Love Letter

Lynne:

We were in New Rochelle, New York. I had never been here, but the houses were unique. We arrived at a gated community, and Ian was buzzed in without a problem. "Who are we going to see?" I ask curiously, wondering if this is where his parents live.

"We are almost there," Ian says, going down a few blocks and pulling down a lane with one magnificent house sitting on the end of the block. The closest neighbor was a block away, and the house we pulled up to looked like the backyard had a private beach on it – it was hard to tell with the snowmaking everything white. "Come on," Ian says, opening my door and grabbing my hand.

The house itself has two rounded towers on each side of the entryway. It looked like the house could have been taken out of a fairytale. Ian pushes a code in the door and opens it, and I still think it is his parent's house. He starts giving me a tour of the house. He shows me the large enough kitchen for two islands tilting in at one another. Grabbing my hand, he brings me upstairs into the first bedroom with a bay window overlooking the yard and built-in bookshelves on the far wall.

"I was thinking this could be our kid's room," he says, watching my face.

"Ian," I say, speechless. He grabs my hand, pulling me across down the hall to the other bedroom with another bay window.

"And this could be ours, his and her closets, and the master bath," he says, watching my face. "Don't say anything, just take the tour with me." He shows me the rest of the house, which I count six bedrooms and seven bathrooms. The house had to be over six thousand square feet. "It even has two offices – one could be yours, and one could be mine. I know it is quite the commute into the city, but I was thinking with how the last month has been that we would like the privacy," he says, getting back to the entryway and leading me into the living room.

The living room has candles lighted leading down to the round fireplace. The picture of the two of us on New Year's Eve last year is hanging above it like it was always meant to hang there.

"Lynne Bettendorf," Ian says, kneeling on one knee, "I knew you were different from the first time I met you. I wanted to know what you were thinking; it drove me crazy actually not knowing what you were thinking. It still does," he says looking into my eyes. "Right now, especially with everything I have shown you and not knowing what you are thinking, is driving me crazy. But what I really want to know is will you marry me?"

Was it even possible for this beautiful man to be kneeling down in front of me, asking me to be his wife? "Yes, for it is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves," I say, quoting back the first Shakespeare quote he had ever said to me.