Making Faces(89)

“Kind of?”

“I love you Fern. And I want you to marry me.”

“You do?” Fern squealed.

“I do. It doesn't get better than Fern Taylor.”

“It doesn't?” Fern squeaked.

“It doesn't.” Ambrose couldn't help laughing at her incredulous little face. “And if you'll have me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy, and when you get tired of looking at me, I promise I'll sing.”

Fern laughed, a watery, hiccupping sound.

“Yes or no?” Ambrose said seriously, reaching for her hand, the ultimate either/or question hanging in the air between them.

“Yes.”





The stands were packed with blue and white and Fern felt a little lost without a wheelchair to make arrangements for and sit beside, but they had good seats. Ambrose had made sure of that. Her Uncle Mike was on her left, Elliott Young on her right, and beside him, Jamie Kimball, Paulie's mom. Jamie had worked the front counter at the bakery for years, and Elliott had finally gotten the nerve to ask her out. So far, so good. Another silver lining. They needed each other, but more importantly, they deserved each other.

It was the last duel of the season for the Penn State Nittany Lions and Fern was so nervous she had to sit on her hands so she wouldn't resume her bad habit of shredding her fingernails. She felt this way every time she watched Ambrose wrestle, even though he won a whole lot more than he lost. She wondered how Mike Sheen endured this torture year after year. If you loved your wrestler, and Fern did, then wrestling was absolutely agonizing to watch.

Ambrose hadn’t won every match. He’d had an impressive year, especially considering his long absence from the sport and the disadvantages that he started the season with. Fern had made Ambrose promise to enjoy himself and he had genuinely tried. No more trying to be Mr. Universe or Hercules or Iron Man or anything but Ambrose Young, son of Elliott Young, fiance of Fern Taylor. She took a deep breath and tried to take her own advice. She was the daughter of Joshua and Rachel, cousin of Bailey, lover of Ambrose. And she wouldn't trade places with anyone.

She hadn't gone with him when he left for school. They'd both known it wasn't possible right away. Fern had finally scored a three-book deal with a respected romance publisher and had deadlines to meet. Her first novel would be out in the spring. Ambrose had been convinced he had to slay his dragons on his own two feet–no metaphoric shield or minions to keep him company.

Ambrose had been afraid and admitted as much. The discomfort of curious gazes, the whispers behind hands, the explanations that people felt they were owed all grated on him. But it was okay too. He claimed the questions gave him an opportunity to get it all out in the open, and before long the guys on the wrestling team didn't really see the scars. The way Fern never saw Bailey's wheelchair. The way Ambrose finally looked beyond the face of a plain little eighteen-year-old and saw Fern for the first time.

The Penn State head coach had made Ambrose no promises. There was no scholarship waiting when he arrived. He told Ambrose he could come work out with the team and they would see how it all shook out. Ambrose had arrived in October, coming in on the block, a month behind everyone else. But within a few weeks, the coaches at Penn State were impressed. And so were his new teammates.

Fern and Ambrose started writing letters again, long emails filled with either/or questions both tender and bizarre, designed to make the distance seem trivial. Fern always made sure to close her letters with her name in bold and all in caps, just to make sure Ambrose knew exactly who they were from. The love notes kept them laughing and crying and longing for the weekends when one or the other would make the trip between Hannah Lake and Penn State. And sometimes they met somewhere in between and lost themselves in each other for a couple of days, making the most of every second, because seconds became minutes and minutes became precious when life could be taken in less than a breath.

When Ambrose ran out on the mat with his team, Fern's heart leaped and she waved madly so he would see them all there. He found them quickly, knowing what section they were sitting in, and he smiled that lopsided grin that she loved. Then he stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes, and made a face. Fern repeated the action and saw him laugh.

Then Ambrose rubbed his chest where the names were written and Fern felt the emotion rise in her throat and touched the name over her own heart. Bailey would have loved to see this. If there was a God and a life beyond this one, Bailey was here, no question in Fern's mind. He would be down on the floor scouting out the competition, taking notes and taking names. Paulie, Jesse, Beans and Grant would be there too, lining the mats, watching their best friend do his best to live without them and cheering him on, just like they always had. Even Jesse.





Fern and Ambrose were married in the summer of 2006. The little church that Joshua and Rachel Taylor had dedicated their lives to was filled to capacity, and Rita was Fern's maid of honor. She was doing well, living back in Hannah Lake now that Becker was in jail awaiting trial, charged with several counts in three separate cases.

Rita had been granted a divorce, and she threw herself into planning a wedding that would be remembered for years to come. And she outdid herself. It was perfect, magical, more than even Fern could have imagined.

But the flowers, the food, the cake, even the beauty of the bride and the dignity of her groom weren't what people would be talking about when it was all over. There was a feeling in the air at that wedding. Something sweet and special that made more than one guest stop and marvel, “Do you feel that?”