She leans back in the chair, regarding me. “Well, now.” She gives me a hand mirror.
It’s tempting to say I don’t recognize myself, but it wouldn’t be exactly accurate. I look like myself, just…more. My cheekbones are emphasized, my eyes look bigger, and their color brighter. My lashes pop.
Chloe smiles at me. “What do you think, honey?”
I’m choked up. “Amazing. I don’t really wear makeup, and so this is…it’s amazing.”
She pats my hand. “You really are a natural beauty, Miss Park. I mean that. All I did was emphasize the beauty you already have. Didn’t take much.” She moves a tray of the case and pulls out a wig from the bottom—it’s the same color as my own hair, but long enough to fall to my shoulders. “Now, I do have this. But, if you want my opinion, you don’t need it.”
I’ve not had hair longer than chin length since I was eight; I’ve dreamed of what I would look like with my hair grown out.
“Could I just…see what it looks like?”
“Of course.”
She helps me put it on, runs her fingers through the coppery locks. Satisfied, she hands me the mirror again.
I look at my reflection for a long time, drinking it in—me, but with long natural hair; it’s a fictional me that’s never existed, and I indulge in the daydream for a moment or two longer.
“Thank you,” I say, eventually. “But you’re right. I don’t need it.”
Chloe removes it, puts it away, and sits opposite me. Her eyes tell me she knows more than she’s letting on. She covers my hands with hers. “For whatever my opinion is worth, I think you made the right choice. That man loves you as you are. He don’t need you to have that kind of hair. It doesn’t define your beauty.” As if to emphasize, she runs a palm over her own short, tightly rippled hair.
“You’re amazing,” I whisper. “Thank you so much.”
She tugs me to my feet and holds open the door for me. “He’s waiting. Go get him.”
He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, his back to the cabin, watching the sun dip lower and lower toward the horizon. The sun is minutes from hitting the horizon line, and it seems like it’ll all but hiss and steam as it does. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow.
He feels me, or hears me. Turns. One hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging at his side. His eyes devour me, and then flit up to the sky. “Hear that?”
I smirk, tilt my head. “No?”
“The stars. They’re weeping for your beauty.”
I would bite my lip, but I don’t want to ruin my lipstick. I’m tempted to mention the wig, but that was just for me, I think.
I just shake my head. “This is all so incredible, Wes.”
He smiles, takes my hand. “It’s not over yet. The main course is this way.” He leads me around behind the cabin and into the forest, a stand of towering cedars and pine. There’s a path carpeted with wood chips and lined with small stones, lit every dozen feet or so with torches. The path curves through the trees, and we walk for a hundred yards or so, maybe a little more, and then the path opens and the trees end, and we’re in another clearing, with the cliff and the sea to our left, a wide sward of knee-high grass to our right, running half a mile or so before meeting the forest which runs away into the distance. The clearing is smooth and flat, perhaps sloping a bit toward the sea. In the center, a few feet away, is a small round table, draped with a floor-length white cloth, set for two. There’s a single red rose, and tall candle in an ornate silver candleholder, the wick lit and flickering, dancing sideways in the low breeze. A dozen or so yards from the table is a temporary shelter, like you’d see set up at a charity footrace for registration. In it, a long table with cooking gear—a camp stove, some Bunsen burner warmers, and a pair of coolers, the interior lit with white LED lanterns hanging from all four corners. A man and woman in the black slacks, white shirts, and white aprons of professional chefs, complete with the fancy hats. They’re busily at work, moving in practiced concert, chatting to each other, laughing, reaching around each other and switching places and adding ingredients, never missing a step. It’s a dance, it seems to me.
There’s nothing else. Just the table, the chef station, the trees, and the sea.
“This is…incredible,” I murmur to Wes. “You did this?”
He shakes his head. “No, I had it done—there’s a significant difference. Credit for execution goes to Jen. But, I had it done for you. For us.”
I can barely breathe.
“You promised me magic and romance, and you are really delivering.”
He gestures at the table. “Shall we sit?”
I can’t help but nibble on my lower lip, a habit from childhood that I can’t seem to break. “Um, can we go to the edge, first? I want to see before it’s too dark.”
“Sure.” He takes my hand and we walk to the cliff’s edge.
Far, far below, the ocean hurls itself relentlessly against the sheer rock face, the waves little more than tiny white ripples from here. He holds me by the waist as I peer out over the edge, until vertigo has me stepping backward. From here, a safe distance from the edge, we watch the sun, now a scarlet circle at which I can almost directly look, is less than a finger’s breadth from the horizon. We watch in silence as it touches the horizon, and slowly sinks, sinks.
The clatter of the chefs and their low conversation has quieted, and Wes turns to look over his shoulder—they’re standing side by side, now, just outside the shelter.
“I think dinner is ready,” he says.
I smile and roll my shoulders. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
He holds my chair for me, sliding it under me as I sit, and then takes his own seat. With a flourish, the male chef deposits a dish before me—it’s not quite a bowl, but neither is it exactly a plate.
“Gnocchi Pomodoro,” he says, with a distinct Italian accent. “The gnocchis I make myself, this morning, and the sauce we make from scratch as well.”
There are balls of fresh mozzarella floating in the sauce with the gnocchi, and hints of basil and rosemary. The female chef presents Wes with an identical dish, and in the center of the table is a wicker basket lined with a white linen napkin, containing garlic bread. No store-bought, oven-warmed, freezer section bread, this—it’s got a thick crumbly crust and cloud-soft interior, flecked with herbs and dripping with butter and redolent with fresh garlic.
There are goblets containing sparkling water with wedges of lime, and a bottle in a silver stand, surrounded by ice, as if it were a top dollar bottle of champagne.
“How did you know Italian food is my favorite?” I ask, my voice low.
He grins. “Who doesn’t love pasta? But also, you mentioned pizza was your favorite, and it’s not a far stretch from pizza to pasta. Plus, I know you well enough to know you’d enjoy good simple food more than something fancy and ridiculous. And what could be better than this?” He grins at the chefs. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
They bow at the waist, return to the shelter.
“So Italian is your favorite?” he asks.
I nod as I scoop gnocchi into my mouth—the sauce explodes with flavor, and the dumplings are soft, slightly chewy, and perfect. “Our longest trip was to Italy, and of all the places we’ve been, it was by far my favorite.” I grin. “Mostly because of the food.”