An Anniversary Thing, 1/1
An Anniversary Thing
Peter insisted that they spend their first anniversary in Kendal-he wanted to spend the time, with Rose, in the place where everything had started. Rose had laughed, at first, asking why they couldn’t simply spend it in London, but had relented upon seeing that he was both serious and not a little stung by how cavalierly she’d taken the suggestion.
They spent the train ride north talking softly, relaxing more and more the further they got from London, Peter in the aisle seat while Rose sat leaning against him, staring out the window. He still didn’t quite understand the allure of travelling by train-and truth be told, staring out the window tended to make him sick-but Rose adored it and so he had humoured her.
He had called up to Louise, asking if she or someone from her tea group would be willing to air the house out a bit, and so it was that when they arrived late Friday night, the house had been not only cleaned, but was near full to bursting with flowers.
Once more, Louise had come through for him in a pinch, and he made a note to ensure he thanked her properly.
That first night in Kendal, they didn’t even make it up the stairs before making love.
The weekend was spent visiting friends-well, such friends as he had. At least, he reflected, he actually had friends to visit in Kendal. Coffee was procured from Louise first thing in the morning, and they spent several hours seated in her cafe, chatting up not only Louise but her group of friends (including the florist responsible for the flowers). They left for lunch with Penny and Anna, and then returned to the house for a picnic dinner on the floor in front of the fireplace.
That night, they managed to make it upstairs before making love-although only just.
And then, on Sunday, Peter and Rose drove to Carlisle to meet with Annie and her husband for tea. Rose still wasn’t completely comfortable around Annie, but it was a far cry from the debacle of their first meeting-and Rose was trying to get to know Annie, to get past her (irrational) insecurity where his oldest friend was concerned.
It was during the drive back from Carlisle that he sprung his grand surprise on Rose. He’d known for months where he wanted to take her during their anniversary, and the return drive to Kendal was the perfect opportunity.
“Where we goin’?” Rose asked as he turned off the highway, away from Kendal.
“Need to make a stop on the way back to town,” he replied, sneaking a glance at her as he drove. He doubted he’d ever be able to forget the route.
Nothing had been built in the year since the warehouse had burned down, although it was clear the farmer who owned the land had done some work-it was almost unrecognizable, that small, significant patch of land. He pulled down the dirt track, turned the car around, and parked as near to the spot as he could remember.
“Here we are.”
Rose glanced at him. “But...we’re...”
“Wee, sleekit, cow’ring, timorous beastie...” He leaned towards her, the words almost a whisper. The poem was one they often read to each other, and it took only those few words for Rose to realize what he meant. He watched her make a small “Oh!” of recognition, right before he closed the distance between them and kissed her.
Her hands immediately slid up into his hair; he reached across the gearbox and pulled her to him as much as possible given their positions. Rose deepened the kiss in response, and Peter gave himself over completely to moment.
They finally had to pull apart, each of them gasping for breath. Outside the car, the sun shone on the green of the mown grass, and birds and insects could be seen flitting about. It was a far cry from the buckets of rain that had poured down that day, a year ago-but, somehow, it was a fitting change. He almost cringed thinking it, but Rose had brought sunshine to his grey life.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered, finally, breaking the silence inside the car.
“Thank you,” he replied, leaning forward to kiss Rose again.
This time, when they finally broke apart, he turned to open his door. “Fancy a stroll?”
Rose laughed. “Will you finish the poem this time?”
“I can do, if you like.”
“I like.” She grinned, and opened her door.
He recited the poem for her, finishing it as requested-and when he finally stopped, silent, at the edge of the foundation of the warehouse, Rose pulled him to her for another kiss. If he thought they could get away with it, he would have made love to her in that field.
Instead, they made love when they got back to the house, the bright light of day filling the room. The duvet was blue, the furniture was a blonde wood-but there was still a power to making love to Rose in that room, based on that first night together with her.
It was as he emerged from the en-suite, freshly showered before getting dressed for supper, that she surprised him in return. Rose was sitting at the foot of the bed, wrapped in his ratty old robe-she’d packed it, apparently-a small package on her lap.
“C’mere, you,” she said softly.
He padded over to where she sat, and she scooted over to make room for him. He made sure the towel was tucked securely around his hips before sitting down.
“I...I got this for you.” She handed him the rectangular package. “I...well...it seemed the only right thing for you.”
She was blushing; he glanced down at the parcel-it felt like a book-before leaning over and kissing Rose’s cheek. “Thank you.”
She laughed. “You don’t even know what it is!”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s from you.”
She reached over, resting her hand over his. “Go ahead and open it,” she encouraged softly.
He gently opened the paper, peeling it back to reveal the giltwork of an old volume of some sort. He could feel Rose’s eyes on him as he glanced at the spine-more giltwork, but no lettering-and then as he opened the front cover. He leafed through the front pages until he found the title page.
“Burns,” he breathed.
“I don’t expect this to replace your favourite book,” she leaned her shoulder into him as she spoke, a teasing note to her voice. “But...I found it when I was looking the other day. And-“
He turned, kissing her, the book clasped in his lap.
She pulled back with a smile. “Happy anniversary, Peter.”
“But...I…I didn’t get you anything.”
She cupped his cheek. “I’ve got you.” She leaned forward, kissing him gently, ending by brushing a soft kiss over his jaw.
“Thank you.” He looked at the volume of poetry; Rose had, once again, given him something he never thought he’d be able to own. And yet, it was that it had come from her that made it so incredibly valuable to him.
Sneaking a quick glance at Rose, he leafed through, finally finding To A Mouse and reading it to her as she leaned against him.
He’d arranged for dinner at the Inn that night, and they dined together in the same small alcove as the year before. Instead of talking about his family, this year they talked about Rose’s; and as the dessert dishes were cleared, he couldn’t help staring across the table at her, awe washing through him as he realized they’d been together for a year now, and that he loved her more than he thought possible.
Rose noticed his gaze, and gave him a soft smile. “Y’alright?”
“Yes.”
“Penny for your thoughts, then.”
“I can’t believe how very much I love you.”
She blushed, and he continued. “I realized it here. Out in the car park. Not how much I love you-but that I loved you at all.”
Rose’s eyes shone in the candlelight. “You did?”
“Yes. It just...out of the blue, it hit me. It’s one of those rare moments I’ll forever remember with perfect clarity.”
Rose reached across the table for his hand, and squeezed it. Her eyes were bright, and she actually sniffled before speaking. “I...I didn’t realize it until later. During that first long visit up here. But I...I love you so dearly, Peter.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t think I tell you enough.”
He leaned forward, raising her hand to brush a kiss across the knuckles. “I could never tire of hearing it-nor of telling you how much I love you. My Rose.”
The bill was settled quickly, and they emerged into a cool, clear night. The stars were sharp against the black velvet of the sky, and Rose paused at the boot of the car to lean her head back and look at the stars, as she so often did.
“D’you miss it?” he asked softly.
She tilted her head down, gazing steadily at him. “Yes. But I’d miss this more.”
He leaned into her, kissing her briefly. “I’m so glad I met you.”
Rose blinked, before a huge grin overspread her features. “Me, too.” She laughed, as at a private joke, before kissing him in turn. “If you drive us home, I’ll show you just how glad I am.”
Oddly, they didn’t actually make love that night-instead, as they lay together in the bed, Rose told him why it was she loved him so. He, in turn, told her everything he loved about her, and they fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
Monday was their last day in Kendal-each of them had taken leave for a long weekend-and he awoke Rose by trailing kisses along her shoulder, down her ribs, across her stomach. Her hands drifted to his hair, and they were both soon naked. Rose gazed steadily at him as she moved above him, encouraging him to come, begging him to drive her to orgasm, telling him to keep going, to never stop, even as he emptied into the condom and as she pulsed around him.
And as they rode the train back to London late that afternoon, he reflected-without looking out the window-that it had been one of the best weekends of his entire life.
Peter insisted that they spend their first anniversary in Kendal-he wanted to spend the time, with Rose, in the place where everything had started. Rose had laughed, at first, asking why they couldn’t simply spend it in London, but had relented upon seeing that he was both serious and not a little stung by how cavalierly she’d taken the suggestion.
They spent the train ride north talking softly, relaxing more and more the further they got from London, Peter in the aisle seat while Rose sat leaning against him, staring out the window. He still didn’t quite understand the allure of travelling by train-and truth be told, staring out the window tended to make him sick-but Rose adored it and so he had humoured her.
He had called up to Louise, asking if she or someone from her tea group would be willing to air the house out a bit, and so it was that when they arrived late Friday night, the house had been not only cleaned, but was near full to bursting with flowers.
Once more, Louise had come through for him in a pinch, and he made a note to ensure he thanked her properly.
That first night in Kendal, they didn’t even make it up the stairs before making love.
The weekend was spent visiting friends-well, such friends as he had. At least, he reflected, he actually had friends to visit in Kendal. Coffee was procured from Louise first thing in the morning, and they spent several hours seated in her cafe, chatting up not only Louise but her group of friends (including the florist responsible for the flowers). They left for lunch with Penny and Anna, and then returned to the house for a picnic dinner on the floor in front of the fireplace.
That night, they managed to make it upstairs before making love-although only just.
And then, on Sunday, Peter and Rose drove to Carlisle to meet with Annie and her husband for tea. Rose still wasn’t completely comfortable around Annie, but it was a far cry from the debacle of their first meeting-and Rose was trying to get to know Annie, to get past her (irrational) insecurity where his oldest friend was concerned.
It was during the drive back from Carlisle that he sprung his grand surprise on Rose. He’d known for months where he wanted to take her during their anniversary, and the return drive to Kendal was the perfect opportunity.
“Where we goin’?” Rose asked as he turned off the highway, away from Kendal.
“Need to make a stop on the way back to town,” he replied, sneaking a glance at her as he drove. He doubted he’d ever be able to forget the route.
Nothing had been built in the year since the warehouse had burned down, although it was clear the farmer who owned the land had done some work-it was almost unrecognizable, that small, significant patch of land. He pulled down the dirt track, turned the car around, and parked as near to the spot as he could remember.
“Here we are.”
Rose glanced at him. “But...we’re...”
“Wee, sleekit, cow’ring, timorous beastie...” He leaned towards her, the words almost a whisper. The poem was one they often read to each other, and it took only those few words for Rose to realize what he meant. He watched her make a small “Oh!” of recognition, right before he closed the distance between them and kissed her.
Her hands immediately slid up into his hair; he reached across the gearbox and pulled her to him as much as possible given their positions. Rose deepened the kiss in response, and Peter gave himself over completely to moment.
They finally had to pull apart, each of them gasping for breath. Outside the car, the sun shone on the green of the mown grass, and birds and insects could be seen flitting about. It was a far cry from the buckets of rain that had poured down that day, a year ago-but, somehow, it was a fitting change. He almost cringed thinking it, but Rose had brought sunshine to his grey life.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered, finally, breaking the silence inside the car.
“Thank you,” he replied, leaning forward to kiss Rose again.
This time, when they finally broke apart, he turned to open his door. “Fancy a stroll?”
Rose laughed. “Will you finish the poem this time?”
“I can do, if you like.”
“I like.” She grinned, and opened her door.
He recited the poem for her, finishing it as requested-and when he finally stopped, silent, at the edge of the foundation of the warehouse, Rose pulled him to her for another kiss. If he thought they could get away with it, he would have made love to her in that field.
Instead, they made love when they got back to the house, the bright light of day filling the room. The duvet was blue, the furniture was a blonde wood-but there was still a power to making love to Rose in that room, based on that first night together with her.
It was as he emerged from the en-suite, freshly showered before getting dressed for supper, that she surprised him in return. Rose was sitting at the foot of the bed, wrapped in his ratty old robe-she’d packed it, apparently-a small package on her lap.
“C’mere, you,” she said softly.
He padded over to where she sat, and she scooted over to make room for him. He made sure the towel was tucked securely around his hips before sitting down.
“I...I got this for you.” She handed him the rectangular package. “I...well...it seemed the only right thing for you.”
She was blushing; he glanced down at the parcel-it felt like a book-before leaning over and kissing Rose’s cheek. “Thank you.”
She laughed. “You don’t even know what it is!”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s from you.”
She reached over, resting her hand over his. “Go ahead and open it,” she encouraged softly.
He gently opened the paper, peeling it back to reveal the giltwork of an old volume of some sort. He could feel Rose’s eyes on him as he glanced at the spine-more giltwork, but no lettering-and then as he opened the front cover. He leafed through the front pages until he found the title page.
“Burns,” he breathed.
“I don’t expect this to replace your favourite book,” she leaned her shoulder into him as she spoke, a teasing note to her voice. “But...I found it when I was looking the other day. And-“
He turned, kissing her, the book clasped in his lap.
She pulled back with a smile. “Happy anniversary, Peter.”
“But...I…I didn’t get you anything.”
She cupped his cheek. “I’ve got you.” She leaned forward, kissing him gently, ending by brushing a soft kiss over his jaw.
“Thank you.” He looked at the volume of poetry; Rose had, once again, given him something he never thought he’d be able to own. And yet, it was that it had come from her that made it so incredibly valuable to him.
Sneaking a quick glance at Rose, he leafed through, finally finding To A Mouse and reading it to her as she leaned against him.
He’d arranged for dinner at the Inn that night, and they dined together in the same small alcove as the year before. Instead of talking about his family, this year they talked about Rose’s; and as the dessert dishes were cleared, he couldn’t help staring across the table at her, awe washing through him as he realized they’d been together for a year now, and that he loved her more than he thought possible.
Rose noticed his gaze, and gave him a soft smile. “Y’alright?”
“Yes.”
“Penny for your thoughts, then.”
“I can’t believe how very much I love you.”
She blushed, and he continued. “I realized it here. Out in the car park. Not how much I love you-but that I loved you at all.”
Rose’s eyes shone in the candlelight. “You did?”
“Yes. It just...out of the blue, it hit me. It’s one of those rare moments I’ll forever remember with perfect clarity.”
Rose reached across the table for his hand, and squeezed it. Her eyes were bright, and she actually sniffled before speaking. “I...I didn’t realize it until later. During that first long visit up here. But I...I love you so dearly, Peter.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t think I tell you enough.”
He leaned forward, raising her hand to brush a kiss across the knuckles. “I could never tire of hearing it-nor of telling you how much I love you. My Rose.”
The bill was settled quickly, and they emerged into a cool, clear night. The stars were sharp against the black velvet of the sky, and Rose paused at the boot of the car to lean her head back and look at the stars, as she so often did.
“D’you miss it?” he asked softly.
She tilted her head down, gazing steadily at him. “Yes. But I’d miss this more.”
He leaned into her, kissing her briefly. “I’m so glad I met you.”
Rose blinked, before a huge grin overspread her features. “Me, too.” She laughed, as at a private joke, before kissing him in turn. “If you drive us home, I’ll show you just how glad I am.”
Oddly, they didn’t actually make love that night-instead, as they lay together in the bed, Rose told him why it was she loved him so. He, in turn, told her everything he loved about her, and they fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
Monday was their last day in Kendal-each of them had taken leave for a long weekend-and he awoke Rose by trailing kisses along her shoulder, down her ribs, across her stomach. Her hands drifted to his hair, and they were both soon naked. Rose gazed steadily at him as she moved above him, encouraging him to come, begging him to drive her to orgasm, telling him to keep going, to never stop, even as he emptied into the condom and as she pulsed around him.
And as they rode the train back to London late that afternoon, he reflected-without looking out the window-that it had been one of the best weekends of his entire life.