The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,78

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