"The Proposal"

The two men met at the diner on Marzipan Street. Randy was already there when Cal arrived. He nodded as Cal joined him.

“You look like you’re fixin’ to confess somethin’,” Randy said. “Or quit.”

Cal laughed.

“I'm not quitting,” he replied.

“Good.” Randy took a sip. “So. Confess.”

They sat a moment while the waitress dropped off another mug and poured without asking. Cal stared into the steaming mug, swishing his spoon in idle circles.

“I want to ask Roxy to marry me,” he said.

Randy didn’t react right away. Just set his mug down carefully.

“That’s serious,” he said at last.

“Yes, sir.”

“You ready?”

Cal nodded. “I’ve been ready for a while now.”

“Then what’s got you tied in knots?”

Cal rubbed his thumb along the rim of the mug. “There’s a right way to do this.”

Randy maintained his usual gruff demeanor. “Uh-huh.”

“I was taught that you don’t just ask the woman. You ask for her father's blessing." He hesitated. 

“And?”

“I can’t.”

Randy waited.

“Roxy never met her father. He left the family before she was born.”

“Her mother?” 

Cal shook his head. 

“Roxy was in foster homes since she was three. She doesn’t know her mother.”

Randy leaned back slightly and studied him for a long moment.

 “There’s nobody,” explained Cal dejectedly.

Randy was undeterred.

“Found family’s the same as blood. Closer sometimes. Who’s she got?”

"There's Lark,” Cal replied. “She claimed Roxy from day one - wouldn't take no for an answer. Lark's the family Roxy chose. First real family she's ever had."

Randy nodded. “Sounds like a winner.”

“But…”

“But?”

“And asking Lark feels like asking a sister for permission,” Cal continued.

“Fair. Who else, then?”

“There’s Sophia.” Cal grimaced. “Respectable. Older. Helped Roxy when she first got here. But she's more like Lark's friend than Roxy's. They're not close like that."

Randy nodded again. “Anyone else?”

“Not really,” Cal concluded. “Roxy burned a lot of bridges when she left Ashhaven.”

They sat in the clink and murmur of the diner, a truck rumbling past outside.

“Sounds like you’re lookin’ for something you don’t need,” Randy said finally. “What’s the matter? ‘Fraid your girl’s gonna say no?”

Cal frowned.

“You’re lookin’ for somebody else’s permission, ain’t ya? Who’s expecting the formalities? Somebody taught you that, right?”

Randy could see Cal was thinking hard, lost in an old memory.

“It’s your father, ain’t it? He won’t be pleased with you marryin’ some girl without doin’ it proper, right?”

Cal nodded.

“So the deal is, you need somebody’s permission to shut your brain up and please the old man. So be it. You have mine.”

“Thanks, but that’s not the same. It doesn’t work,” Cal stared darkly into his coffee.

“Close enough don’t count, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Cal’s face remained sullen. “Closest isn’t the same as right. 

“But that’s what yer stuck with. So who’s the closest you’ve got?”

Cal finally looked up. “It feels like whatever I do, I disrespect somebody.”

Randy leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Welcome to married life.”

Cal snorted despite himself. Randy continued, in a quieter tone.

“Here’s the thing, son. You’re trying to follow tradition because you’re scared of messing up. Worried about what somebody else is gonna think.” 

Cal's jaw tightened. "Yes."

"So ask yourself who would be hurt not to be asked," Randy instructed.

Cal didn't answer right away.

"I don't know them well enough to say," Randy continued. "But from what I've seen, that Lark girl seems like the type who'd want to be in on everything. Might take it personal if you left her out."

"And Sophia?" Cal asked.

Randy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hard to say. She strikes me as proper, formal. Might appreciate the gesture, might think it's presumptuous." He paused, studying Cal's face. "But if you're worried about doing this proper-like, the Forenza woman's got the kind of standing that'd make it official. She's got the house, the reputation, the... I don't know, gravitas. That Lark girl seems sweet, but if it's your father's approval you're after, asking someone with Sophia's standing would look more legitimate."

Cal leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "So it's about appearances."

"Sometimes that's what tradition is," Randy said simply.

They drank in silence for a bit.

"What if I get it wrong?" Cal asked.

Randy met his eyes. “Then you apologize. Like a grown man. But you don’t dodge the question ‘cause you’re scared of the answer.”

Cal nodded slowly.

Randy stood, unfolding himself from the booth. “Whatever you decide, do it straight. No hedgin’. No delegatin’. Tradition ain’t about rules. It’s about respect.”

He clapped Cal once on the shoulder. “And for what it’s worth? You’re worryin’ about the right things.”

Cal watched him head for the counter.

“Hey, Randy?”

Randy turned.

“Thanks.”

Randy nodded once. “Anytime.”

Cal sat there a while longer, coffee cooling in front of him, the problem still unsolved—but clearer now.

Sophia’s house sat back from the road, a grand two-story colonial with tan walls and white trim, its symmetrical facade punctuated by four imposing columns supporting a small portico over the entrance, flanked by a neatly manicured lawn and mature trees that whispered secrets in the breeze. The black shutters and chimneys added a touch of elegance, hinting at the refined life within.

Cal parked farther down the drive than he probably needed to and straightened his jacket twice before ringing the bell.

The door opened just enough for a woman to peer out at him.

The housekeeper was a sturdy, elderly woman with a stern demeanor. Her gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she wore a plain black dress that reached her ankles. Her lips were set in a thin line, rarely moving beyond a slight frown, and her eyes held a sharp, assessing gaze. Her posture was upright, and her movements were efficient and precise, reflecting years of disciplined service. Margareta looked Cal up and down thoroughly.

“Yes?” she said, her tone already pronouncing judgment.

“My name’s Cal Walker,” he said. “I’m here to see Sophia.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is Ms. Forenza expecting you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“State your business,” she scowled.

“I was hoping,” Cal continued carefully, “that she might spare a little time.”

The woman sniffed. “She does not spare time. She allocates it.”

Before Cal could respond, a voice drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Margareta,” Sophia called lightly, “if you keep him on the step much longer, he’ll think he’s done something wrong.”

Margareta’s mouth thinned further. “That is not an unreasonable assumption.”

“Margareta.”

With a sigh heavy enough to count as protest, the door opened fully. Margareta stepped aside, though not graciously.

“Mind the rug,” she muttered as Cal entered. “It’s antique.”

“Of course,” Cal said, immediately worrying he’d already ruined it.

Sophia stood near the base of the stairs, dressed simply but impeccably, hair loose over one shoulder. She looked tired in a way that didn’t invite comment.

“Cal,” she said, offering a small smile. “This is unexpected.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But not unwelcome,” she added. “Come. You must be hungry.”

“I—” Cal started, then stopped. “Yes, ma’am.”

Margareta made a noise that suggested men always were, then disappeared toward the kitchen.

They settled at a small table near the windows. A tray appeared moments later—delicate things arranged with precision. Cal suspected none of it involved a microwave.

Sophia poured wine for herself, tea for him without asking.

“You look like a man about to ask something difficult,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then start where it hurts,” she said gently.

Cal folded his hands on the table. “I’m planning to ask Roxy to marry me.”

Sophia didn’t react immediately. She lifted her glass, took a small sip, then set it down.

“I see.”

“I was raised,” Cal continued, “that before you do that, you ask her family.”

Sophia’s gaze sharpened, just slightly.

“She doesn’t have anyone she can go to,” he said. “And I don’t want to pretend otherwise.”

Margareta hovered in the background, pretending not to listen while clearly listening to everything.

“I know,” Sophia said quietly.

Cal swallowed. “I don’t know who has the right to be asked. But I know it isn’t Lark. And I know it isn’t nobody.”

Sophia leaned back, studying him now.

“And you decided it might be me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

Cal didn’t rush the answer. “Because you helped her when she first came here. Because you did it without asking anything back. And because if I don’t ask you, it feels like I’m skipping something I shouldn’t.”

Sophia’s fingers tightened briefly around her glass.

“I am not her mother,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

“I am not her guardian.”

“No, ma’am.”

“I do not speak for her.”

“I know.”

Sophia closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there was something brittle behind the polish.

“And yet here you are.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Margareta cleared her throat loudly.

“This is highly irregular,” she announced. “Highly.”

“Margareta,” Sophia said, without looking away from Cal, “would you please see that the soufflés don’t burn?”

“They won’t,” Margareta snapped. “I’m not incompetent.”

“And yet I would feel better if you checked.”

Margareta glared, then retreated, muttering darkly about men and propriety.

Sophia exhaled.

“You’re asking me to step into a place that does not belong to me,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re doing it because you believe it belongs to someone.”

“Yes.”

Sophia studied him a long moment.

“You get that Roxy would not thank me for this.”

“Yes.”

“And she might be mad.”

“Yes.”

“And she doesn’t need my permission.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me,” Sophia said, a little quieter now, “what exactly you want from me.”

Cal met her eyes. “I want to know that asking her won’t dishonor what little she was given.”

Sophia looked away.

When she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“I don’t really like this,” she said.

“I understand.”

“It’s not my place,” she said.

“I know.”

Cal didn’t move.

Sophia lifted her glass again, then set it down untouched.

“I can’t give you permission,” she said. “Because it’s not mine to give.”

Cal nodded.

“But I’m not going to stand in your way,” she continued. “And I do think you’re careful with her. Which, from what I’ve seen, matters more than being completely sure.”

Cal let out a breath, slow and steady. “Thank you.”

Sophia inclined her head.

“Just ask her properly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t tell her you came here.”

Cal hesitated. “She’ll find out.”

“She probably will,” Sophia said, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “She always does.”

Margareta returned with a tray, scowling.

“He’s still here?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sophia said calmly. “And he’s done.”

Cal rose, nodding once to Sophia.

At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t take this lightly.”

Sophia looked at him with something like understanding. “Good,” she said. “Neither does she.”

Outside, Cal stood for a moment before walking back down the drive, the house looming quietly behind him.

Nothing had been solved.

But something had been permitted.

Roxy was stretched along the couch with her boots kicked off, journal balanced on her stomach, the guitar resting against her hip like an afterthought that had decided to stay. She’d been circling the same line for ten minutes, pencil tapping the margin.

I’m not afraid of the dark—

No. Too dramatic.

She scratched it out and tried again, fingers absently picking at the strings. The sound was soft, unfinished. Honest.

The front door flew open.

“HI HONEY, I’M HOME! WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

The words hit the room like a dropped casserole.

Roxy jerked upright, the guitar thumping against the couch as her journal slid to the floor.

“…what the?”

Cal stood just inside the doorway, jacket still on, shoulders squared like he’d practiced this in the car and lost his nerve halfway through the execution. His smile was bright, fixed, and about a decade out of date.

Roxy blinked at him.

“What,” she repeated, slower this time, “the hell are you doing.”

Cal opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “That came out wrong.”

“You think?” She set the guitar aside carefully, eyes never leaving him. “You just burst in like you’re selling vacuum cleaners or declaring war.”

He winced. “I panicked.”

“That was panic?” she asked. “Because it sounded like Leave It to Beaver.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know how else to start.”

Roxy stared at him for a long beat. Then she leaned back against the couch, arms crossing.

“Cal,” she said flatly, “are you having a stroke.”

“No.”

“Are you possessed?”

“No.”

“Did Lark dare you.”

“No,” he said, then sighed. “God, no.”

Silence settled, thick and awkward. The kind that made every sound feel too loud—the hum of the fridge, the distant tick of the clock, the soft creak of the house settling.

Roxy’s voice softened, just a notch. “You’re scaring me.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

He took a step farther into the room, then stopped, like he’d hit an invisible line.

“That wasn’t—” He shook his head. “That’s not how I meant to do it.”

Roxy watched him, something cautious and curious flickering behind her eyes. “Do what, exactly.”

Cal exhaled slowly. Deliberately. The bravado drained out of him like water from a cracked glass.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Reset.”

He slipped off his jacket and set it over the back of the chair. Straightened the collar of his shirt. Took one more breath, steadying this time.

Then he crossed the room, stopped in front of her, and went down on one knee.

Roxy froze.

Cal looked up at her, expression bare now—no script, no grin, just him.

“Roxanne Marie Dequindre,” he said, the words coming out careful and formal, straight from some black-and-white playbook he didn’t know how to put down.

Roxy’s hand came up before she thought about it—not hard, but sharp enough to make the point. She smacked the back of his head and stood, turning away in one fluid, furious motion.

“No,” she snapped. “Absolutely not.”

Cal sucked in a breath and didn’t move.

“I am not that name,” she said, arms crossed tight as she paced two steps away. “You do not get to drag that into this.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

She spun back on him. “Then why would you—”

“Because I panicked,” he said. “And because that’s the wrong script.”

She stared at him, chest rising and falling. “Do it again.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t rush. He reset—really this time.

Cal straightened, then went back down on one knee.

“Roxy,” he said, and the name landed completely differently. “I love you. I’m asking you. Not paperwork. Not history. You.”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t interrupt.

“I know where you’ve been,” he went on. “I know what you’ve survived. I’m not asking to fix you, and I’m not asking to own you. I’m asking to choose you. Every day. Properly.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ring, and held it out with a hand that trembled just slightly.

“Will you marry me?”

For a moment, Roxy just stared at him.

Then she huffed a quiet laugh and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“You are,” she said hoarsely, “such an idiot.”

Cal swallowed. “Is that a no.”

She dropped her hands and leaned forward, forehead resting briefly against his.

“No,” she said. “It’s a yes.”

His breath left him in a rush, half-laugh, half-sob. He slid the ring onto her finger, hands still shaking.

Roxy pulled him up by the collar and kissed him—hard, grounding, real.

When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his again.

“Next time,” she murmured, “maybe don’t open with a 1950s sitcom proposal.”

He smiled, a little sheepish. “Noted.”

She glanced down at the ring, then back at him. “But you did get down on one knee. That part you got right.”

Cal laughed softly, arms tightening around her.

Outside, Sugar Plum Falls went on being Sugar Plum Falls.

Inside, something finally landed exactly where it belonged.