The limousine came to a stop in front of the house, and I drew a long breath.  When the driver exited the car, he nodded to let me know that everything had gone smoothly, and I nodded nervously in return.

In the last couple of hours, I’d alternated between excitement and terror at the thought that Jane might have found all of this . . . well, silly. As the driver moved toward her door, I suddenly found it difficult to swallow. Still, I crossed my arms and leaned against the porch railing, doing my best to look nonchalant. The moon was glowing white, and I could hear the sounds of crickets chirping.

The driver opened the door. Jane’s leg appeared first, and almost as if in slow motion, she emerged from the car, the blindfold still in place.  All I could do was stare at her. In the moonlight, I could see the faint outlines of a smile on her face, and she looked both exotic and elegant. I motioned to the driver, letting him know that he was free to leave.  As the car drove off, I approached Jane slowly, gathering the courage to speak.

“You look wonderful,” I murmured into her ear.

She turned toward me, her smile broadening. “Thank you,” she said. She waited for me to add something more, and when I didn’t, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Can I take off the blindfold yet?” I glanced around, making sure everything looked the way I wanted.

“Yes,” I whispered.

She tugged on the scarf; it immediately loosened and fell from her face. It took her eyes a moment to focus—resting first on me, then on the house, then back on me. Like Jane, I had dressed for the evening; my tuxedo was new and tailored.  She blinked as if awakening from a dream.

“I thought you’d want to see how it will look this weekend,” I offered.  She turned slowly from side to side. Even from a distance, the property looked enchanted. Beneath the inky sky, the tent glowed white, and the floodlights in the garden cast fingerlike shadows while illuminating the color of the rose blossoms. The water in the fountain glittered in the moonlight.  “Wilson . . . it’s . . . incredible,” she stammered.

I took her hand. I could smell the new perfume I’d bought her and saw the small diamonds in her ears. Dark lipstick accentuated her full lips.  Her expression was full of questions as she faced me. “But how? I mean . . . you only had a couple of days.”

“I promised you it would be magnificent,” I said. “Like Noah said, it’s not every weekend that we have a wedding around here.” Jane seemed to notice my appearance for the first time, and she took a step back.

“You’re wearing a tuxedo,” she said.

“I got it for the weekend, but I figured I should break it in first.”

She assessed me from top to bottom. “You look . . . great,” she admitted.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she said quickly, then caught herself. “I mean, I’m not surprised by how good you look, it’s just that I didn’t expect to see you this way.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughed. “Come on,” she said, tugging on my hand. “I want to see everything you did up close.”

I had to admit, the view was magnificent. Set amid the oaks and cypress trees, the thin fabric of the tent glowed in the floodlights like a living force. The white chairs had been placed in curved rows like an orchestra, mirroring the curve of the garden just beyond. They were angled around a focal point, and the trellis gleamed with light and colored foliage. And everywhere we gazed, there were flowers.

Jane began to move slowly down the aisle. I knew that in her mind’s eye, she was seeing the crowd and imagining Anna, what she would see from her designated vantage point near the trellis. When she turned to look at me, her expression was dazzled and uncomprehending.

“I never believed it could look like this.”

I cleared my throat. “They did a good job, didn’t they.”

She shook her head solemnly. “No,” she said. “They didn’t. You did.” When we reached the head of the aisle, Jane released my hand and approached the trellis. I stayed in place, watching her as she ran her hands over the carvings and fingered the strand of lights. Her gaze drifted to the garden.  “It looks exactly the way it used to,” she marveled.  As she circled the trellis, I stared at the dress she wore, noticing how it clung to the curves I knew so well. What was it about her that still took my breath away? The person she was? Our life together? Despite the years that had passed since I’d first seen her, the effect she had on me had only grown stronger.

We entered the rose garden and circled the outermost concentric heart; in time, the lights from the tent behind us grew dimmer. The fountain burbled like a mountain brook. Jane said nothing; instead, she simply absorbed the surroundings, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure I was close.  On the far side, only the roof of the tent was evident. Jane stopped and scanned the rosebushes, then finally selected a red bud and broke it free. She plucked the thorns before approaching me and tucked it into my lapel. After adjusting it until she was satisfied, she patted my chest gently and looked up.  “You look more finished with a boutonniere,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Did I mention how handsome you look all dressed up?” “I think you used the word . . . great. But feel free to say it as often as you like.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Thank you for what you did here. Anna’s going to be absolutely amazed.”

“You’re welcome.”

Leaning in close, she murmured, “And thank you for tonight, too. That was . . .  quite a little game I came home to.”

In the past, I would have seized the opportunity to press her about it and reassure myself that I’d done well, but instead I reached for her hand.  “There’s something else I want you to see,” I said simply.  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a carriage led by a team of white horses out in the barn,” she teased.

I shook my head. “Not quite. But if you think that might be a good idea, I could try to arrange something.”

She laughed. As she moved closer, the heat of her body was tantalizing. Her eyes were mischievous. “So what else did you want to show me?” “Another surprise,” I offered.

“I don’t know if my heart’s going to be able to take it.”

“Come on,” I said, “this way.”

I drew her out of the garden and down a gravel path, toward the house. Above us, the stars were blinking in a cloudless sky, and the moon reflected in the river beyond the house. Branches dripped with Spanish moss, scraggly limbs stretched in all directions like ghostly fingers. The air carried the familiar scent of pine and salt, an odor unique to the low country. In the silence, I felt Jane’s thumb moving against my own.

She seemed to feel no need to rush. We walked slowly, taking in the sounds of the evening: the crickets and cicadas, leaves rustling in the trees, the gravel crunching underfoot.

She stared toward the house. Silhouetted against the trees, it was a timeless image, the white columns along the porch lending the home an almost opulent air.  The tin roof had darkened in color over the years and seemed to vanish into the evening 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 for Jane.  Breathing deeply, I tried to clear my mind.

Jane had by now surely found what I’d left her on the bed upstairs. The album—hand stitched with a carved leather binding—was exquisite, but it was the contents that I hoped would truly move her. This was the gift I’d assembled with the help of so many for our thirtieth anniversary. Like the other gifts she’d received this evening, it had come with a note. It was the letter I had tried but failed to write in the past, the kind that Noah had once suggested, and though I’d once found the very idea impossible, the epiphanies of the past year, and particularly the past week, lent my words an uncharacteristic grace.  When I finished writing, I read through it once, then read it again. Even now, the words were as clear in my mind as they were on the pages Jane now held in her hand.

My darling,

It’s late at night, and as I sit at my desk, the house is silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. You’re asleep upstairs, and though I long for the warmth of your body against my own, something compels me to write this letter, even though I’m not exactly sure where to begin. Nor, I realize, do I know exactly what to say, but I can’t escape the conclusion that after all these years, it’s something I must do, not only for you, but for myself as well. After thirty years, it’s the least I can do.

Has it really been that long? Though I know it has, the very thought is amazing to me. Some things, after all, have never changed. In the mornings, for instance, my first thoughts after waking are—and always have been—of you. Ofte............