finally, Emily exclaimed, “Yes!”
“Is that to the paint or to me?” Edmund asked, still on his knee, still offering her the ring.
“Just put it on my finger,” she said, fighting back tears.
And then the ring was on her finger and he was on his feet, kissing her, and everyone in the hardware store was applauding.
That night, they ate dinner on the floor of her art gallery and they talked about what the future would hold for them. They talked about children, houses in the country, where they would spend their holidays.
The next day, on his lunch break, he was hit by a bus and died. That was a year ago. Now, without explanation, he was alive again.
* * *
On the morning of Edmund’s return, he arrived at work just as he had countless times before. The walk in had been laden with fog—burying the small North Carolina town beneath one large soggy white pillow. The morning chill was harsher than usual, but Edmund was hopeful that the day would improve. He got into the elevator, thinking of nothing other than the complicated account that had been giving him trouble for the past few weeks—a once-famous movie star who was diligently going about the business of spending the entirety of her fortune.
A Muzak version of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” played, tinny and hollow, in the elevator, just as it did most mornings. Edmund hardly noticed.
But when he got to his cubicle, he saw that all of his belongings had been moved, and someone else had obviously taken over his desk. He looked around, but it was early still and hardly anyone else had come in yet—only a couple of people on the far end of the office.
For a moment Edmund thought that he had somehow wound up at the wrong desk. It had happened once before. He’d come in one day and sat down at a desk when he realized that the family photograph on the desk was that of Robert Jenkins. He and Robert had a good laugh about the incident, and now and again, Robert would still bring it up in conversation—usually when the two of them were in the elevator, during that awkward silence that
They were in the paint aisle, a detail she would never forget. He was standing behind the shopping cart, smirking at her. Three times now she had put him to a decision over whether Magnum Green or Monarch Green was a better color for the living room and, three times now, his reply had simply been “Yes.”
“We’ll have to live with this,” she exclaimed, waving the swatches in front of him. “We have to make a decision.”
“Are we marrying it?” he asked. His face went flush.
“What?” Emily replied. She wondered what was wrong with Edmund, why he was so flustered. Then he began fumbling in his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Emily asked. “What are you up to?”
“I’m making a decision,” Edmund said, getting down on one knee.
“Edmund...”
He withdrew a small, antique-looking ring from his pocket. He cleared his throat. “Emily Hawthorne,” he said, his voice cracking, “will you, and either Magnum or Monarch Green, marry me?” Then he held his breath and waited, his hands trembling just a little.
Everyone around them in the hardware store stopped to watch, as if they were the ones being proposed to. Emily would remember each of their faces for the rest of her life, the way they were suspended, phone conversations put on hold, debates over high—or semigloss paint postponed, all of them waiting to hear Emily’s decision.
She wasn’t sure how long the moment lasted, but it must have been longer than she planned because, all of a sudden, there was a small elderly woman standing at her side. She smiled up at Emily. “I’d go with the Monarch Green,” she said.
And then she laughed and the spell was broken and, finally, Emily exclaimed, “Yes!”
“Is that to the paint or to me?” Edmund asked, still on his knee, still offering her the ring.
“Just put it on my finger,” she said, fighting back tears.
And then the ring was on her finger and he was on his feet, kissing her, and everyone in the hardware store was applauding.
That night, they ate dinner on the floor of her art gallery and they talked about what the future would hold for them. They talked about children, houses in the country, where they would spend their holidays.
The next day, on his lunch break, he was hit by a bus and died. That was a year ago. Now, without explanation, he was alive again.
* * *
On the morning of Edmund’s return, he arrived at work just as he had countless times before. The walk in had been laden with fog—burying the small North Carolina town beneath one large soggy white pillow. The morning chill was harsher than usual, but Edmund was hopeful that the day would improve. He got into the elevator, thinking of nothing other than the complicated account that had been giving him trouble for the past few weeks—a once-famous movie star who was diligently going about the business of spending the entirety of her fortune.
A Muzak version of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” played, tinny and hollow, in the elevator, just as it did most mornings. Edmund hardly noticed.
But when he got to his cubicle, he saw that all of his belongings had been moved, and someone else had obviously taken over his desk. He looked around, but it was early still and hardly anyone else had come in yet—only a couple of people on the far end of the office.
For a moment Edmund thought that he had somehow wound up at the wrong desk. It had happened once before. He’d come in one day and sat down at a desk when he realized that the family photograph on the desk was that of Robert Jenkins. He and Robert had a good laugh about the incident, and now and again, Robert would still bring it up in conversation—usually when the two of them were in the elevator, during that awkward silence that
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