Her eyes grew soft as she looked upon him, watching as his giant, muscular hand gripped the pencil as he turned it, again and again, from point to eraser. He was impatient to depart and return to his own business.

In a moment’s glance, his eyes shifted to meet hers, and he shifted in his chair, at once excited by her and deafened to the words being spoken at table’s head in a meeting that seemed to stretch on interminably.

Would but that she were approachable to him, but she was not – not in his eyes, at least – for she was an heiress, while he was but a waif, salvaged from a brutal beginning by a simple shopkeeper and the wife who could bear him no children.

If he had but known that her birth was no less harsh than his own...for she was abandoned by young parents, who could not or would not accept the responsibility for her profoundly premature beginnings.

She nearly was overlooked and allowed to die, for the world provides no care for those without means. Only by God’s grace was she was noticed by the wealthy banker and the wife who could bear him no children.

The shopkeeper and his wife had devoted their care and discipline to the angry, rebellious lad, who continued to fight the battle of rejection. The banker and his wife devoted their care and adoration to the sickly lass, who continued to fight for life, itself.

Until both came to sit around the large, mahogany conference table, with equal degrees and equally bright minds and equally deep love for one another that each was equally afraid to express.

His pencil escaped his hand, performed a somersault, and rolled in her direction. She caught it with a smile and used it to jot a note on a small slip of paper. She pierced it with the point of the pencil, which she flipped back across the table to him.

His face wore a grin as he picked up the errant writing instrument and removed the pierced page. He opened it to find her message, and, at once, he read it. “Have lunch with me?” it said.

His grin became a broad and happy smile, and he nodded. He drew out his wallet and began to count his available cash, but she shook her head and held up a finger to be patient; she had other plans in mind.

As the grand old clock in the foyer chimed the noontime hour, he looked up from his work in time to see her arrive in his doorway. She carried a wicker picnic basket and anticipation across her face.

They sat out by the lake, where ducks and geese patrolled for fish and bread and other bites to eat. They spread out the red checkered cloth and knelt upon the ground.

She filled his plate with chicken fried so crisp it crunched between his teeth. With meal partaken, he bit into the cupcake and smiled with delight, for the message imprinted upon it read what he long had felt: “Won’t you be mine?”

“But I am just an orphaned lad. I do not deserve as fine as you. I do not even know the name of my birth. My foster dad sells bait and tackle; my mum, she keeps a simple house.”

“But I am just an orphaned lass. I do not deserve as fine as you. I do not even have a name of birth. She who brought me into the world sought to end my life. I am here by the grace of God.”

“You both are here by the grace of God,” the gentle winds seemed to say. “You were brought to life to give meaning to the lonely and barren couples you call your parents. Now, you are to give life meaning to the lonely couple you are.”

They spent their days exchanging ideas for their work and nights exchanging ideas for their life. And, when the time was right, they exchanged their vows, shared bites of yet another cake, and went off to consummate the strongest love each had ever known.

A year later, she bore him twins, a little boy, who never would know the hurt and rejection that he had known, and a little girl, who came bright and healthy into the world with all the strength and stamina a newborn is meant to have.

The couple beamed brightly upon one another, placed their infants into a pram, and walked slowly down the lane together, secure in their love for one another and their purposes in life.

Thanks be to God.

May 23, 2007

Copyright © 2007 by Virginia Tolles