"A surprise? Other than the ground car that you surprised me with after the wedding?"

That I could not believe. We left the courthouse and there it was, a new ground car. "you're going to need it for work," he whispered.

I laughed when I saw it, "did Hope help you pick this one out?"

Hope was nearby and she started laughing when I saw the reaction to the vintage looking vehicle, "I thought it would come in handy," she said, "it's called an SUV. They were popular back in the 21st century and they're great family cars."

I turned to my husband, "it's perfect."

"Yes. Now close your eyes."

I groan, "Jean Luc, you know I hate surprises! Although, the car was a nice one…"

He kisses my eye lids shut and leads me away from the wall, "yes, but you'll like this one too."

I can tell from the direction that we're walking that we're headed into the living room. "Are your eyes closed?" He whispers.

"Yes."

We come to a stop.

"Open."

"…how did you? When did you? Jean Luc…" It's beautiful. I don't know how he did it, but he's set up our whole living room. What this morning was a jumble of boxes and chaos now looks like a home.

A large beige sectional takes up the bulk of the room and he's chosen a white cloth ottoman to go in front of it. The ensemble surrounds a large stone fireplace. When we first saw the house, I was taken aback by the rudimentary grandeur of the fireplace. It's similar in construction to Nana's but, it made such a statement in the large room. The large windows let in the dusk light, illuminating the room before me, and my eyes tear up.

"We're not done, yet." He whispers.

"No," I say as tears of joy run down my cheeks, "Jean Luc, it's already too much."

He kisses away my tears, "it's never too much."

He takes my hand and leads me into the dining room. I didn't notice it when we came in, but what was before an empty dining room, is now inhabited by a large wooden table surrounded by high-back olive cloth-covered chairs.

Our combined artwork hangs on the wall in perfect tandem with the other. Jean Luc has always preferred more classical pieces whereas I've been titillated by more modern canvasses.

There's this painter who lives in San Francisco. Her name is Sarah T'Por. I read an article about her once in the Arts and Lifestyle section of the San Francisco gazette. She's of mixed Vulcan and Human heritage and her artwork blends the two cultures seamlessly. The lines in her paintings are exact and precise, but her colour schemes are given to whimsy and fantasy.

When I was the head of Starfleet Medical I would pass her studio on my way to work. When I wasn't running late, I would stop and look at the canvasses that she had on display in the window. I never bought any of them; they were much too expensive and I had no place in my small flat to put them. But somehow, Jean Luc bought my two favourite pieces and I'm indescribably touched.

"Jean Luc?" I let go of his hand and meander over to the first one, hanging on the far east wall, "this isn't an original Sarah T'Por, is it?"

He walks over and puts his arms around my waist, "yes. I remember you mentioning to me that you liked her work, so I contacted Sarah and she told me that she hadn't yet sold these two pieces. Uh, so I bought them for you. These are the ones that you liked, I hope…" He suddenly sounds so unsure of himself and tears once again spring forth from my eyes.

"Yes, Jean Luc, yes – they are."

I turn in his arms and hold him close, "I don't know what to say." I really don't. I'm too overwhelmed.

"Two more."

I've given up trying to resist that this point so I just follow him as he takes my hand and leads me down the small downstairs hallway. I'm suddenly grateful for our isolation on this large stretch of land. I don't know what any neighbours would think if they saw me and my husband walking around our home completely naked in the light of day!

He opens the door to our home office and what I see is exactly what I pictured. There are two desks and two comfortable chairs. He's had all of our books, journals, and pads taken out of storage and placed on the bookshelves that cover the walls. I can just see us here, working long into the night. He'll be writing syllabi and writing student evaluations while I read the latest research and dictate patient charts. "Jean Luc…" It's too wonderful and I don't have words to describe the utter gratitude that I'm feeling. To say that I feel overwhelmed would be trite. I don't deserve this wonderful man. I don't deserve his love or his gifts or his patience with me.

"Beverly?"

"Mmm" I'm lost in my own thoughts as I look at the scene before me. I don't know how he knew. I just –

"Beverly, say something." His voice is soft and low.

"Jean Luc, it's wonderful. It's exactly what I – thank you."

A big warm grin spreads over his face as he turns me towards him, "no, Beverly. Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank for you marrying me. You've opened parts of my heart that I thought were long closed. You've brought warmth to me and awoken me from loneliness."

What can I say in response to that? Saying 'thank you' is inadequate. Saying 'I love you' doesn't have enough meaning. All I can do I is move in close to him and hug his body close to mine, reveling in the fact that he's mine.

"Just one more," I hear him say. I can tell this is the one he's most excited about as we run up the stairs. His hand pulls at mine as we reach our bedroom. My mind is on sensory overload as my feet patter across the cold wooden floors of the hallway into the bedroom where the most beautiful picture sits in wait for me. There it is. There's the bed. It's the one I always thought we'd have. Its old frame shows the wear and tear of centuries of use. It's his parents' bed.

"Robert gave it to us as a wedding gift. It belonged to my parents." I'd seen the bed once when Jean Luc took me to Labarre to visit his family. I remember telling Marie how much I loved the bed. She told me that Jean Luc's great father had carved the headboard and the four posts. I couldn't help but stand there and marvel at the detail in the wood. The carvings are like nothing I've seen before. The lines tell stories of the land and of his family. They're clean and smooth, a testament to the age and the sturdiness of the wood. Covering the large bed is a beautiful white quilt that lies over a plush duvet.

"I dreamed of this, Jean Luc."

He kisses my hair, "I know."

"How?" I don't think I told him of my secret dream – not even when we first became lovers.

"Because I know you." And there it is. He knows me. He knows me better than anyone. It's always been him. I don't know how to thank him for all of this. I don't know what to say. Words and speaking such inadequate entities, so I proceed show him how much I love him and how grateful I am for what he's done and who he is.