Chapter 9 - The Question by the Creek
Summer arrived in North Georgia with a burst of lush, emerald green and the golden haze of long, humid afternoons.
The forty acres of my property had become a wonderland for three five-year-old girls. Declan had spent three weekends building an elaborate, completely over-engineered treehouse in the branches of a massive white oak near the creek—complete with double-reinforced safety netting, cedar shingle siding, and a working rope-and-pulley basket system for hauling up snacks.
He was currently sitting on the bank of the creek, his expensive trousers rolled up to his knees, his bare feet dangling in the cool, clear water.
Clara sat beside him, carefully threading a daisy into the buttonhole of his linen shirt. Camille was on his other side, determinedly explaining the hydraulic mechanics of a small mud dam she had constructed, while Chloe was asleep with her head resting comfortably on Declan’s lap, her tiny hand clutching his thumb even in her dreams.
I walked down the grassy slope carrying a pitcher of fresh lemonade and four glasses.
Declan looked up as I approached, the sunlight catching the silver in his dark hair, turning his slate-gray eyes the color of warm sea glass. There was no tension in his shoulders, no arrogance in his posture. He looked deeply, profoundly at peace.
"Daddy!" Camille announced, pointing proudly at her mud structure. "The dam is holding back the big river!"
Daddy.
The word had come naturally, without ceremony, three months earlier when Declan had caught Camille at the bottom of the treehouse slide. Hearing it still sent a warm, electric shiver down my spine.
"It’s an exceptional piece of engineering, Cammy," Declan said, smiling down at her, his hand gently stroking Chloe’s sleeping curls. "We might have to hire you at Hawthorne Infrastructure next summer."
"Only if I get pink safety glasses," Camille replied seriously.
"Deal," Declan laughed.
I set the tray down on a flat granite boulder and poured the lemonade. Clara took her glass with both hands, took a polite sip, and looked up at Declan with that solemn, piercing gaze she had inherited from him.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, my sweet?"
"Why don't you sleep in Mommy’s room?"
The air went completely still.
Declan nearly choked on his lemonade. He froze, his eyes widening in sheer panic as he looked frantically from Clara to me, his neck turning a bright, mottled crimson.
"Well... Clara, you see..." Declan stammered, completely stripped of his legendary corporate eloquence. "Adults... when they... uh... Mommy and I have separate houses because..."
"Because Daddy is still courting Mommy," I said smoothly, kneeling down on the moss beside them, handing a glass to Camille. "And courting takes time."
Declan stared at me, his mouth slightly open, the word courting hanging in the warm summer air like an answered prayer.
"What is courting?" Camille asked, wiping a smudge of mud from her nose.
"It means Daddy has to be on his best behavior," Clara declared wisely, taking another sip of lemonade. "And bring lots of flowers. Like the ones in the greenhouse."
"I can do that," Declan said, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle with heat. "I can bring all the flowers in the world."
An hour later, Sam arrived with an ATV to take the three girls up to the barn to help feed the newly arrived rescue foals. The girls cheered and scrambled into the passenger seats, their laughter echoing across the meadow as the vehicle hummed away up the dirt track.
Declan and I remained by the creek, the silence between us filled only by the babbling water and the whisper of the summer breeze through the willow trees.
He stood up, drying his feet on the grass, and pulled a small, worn velvet box from his pocket.
My heart leaped into my throat.
"I didn't buy a new one," he said softly, his voice trembling as he stepped toward me on the mossy bank. "I kept the original one. I had it locked in the private vault in Manhattan for five years. I used to go down there in the middle of the night just to look at it, reminding myself of the best thing that ever happened to me."
He flipped the lid open.
Inside, resting on black velvet, was my original wedding ring—a flawless, emerald-cut diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes, simple, elegant, and timeless.
"Declan..." my voice was barely a whisper.
He dropped to one knee on the lush green grass of my farm, right beside the creek, beneath the shade of the ancient oak tree. He didn't look like a billionaire making a transaction. He looked like a pilgrim who had finally reached the end of an impossible, agonizing journey across the desert.
"You don't need my money, Cassidy," he said, looking up at me with tears shimmering in his clear gray eyes. "You don't need my name. You built an empire with your own brilliant mind, and you raised three magnificent angels with your own fierce heart. You are completely whole without me."
He swallowed hard, holding the ring out with hands that shook with raw emotion.
"I’m not asking you to marry me so I can complete your life. I’m asking you to marry me so I can spend the rest of my days serving yours. I want to wake up beside you. I want to build treehouses and argue about yellow boots. I want to earn the right, every single morning, to be the man you chose."
He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a tear from my cheek.
"Will you come home to me, Cassidy? Not to New York. Not to my world. But here. In our world. Will you marry me again?"
I looked down at the ring, then at the treehouse above us, and finally into the eyes of the man who had torn his own ego to shreds just to prove he was worthy of our daughters.
The past five years had been an equation of pain, distance, and struggle. But looking at Declan now, I realized that some equations don't end in subtraction.
Sometimes, when you break everything down to its rawest, most fundamental elements, the answer is grace.
"Yes," I whispered, the word carrying on the warm summer breeze. "Yes, Declan. Put it on."
May you like
He let out a ragged, triumphant sob as he slid the cool platinum band back onto my left ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had never been removed.
He stood up, wrapping his powerful arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet and spinning me around on the mossy bank while the creek rushed past beneath our feet. When he brought me down, his mouth found mine—not with the arrogant possessiveness of the past, but with a deep, reverent, desperate passion that promised an entire lifetime of devotion.
