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roamingtigress · 23 days ago

Text

Guilt

Chapter Thirteen:

That I Still Love You Dutch visits Hosea and Lenny.

(Ao3 link)

Hosea was fittingly buried next to Lenny Summers in a quiet spot south of Bluewater Marsh, in the shade of a small grove of trees. It was fitting; Hosea had a close bond with the young man. They shared similar philosophies, and had a sort of private book club together, with which Mary-Beth had a special membership into. Sometimes, the friends shared the same frustrations over Dutch's devotion to those books; Evelyn Miller was not their cup of tea. Lenny was not afraid to challenge Dutch on his lofty ideals. Of course, Dutch being Dutch, stayed stubborn, never bending. He had let himself get consumed by his writings, even.

If only he hadn't been so stubborn.

If only he had listened.

"Just up this road, Benj," Dutch spoke quietly, looking down at his feet in the police wagon. "I'm told they were buried in the dappled shade of some trees. Might be easy to miss them."

It seemed a natural place to lay them to rest; both steadfast and grounded, like the trees surrounding them.

Dutch had hoped birds had taken up nest building in those trees; he knew how much they loved their song. They would be good company to him, he thought.

There was a time when he wanted to be buried next to Hosea; soulmates should be buried together, he thought. And Hosea did want to be buried next to friends and family -- and Dutch was certainly both.

But now Dutch thought, after everything, was he worthy of being buried next to him when his time came?

'No.'

He had nightly dreams of Hosea; sweet dreams that seemed to be keeping away the nightmarish ones he had following his death. Dreams where his hair was played with and decorated with flowers, of them skating on a frozen pond. He dreamed of his jawline and belly being stroked as he lay sprawled into his lap, when all Hosea wanted to do was to read. He dreamed of walking under the moonlight, hand in hand, as old men, on some faraway beach.

But were the dreams of what Hosea wanted, or what Dutch wanted, and envisioned their afterlife reunion? Dutch hoped that maybe, Hosea was telling him everything would be alright.

After a long period of silence, Benjamin finally spoke. "I can stay on the wagon if you'd prefer."

Benjamin hadn't wanted to intrude. He knew that Dutch knew he had played a part in his capture. He would understand if he wanted space during this moment, just as he would if Dutch wanted him there for comfort.

Dutch was quiet, in thought. He could smell the brackish water of the Lannahechee River, the raucous call of a passing cormorant, and then another of a spoonbill. A small flock of pelicans flew by within view of Dutch through the bars.

They were closer now.

"I'll leave it to you," Dutch quietly replied. "Whatever you're comfortable with."

The wagon slowed slightly, as Benjamin looked around and behind each grouping of trees he had come by. It had been some time since he had been in the area. The trees had grown much since he was last in the area; the branches of the live oaks along the roads reached across the road, now almost reaching the others on the opposite side.

The easy pace of the wagon, the cushioned clip-clop of the Belgian mare's hooves on the drought-hardened dirt was a contrast with the racing of Dutch's heart.

He felt nervous as if he was expecting Hosea to reach through the ground and drag him down with him. Ultimately though, he felt nervous about his judgment, which he thought he had earned.

"It must have been a good near twenty years since I've last been around," Benjamin spoke fondly. "But some of the prettiest vanilla flowers could be found here. I'd pick them for Alice and put them in that vase by the staircase. It always smelled so nice when we came home from wherever."

He left that vase to stay empty on her passing.

Dutch swallowed hard and let out a slow, slightly shaken exhale at the mention of those sweet blossoms. "I . . . Picked some for Hosea, to put in a glass jar. We had a bad argument the night before and I wanted to butter him up."

Vanilla flowers symbolize luxury and love, a fact that didn't bypass Hosea. They once had a discussion on such a topic. Dutch fell asleep, to Hosea's annoyance.

"And did it work?" Benjamin gently asked, still looking carefully but balancing it well with listening; Dutch was vulnerable, and he needed to lend him his ear.

A small smile appeared in the corner of Dutch's lips, remembering. It was one of his last birthday gifts. "Yes. I think so. If a kiss on the nose when he took it from me is any indication."

"I would say so," there was a reassuring tone to Benjamin's voice. "I know you certainly did a good job at buttering me up. After all the games you've played with me . . . " He shook his head, and then fell quiet, carefully curating his next words.

"But . . . I could see what Hosea saw in you."

Mind games and manipulation aside; Benjamin saw a charming but deeply flawed, tragic man, capable of deep love and affection, a contrast to the destruction and brutality for which he's earned a reputation. With the same hands that he had used to commit wanton crimes, he had used to caress him tenderly. And he had held those hands when he felt vulnerable. He knew Dutch would be considered insane by the doctors of that modern asylum, but sees the insanity within the world. Such is the duality of man.

Tears threatened to spill as Dutch hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face against them in annoyance of his own feelings. He fought them back, though; he had to be strong for Hosea. It was the last time he was going to 'see' him. He wanted to desperately apologize to him, for all the wrongs, for . . . Moving on, they called it.

And he so desperately wanted to tell him how much he had, and still does, love him.

The silence from Dutch hit Benjamin. He had come to know him over time that when he suddenly felt quiet, he was often shutting himself off. "I'm . . . Sorry. Didn't mean to open scars. I was just . . .'

Dutch shook his head, his voice weak and muffled against his knees. Benjamin meant well; his tone was affectionate, not teasing.

"Don't be."

Still, there was undeniable guilt in Benjamin's voice. "I didn't mean to -- "

'Don't apologize, Benjamin. I don't deserve it.'

"You've been too good to me, Benj."

The wagon had slowed further, before finally coming to a stop which had slightly jolted Dutch. His racing heart had nearly jumped out of his chest.

This must be it.

Time to meet Hosea.

Dutch shifted himself to the wagon's door, waiting for the doors to open as he felt the shifting weight from Benjamin getting off of his seat. And when he did, he came out almost cautiously, as if expecting Hosea's rage to come flying out from behind the wagon.

But there was nothing but the gentle song of the Carolina Wren greeting him, and a gentle breeze caressed his face and sifted through his hair. He stood before the opening between the trees, looking wistfully at the simple gravestones. The dirt piled up in mounds over their burial spots still looked fresh and undisturbed, as if nothing dared to.

There was something about the simplicity of the gravestones -- their names etched into the wood by hand -- that touched him. They wouldn't want anything fancier.

It was just so . . .

Them.

And then, Dutch knelt down, bowing his head as he gripped the dried, sun-burned grass.

"I'm sorry . . . " His voice came out as an unexpected whimper; his attempt to be strong, to be stoic, had gone to ruin now that he was before his Hosea's grave, and his dear friend beside him.

"I-I failed you."

With an anguished cry, Dutch slowly crumpled before them, sobbing into the ground. The earth was hard and unforgiving, the grass coarse against his face, but he didn't care.

It was as if he had lost Hosea again.

The raised mounds of earth, and the smell of the river they had gone fishing with Arthur, sent home the finality.

Soulmates never stop being soulmates when their other dies, and when Hosea was torn from him, it was as if a huge part of Dutch's soul had gone with him.

Benjamin stood by his wagon, watching, a hand resting on the strong rump of Evelyn's. He wanted to offer comfort to Dutch but didn't want to intrude. This was a moment between Dutch and Hosea, he thought, with his heart aching. He already felt like he had come between them both, on a spiritual level. Benjamin had his hand in letting Dutch have feelings for him; he offered comfort in a time of vulnerability -- and with Dutch's neediness, his insecurity being enabled -- meant he ate it like a starving cur and came back for more.

Benjamin had captured a ghost that had formed into the shape of a man, with a heart that may never heal.

'I'm sorry, Dutch. I'm sorry.'

And yet . . . Benjamin forced his hand off of his horse, and slowly walked towards Dutch, taking off his hat.

It felt wrong for Benjamin to leave Dutch alone in such a fragile state. He knew he needed to be an aid in comfort, and he left his own feelings in the wagon.

He nodded respectfully to Hosea and Lenny.

'Gentlemen.'

This, the visiting of the grave of an outlaw, was a first for Benjamin. He had signed off on seemingly countless hangings, and shot several dangerous men in his time on the streets, but never had he stood before their graves.

It was unexpectedly humbling.

Benjamin never had a personal connection to either of these gentlemen, but he felt he was in their presence. He hadn't thought much of himself as a religious man, but he felt something distinctly spiritual, even welcomed, before them. It was not unlike the feeling he had received while visiting old churches, not for religious aspects, but to take in their intricate woodwork, the stained glass, details that came about from delicate workmanship.

"Dutch . . . " He spoke softly, bending down to lightly touch Dutch's shoulder.

He would understand it if Dutch pulled away; this was such a private moment, he reminded himself, despite his intentions to volunteer comfort.

But Dutch hadn't pushed him away.

He did the opposite.

Dutch straightened himself up some, feeling a little ashamed of such a show of emotion. He reached up to take one of his hands. His grip was gentle.

"Benjamin, meet Lenny and Hosea . . . " He looked over at his beloved's grave through bleary eyes. "Lenny, Hosea, meet Benjamin . . . " He paused, not wanting to exclude Lenny from the introductions, of course. The two hadn't always seen eye to eye (particularly in the book department), but he had always been a fine member of the gang; level-headed and wise beyond his nineteen years.

And now he was gone, too.

If only he had said 'no.'

If only.

Dutch had been in so much shock at the time of Hosea's death that Lenny's own untimely demise hadn't registered with him; everything became a blur on that fateful day. The gang had not only lost one of the smartest but also a damn good friend.

Seeing Lenny's name etched on that old board sent it home.

"Take care of him, Hosea . . . " Dutch thought out loud, his voice a gentle plea, a respectful whisper.

Dutch knew well of the bond they had; it almost frustrated him at times, how they almost tagged teamed him on Evelyn Miller and his philosophies. 'Can a man just enjoy his favourite author in peace?' He remembered protesting once.

Benjamin knelt down before Dutch and bowed his head, still holding Dutch's hand. A gentle breeze carried the scent of vanilla flowers; he briefly looked up to see if there were trees which had them growing on them, but they were bereft of the yellow flowers.

Dutch rested his cheek against Benjamin's hand as he felt him brushing aside some sweat-slicked hair. "Benjamin's taking good care of me, more than I deserve . . . " He paused. "I . . .I have to leave soon, but . . . " He leaned a sharp cheekbone against Benjamin's finger that gently wiped away a tear. His voice was shaken, even timid.

"Words can't fix for letting you down, and I know that I'm not worthy of it, but, I need you to know that . . ." He absently rubbed the back of his neck, slick with the heat of the day.

" . . . That I still love you."

Dutch's voice was unmistakably pained, strained from it, even. He felt Benjamin's soothing squeeze of his hand, which he squeezed back in acknowledgement, their fingers linked.

" . . . And I forgive you, if you don't love me no more."

Dutch choked back a sob, the sound coming out as something of a grasp. He offered no resistance as Benjamin pulled him close in a warm embrace, and nor did he resist the soothing rub to his back, the kiss to the back of his head.

Benjamin couldn't and wouldn't compare his own pain of seeing Dutch in such a state to the pain Dutch was feeling, but it chased behind. He leaned his cheek against Dutch's, continuing to stroke his back in slow circles.

'If I could tear the pain out of you, I could, Dutch, my kitten, my pet.'

"And I forgive you, if you don't love me no more."

The very idea had chewed up and spit out Dutch heart onto the glorified thatch before him.

And then, stomped on it.

"And I forgive you, for not bein' able to forgive me."

And then, a gunshot was fired.

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roamingtigress · 1 month ago

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A Night for Us by Roaming Tigress Hosea and Dutch break into New York's Luna Park one Christmas day in the 1920s -- and revisit memories of Christmas pasts.

A Night for Us by Roaming Tigress

Luna Park.

A vibrant slice of electric heaven in Brooklyn's Coney Island; a picture of modernity, adventure and wonder awaits you on every corner of its expanse.

Such a place isn't where most would expect to find a pair of old men seeking (mis)adventure in the Roaring Twenties, but, here we are.

"Dutch, I don't think you're quite as nimble these days."

My idiot husband listens as well as he always has—barely at all.

"Just one more rung, Old Girl!"

He's climbing up a damn iron gate. It's part of a grand entrance with splendid art deco styling, its electric lighting visible for miles at night on Surfside Avenue. One slip could result in an embarrassing end to his storied life.

Now, I'm sure you're telling yourself: has Dutch truly lost it?

Well, possible. But I think to have "lost it", you'd have to have it in the first place.

But, let me tell you one little detail.

It's Christmas, and the park is closed on Christmas.

Did you think it would stop us?

No.

To my relief, Dutch came down from the gate on the opposite side without breaking his neck. That stupid, handsome grin of his could light up the whole park -- and the rest of Brooklyn.

"That was easy enough 'sea!"

I scoff. It wasn't easy for me to watch.

I love that fool.

Now it was my turn to come down the gate; after all, someone had to keep an eye on Dutch. It would be irresponsible for me to let him run rampant in such a place -- heaven knows what he'd do. There may be no park left to reopen in the new year!

And besides, why should he have all the fun?

I was a touch more cautious, mind; he was hovering right underneath me with his arms out as if he wanted me to let go and catch me. But as to not give him the satisfaction of wanting to play big brave rescuer, as if waiting to catch some fair maiden escaping a witch's castle, I managed to climb down the gate without as much as a scuffed nail.

"Not bad."

Now Dutch scoffed, giving me a poke to the ribs as I have done to him many times to keep him in line.

"You were worried."

I give Dutch a jab back; he lets out a most manly squeak; still ticklish!. "Funeral costs have gone up these days."

Dutch rolled with the punch. We hadn't lost a step in that area; in fact, we've gotten sharper, seemingly knowing what the other one would react, and would say next.

"Save yourself a little money and take me to the taxidermist instead!"

I threw my next punch. "As if I'd want to see your ugly old mug over the mantle!"

He dodged.

"Who said it had to be the mantle? I think I could look rather dashing over my spot on the bed!"

I sass back. Dutch is really pushing to get coal for Christmas.

"I don't think I want nightmares!"

Then I get it. I really get it.

Dutch tossed a snowball at me. I didn't even see him make it. I expertly dodge.

"Almost!" I brag, tossing one right back, getting him square in that wonderful big forehead of his and acting completely oblivious to it.

And then he hands me the old man's memories card as he whirls me under his arm, with much the same elegance and grace he had done when he was younger. "You used to say, 'almost' isn't good enough."

I was referring to aiming his gun; he wasn't terrible at shooting, but let's just say, I polished up his skills. And here he is, haunting me with those words some thirty-odd years later -- in the context of snowball fights.

He laughs that hearty laugh as he spins me around again, out into the grand entrance of Luna Park's electric circus.

Only the 'circus' has packed up the tent for the remainder of the week.

Gone are the bustling crowds that would pour through this spot where Dutch twirled me. Many would be rushing towards ticket booths for their rides -- perhaps the Parachute Jump, the Dragon Gorge -- while others visiting the concession kiosks to fuel up for the day; popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy. Those families who took in the stunning marvel that is the Electric Tower watched trained leopards perform and rode the latest state-of-the-art rides have settled in their homes for the holidays, maybe listening to holiday tunes on the radio.

There's still a faint smell of buttered popcorn in the air from yesterday's Christmas Eve, the last day the park was open for the year. And indeed, some was left behind in a popcorn cart. It was parked by a souvenir shop which sold pennants featuring the trademark grinning 'Tilly' face stamped on with 'Luna Park.'

I see a sparkle in Dutch's eye; I know what he's thinking. First popcorn, then a pennant.

I quirk an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure that popcorn's stale now -- "

Dutch flashed me a cheeky grin, acting as if I hadn’t seen him snatch a pennant and shove it into some hidden pocket of his coat, which I’m convinced leads to an endless void. It's probably where he stashes all those plans.

"It'll only get more stale without someone eatin' it."

Before I could retort, he whipped out his trusted lock pick from an inside pocket of his black bear fur coat and flashed it to me with a grin. He knew damn well he could have got through the gates with it, but where was the fun in that?

"We could get popcorn theft to our list of crimes, 'sea!" He made a showing of picking the lock of the popcorn cart.

Yes, I'm excited about the prospect of that report getting around; Hosea Matthews and Dutch van der Linde are now wanted for the theft of stale popcorn and a Tilly pennant on Coney Island's Luna Park on Christmas. Rival gangs near and far would flee in terror.

Still, I take my bag from him -- costing me a nickel -- and let him lead the way.

I snort, leaning in as I munch on a few pieces, taking in the eclectic settings. I've secretly made a mental note to come back in season, a surprise for our wedding anniversary.

"I think the Pinkertons would be stretched to their resources with that one."

Dutch chuckles; more easily amused these days, even by his own little comments and jokes, and I cherish it.

"What would you say if I took you on a ride?" Dutch asks smoothly, pulling me close in his arm, making it impossible to resist. I could have retorted with a quip about him already taking me for a ride, but I chose to let him run the show. He's a little frailer these days on account of the rigours of old age, but, he still holds me close and his hold is snug, almost shoving me into his coat. I feel so warm, almost not needing my own.

An inner voice said no, this was luna-cy; what would he know about operating one of these things? He decided that if nobody was around to operate, he'd play the part himself.

Foolish, very foolish.

But I said, yes.

I've said 'yes' to a lot of risky things in my life; starting a gang, willingly getting myself into all sorts of schemes, situations and scenarios to varying degrees of success -- a few that resulted in me getting caught and put behind bars -- but getting married to Dutch van der Linde was the biggest risk I have ever taken. In our stories, I may come upon as being completely exasperated, and while there may be some truth behind that, I do not regret saying 'yes' to that man.

Damn it, I love Dutch.

A reminder of how much I love him was when he offered me some of his popcorn in his fingers. I have plenty of my own, but . . . I softly nibble it out of his fingers, gently brushing them with a kiss. The wondrous surroundings we're in almost seem to have melted away.

"You remember our first Christmas when I did that . . . ?" Dutch asked in a tone softer than his usual.

I smile, leaning my head against his shoulder as he leads me down past a kiosk that hawks linen textured coloured postcards during the park's opening hour, just behind the gates. He swiped one behind the desk and into his coat it went. Another crime on the Pinkerton watch.

"I do . . . " I smile; that was nearly forty years ago. We had scammed a gentleman into taking a horse with hung papers (falsified pedigree) and well, he wasn't too pleased about it. We chose to lay low versus taking on the gang he ran with, a rough bunch that once dominated Grizzlies East.

"I remember it being incredibly windy and cold and watching the snow blow around as we popped the popcorn over the fire. Nice little homestead out by Window Rock. You were still a little bit shy, but so charming. You heard my stomach rumbling and thought I needed a snack break. So you took some popcorn out of the bowl and offered it to me by hand."

Dutch gently twirled me again, past a ticket booth, and another kiosk that sold cotton candy. The sweet smell still lingered there, though not a trace was left, to our disappointment.

"You ended up having most of the bowl. I settled for dried venison and cranberries."

Mercifully he got a turkey later on in the day when the snow cleared.

I shake my head, letting out a feigned dramatic sigh. "Are we going to bring that up again?"

"Either that or the ugly gloves I made you." The crinkles around his eyes are more evident now as he smiles, particularly when he feels cheeky, and I love them all the more.

"Don't remind me!" I tease.

Oh, they were ugly gloves, made of cowhide poached from Emerald Ranch, but oh, they were loved. And despite the crudeness of their design, they lasted damn near nine years.

"Were they really that much uglier than that satchel you made me?" He laughed, leading me past a series of shuttered kiosks; they held little interest to him as there was nothing visible for him to grab.

"You told me it was from bobcat, but I ain't never seen a bobcat grey with black stripes!"

It was one of my earlier attempts to con Dutch. No need to judge; I learned from that experience.

He led me down further into the park, past more shuttered vendors and snow-dusted children's rides, before we came up to an elegant carousel, the Ocean Wave. It was a beauty brought in for the 1907 season and was due for replacement. The horses were still elegant in design but paint was well worn on their saddles and the horse hair tails were sparser now, evidenced by much use. But like us, there was still some life left in the old gal.

"I think a carousel would be more of your style?" Dutch suggested, gently easing me in front of him for me to take a better look. I caught him earlier eyeballing the tall wooden structures of roller coasters further into the park. I tugged at his sleeve in a polite 'no.' He had pretended to not have noticed, in his eagerness to take me on a tour of the grounds.

My eyes bright up even more than they already were. Yes, I love carousels; I always have, ever since I was a boy (and I was one at one point). This man knows me a bit!

"Might as well take a spin on her before she goes for firewood," I muse with a twinge of sadness, taking in the intricate craftwork, and step back as he hits the switch of the power. My adoration of them was infectious; it was yet another opportunity for Dutch to get sappy with me.

"I suppose I could trust you with a carousel." I chuckle, choosing a grey horse that looks much like my dear old Silver Dollar, and Dutch hops on, right behind me, a bit of a surprise given I thought he was going to choose the white horse in front.

But I can't complain.

Dutch secured me with a gentle embrace as the horse, in a frozen mid-gallop, moved up and down in a gentle rhythm with the music. The natural light was dimming now, and a big "pop" of the light would surely draw attention from any security guard if there were any in the area. Admittedly, it added a little excitement.

"Just in case you fall off," Dutch teased, leaning that wonderful cleft chin on my shoulder. "Saving you the embarrassment of going out on a stolen away ride on a carousel."

I scoff. "Getting me back from earlier?"

"Maybe." I didn't even need to turn around to see that he had that grin on his face again.

I had to grin as he kissed me on the cheek. Now I know the real reason for him joining me on the ride; just to nuzzle as many kisses on me as he could until the end of the ride. He was being terribly distracting, but I couldn't get mad; he was being awfully sweet.

"You really haven't forgotten much, have you?" I asked in a gentle tone, reaching a hand around to touch his; he had been forgetting the odd thing, such as locking the doors, and then worrying if he hadn't locked them, sometimes waking up from a deep sleep to do so, but he's held onto nostalgia like a steel trap.

Dutch answered me with a distinct hint of vulnerability, that had been absent since his arrival in the park. "You don't let me forget."

I unexpectedly feel a catch to my throat as he leans in to give another soft kiss on the cheek.

"You're right, I don't."

I give that hand, slightly more bonier than it once was, a gentle squeeze.

"Do you remember that state fair we went to?" I could hear the smile in his voice. "Went on the night it officially started. I wanted to kiss you on the carousel."

Dutch's nostalgia pool is still deep.

And that was what brought us to New York; Dutch had wanted to keep those memories alive by reliving them again. While the gang remained outside the city limits, he stole me away for Christmas, not giving me a hint as to where we were going.

I carefully turn around in his arms, careful not to slip and give a reason for Dutch to play hero by readying to catch me again, and slowly, tenderly, we kiss. This time, I'm holding him, as if subtly telling him to not worry about his memories; I'll always have a hold onto them for him.

At that moment, the rest of the world seemed to melt away, and it was only us. In our minds, the infirmities of old age had melted away and were replaced with our youth again; only I pictured Dutch wearing his mustache. Now your preference may differ (facial hair is a subjective matter) but when I look back, I think he looked a bit silly without it.

Our kiss broke when the music slowed to a stop. We hadn't even noticed the sky had faded from its pinkish-blueish hue of a winter's sky to near black. We were lost within each other, something that has been happening with comforting frequency as of late.

"Even better than that time, 'sea."

I've always loved how he had shortened my name, short already. It's endearing.

"I think we could check out the Electric Tower and . . . " His eyes light up, and his features are handsomely reflected by the carousel lights that had yet to shut off.

"I think I have a surprise."

He had been studying some sort of map for weeks leading up to the move to New York; now I know what he was planning.

Off we went again, but not before Dutch hit the switch on a pole for electric power, and it was then that the park truly became electrifying; one by one, brilliant displays of lights switched on, and some rides even came to life.

One of those rides was the famed Dragon Gorge.

Against my better judgement, I decide to let Dutch drag me along onto it. To those not familiar, think of an ornately decorated indoor rollercoaster, featuring mock scenes of varying dioramic scenes of our nation, from the Arctic and Rocky Mountains to historical events, such as the Battle of Port Arthur, the explosion of the U S.S Maine which got us into the Spanish-American War. Guarding us on our journey were a set of magnificent 45-foot-tall plaster dragons poised outside, with a fantastical wing span. Like the horses we rose on, they were intricately designed, with green, glowing eyes.

The ride -- an idea borne out of sheer spontaneity out of Dutch -- was more fun than I had anticipated it to be, and when it came to its stop, off we went to that majestic Electric Tower.

This was a structure made for the 1901 Pan-American Exposition, and a sign boasts of having no less than 44, 000 lightbulbs, eight watts apparently. This amazing display of modern design was featured in Dutch's stolen postcard. And speaking of the devil, Dutch had wanted to climb up it for a better view -- and drag me along. For amazing as it must be, I stood my ground firm; we had enough climbing for one day, let's not further risk the wrath of the trespassing gods, I didn't think I could catch Dutch if he lost his footing and fell.

And so off to the next destination, our surprise destination; something, to my delight, as something I was a bit of an old master in.

Ice skating.

The venue is converted for swimming in the summer, but for now, it was a skating rink for two.

A few stolen pairs of rental skates later, and we were out on the ice. My beloved husband, bless him, has long lacked coordination in this department. For several years I have patiently tried to help him skate somewhat more gracefully than a skittish moose on a frozen lake. After six years, we finally concluded that we can't all be good at everything, even Dutch.

But oh, how delighted he was to find out there was a skating rink in the park, for me!

"That's it, Dutch, I think . . .I think we're finally getting it!" I spoke proudly when his long legs had at once stopped acting like they were made of rubber; he was slightly cheating, as he carefully held onto me, but he was trying, for me.

"It only took eight years," Dutch scoffed.

I gently corrected. "Fifteen."

Another snort from my husband. Stubborn as always!

"Nonsense."

I stood my ground.

Again.

"Fifteen years."

As Dutch crossed his arms like a petulant child, he realized he wasn't holding onto me. Slowly but surely, he came to the realization that, by George, he's finally got it.

I gently took the lead when I felt we were steady and ready, and slowly, we kissed, under this night for us.

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