Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(23)

Now Mark was in Jasmin’s arms, softly murmuring her name, as she crooned his back. A moment later, there was a celestial burst of light—-their two souls joining as one—-and they both disappeared, together forever, into the afterlife.

“God,” I said, when I was sure they were gone—-and equally sure the tremble in my voice wouldn’t betray the fact that I’d been weeping a little as I watched them. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”

“I know you do, querida.” Jesse took my hand firmly in his own. If he suspected I’d been crying, it didn’t show. “Let’s go home.”

We were driving past the beach—-the one where he’d planned on proposing to me—-when I finally realized what it was that had been bothering me about the ring.

“Stop the car!” I commanded.

He slammed on the brakes. “What is it? A cat? Did I hit it?”

“No, you didn’t hit a cat. Pull over.”

“Susannah, I can’t pull over. Can’t you see? It says no parking here. We’ll get a ticket.”

“Jesse, it’s nearly midnight on the night of one of the biggest storms of the century. No one is around. We’re not going to get a ticket. Just pull over.”

He parked illegally, then followed me as I leaped from the car and ran to the steps that led down to the beach. “Susannah, I don’t think this is a good idea. The tide is very high, and there’s no moon. It’s—-”

“You have a penlight. Come on.”

“How do you know I have a penlight?” He sounded bemused.

“Because you’re a medical student. Hurry.”

He was right about it being dark, of course, and about the tide being high. The waves were still agitated from Mark’s storm, though the surf was dying down a little.

Still, there was only the tiniest slice of beach on which to stand, and even then, the wind from the sea was more biting than bracing. There was no possible way to make a bonfire, because all of the driftwood was soaking wet from the rain, and of course we had no picnic basket, because we’d left it—-and the sparkling wine—-back in my dorm room at the Virgin Vault.

But we had privacy. There was no one else anywhere on the beach, because no one else was stupid enough to come near the bay in weather like this, in the middle of the night.

“Susannah,” Jesse said, wrapping his arms around me as the wind whipped my long hair against us both. “What are we doing here? It was much warmer in the car.”

“Aren’t you glad you can feel cold, though?” I asked, hugging him back. “You used to not be able to. You used to not be able to feel cold, or hot, or anything.”

“I could still feel, Susannah,” he said, holding me closer. “Just emotions. Not the weather. Which actually there was something to be said for.”

“Where did you get the ring?” I asked.

“What?”

“Where did you get the ring?” I shouted so that he could hear me above the pound of the surf. “Really? I know you said it was your mother’s, and before that, it was your grandmother’s. But Jesse, I know you came here with nothing. Nothing except the clothes on your back. I was with you. So where did you get the ring?”

He pushed me away from him—-but not because he was angry, which was my first concern, but so that he could look down into my face in what meager light shone onto the beach from the streetlamps on Scenic Drive so high above our heads.

“Is that what upset you about my proposing?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisted upwards. “Where I got the ring?”

“I can’t understand it,” I said. “I thought we didn’t have secrets from one another. Well, not real secrets.” I had secrets, plenty of them, but only the kind that would hurt instead of help. I would take them to my grave—-well, cremation urn—-before I’d tell him about them. I didn’t want him to turn into a murderer like Mark had almost been. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, Susannah,” he said, and pulled me close, then kissed the top of my head. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I’m saying so now. The only ring I know of you owning was the one you gave your last fiancée, Maria.” I didn’t like saying the name any more than Mark had liked saying Zack’s. “But that was back in the 1800s, and you never got it back, because you ended up here . . . or murdered and a ghost, whichever parallel universe you care to believe is the right one. Unlike my stepbrother David, I don’t really enjoy thinking about that kind of thing. Either way, you never ended up with your mother’s precious ring.”

“Ah,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his jeans. “But I did. And do you want to know how I did?”

“Not really.” I was feeling sick to my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was from the sight of the ring, having been rammed so hard in the gut by a murderous high school boy, or not having eaten anything since lunch except radishes. “But I guess I asked.”

“Father Dominic found it for sale on something called eBay. There. Are you happy? Now will you marry me?”

I stared at him, aware that my mouth was probably hanging open, but unable to close it. I couldn’t do anything, really, but stare at him. “What?”

“EBay,” Jesse repeated. “It’s a website where -people go to buy and sell almost any—-”