He seemed nervous.
His hands kept slipping into his pockets, and he repeatedly looked over his shoulder to make sure I was following.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I asked.
“Just give me a minute.”
He stopped beside the old bench.
Then he reached into his jacket and removed a small burgundy velvet box.
My heart skipped.
“Dad, what is that?”
He looked at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw tears gathering in his eyes.
“Claire, before I show you what’s inside, I need you to promise me you’ll listen until I finish.”
I took a step backward.
“You’re frightening me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
He lowered his head.
“I’ve rehearsed this conversation hundreds of times. Every time I thought I was ready, I imagined the look on your face, and I lost my courage.”
I glanced at the gate behind him.
