It wasn't much, the old peach taffeta gown her mother had worn to countless embassy parties – but it was the only full-length dress Carolyn owned, the only outfit with a gathered waist and tapered arms that whispered of bygone elegance waltzing in the few dreams she could remember. She owned little jewelry after pawning most to pay for the move to Gull Cottage, but she'd kept her Grandmother's art deco earrings. She wore them now, under the hair she'd teased into the best up-do she could manage. Would this suffice, after the dreadful row in the rain? Bereft, she sought him in the alcove, the kitchen, the verandah, their bedroom, the kids' room before running up to the wheelhouse, intent on breaching the Widow's Walk if she must to fling herself into arms she could not embrace.
But there was light under the attic door, and even though she knew he must have heard her clamber anxiously aloft the old wooden stairs Carolyn paused to compose herself. The roaring of blood in her ears and the heavy thumping of her heart could not be dampened and the flush was heavy on her face when Captain Gregg bid the door open for her. There, after the bath, the careful toilette, the French perfume and the impetuous desire to become the past in their future she stood before him, a gift of self, of presence – the only thing either of them could share in the present.
He handed her a small Waterford glass of Sherry off a silver tray that gleamed with anticipatory hope. It seemed almost anti-climactic after the last hour of frantic preparation, their toast, but her eyes never left his as she tossed the drink back and sat the glass on the tray, gloriously shipwrecked by her love for him. Slowly, she smiled and he stepped closer to block the strong sea breeze blowing off the Atlantic and she accepted his proffered hand and gathered the folds of her dress as he led her up the gangplank of dreams.