The lamplight made her hair shine.
Had it always shone that way?
He remembered Jo's in the candlelight of the attic, all warm chestnut hues. The memory wouldn't stay put, however, as the glimmer of her earrings caught his eye next, moving his gaze down the slope of her elegant neck.
That color suited her so well. What had she called that material overtop? Illusion?
He wished he could take a photo right now, but that wouldn't capture everything. It wouldn't capture the blue of her eyes, like the ocean on the voyage to Europe, like the river in the woods where he and Jo would try (and fail) to catch minnows. Like the spring sky.
He could write an opera about her.
The thought hit him like the hull of the boat he and his grandfather had traveled on. He couldn't manage to conjure up pretty lyrics about Jo, but he imagined that once he was finished being rendered speechless by Amy, then the words would come to him in floods. He could write an opera to surpass all operas about Amy March.
The melodies like the swish of her skirts, the soft sounds of her hair unfurling from its various pins and bows at the end of the night. The tinkling of the glass in her hand as the ice hit the side.
Her laugh.
As she laughed at something Fred Vaugn had said.
Another feeling hit Laurie, grabbed him and sunk its claws in, and wouldn't let go, this one much more unpleasant.
He wanted to be the one to make her laugh. So much so that he hated Fred Vaugn for being the one those spring day eyes were fixed on, the one whose sleeve her hand rested on.
Oh.
Oh no.