A Baltimore Fairy Tale
Note: When the Maryland Writers Association celebrated their 30 year anniversary, they launched a writing contest. The submissions had to be Maryland-themed and under 3,000 words. The winning stories were published in their 2019 Anthology.
This story, A Baltimore Fairy Tale, was one of the winning contest entries.
Outside Baltimore’s 19th century Marburg mansion, while sparkling chandeliers and ornate crown molding furtively peeked through the lace curtains of Number 14, a man dropped a square of linen on the sidewalk.
I met that man in early 2011. He was an elementary school teacher and an army officer in the 450th Civil Affairs Battalion (Airborne), United States Army Reserve. His Match.com profile provided other intel: he liked to travel, he had a horse, he was winding down a six-month course at Ft. Knox. He would be returning to his Baltimore home in a few weeks. We had regular phone dates and corresponded daily.
On our first real date he stated that he would be deploying to Afghanistan in July of 2012. I had shrugged. It was over a year away, let’s see where this leads. My telltale heart would’ve blabbed what I was really starting to feel about this man. I collected photos of us and love notes from him in a folder labeled Paratrooper Ron. I wore a tiny locket with a tiny photo of him next to my heart.
Three months later, on a Montego Bay beach at sunset on Easter, Ron pulled me close and whispered, “I love you.”
When you’re faced with a deadline and having the time of your life, the clock seems to tick faster.
We packed a lot of living in the next twelve months. We rode horses through the fields of Howard County, ran and biked the NCR trail, competed in a triathlon in Columbia, hiked at Oregon Ridge and Washington Monument State Park. We would alternate hosting breakfast, lunch, and dinners at his Sparks home or at my Homeland residence.
In January 2012, we attended a black-tie event. On the way to our hotel, it finally dawned on me; he’s going to propose tonight. Ron had booked an enchanting hotel suite and we would be dressed appropriately for engagement photos. I was practically giddy. I was very careful not to let Ron know that I knew. I would play along, not wanting to spoil the surprise.
As we were getting ready, I poured a shot of wine into a Dixie cup to settle my nerves. I leaned against a chair, putting on my shoes. That’s when I spied it. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but on the other side of the counter, nestled in his maroon beret was a substantial glinting object. I quickly clomped to the other side of the room, one shoe on, one shoe off, pretending not to see what he would be sliding onto my left hand later that evening.
A moment later, Ron reached into his beret, grabbed the item, and I watched in astonishment as he fastened the medal onto his uniform. He glanced over at me, whistling in appreciation, as I stood teetering on stilettos, trying to disguise the confused look on my face. He asked if I was ready. Off we went.
On a flight to Aruba, three months later, Ron and I were engrossed in our own thoughts. He was probably thinking of how he would stage the proposal. I was thinking the same. A year earlier, on a Caribbean beach, he had changed the dynamic of our relationship with the Big Whisper. In just a few days, we had another Easter sunset ahead of us. I had confided with my closest friends and my two sisters that Ron would be popping the question.
As soon as Ron and I arrived in our hotel room, he made a beeline to the safe, under the pretext of securing our wallets and passports. I smiled knowing that he was putting my engagement ring in there. I busied myself with unpacking my “say-yes-dress” that I would be wearing in a few days.
Whenever we came back to the room, Ron would go to the safe and assess the inventory. I would gravitate to the balcony or the bedroom, to allow him privacy.
On Easter Sunday, we had a romantic dinner under tiki lights and twinkling stars. Ron asked if I would like to take a walk on the beach. I demurely acquiesced, my heart racing, threatening to divulge my excitement.
The moon beamed down brightly, witnessing our hand-holding that evening. Ron didn’t ask me any other questions.
I stretched out in bed that evening, my arms folded behind my head, staring into the darkness. I listened to the waves crash. I came to the realization that Ron was going to wait until he returned from his deployment to propose. Secure in that knowledge, I snuggled up close to him, and drifted into a deep sleep.
A few weeks later, my home phone rang. It was my sister, Nancy. “Hey Karen, I have a seminar on May 4th at the Inner Harbor, would you be available for lunch that day?” Nancy lived in southern Maryland. We didn’t see one another frequently, and since my other sister, Linda worked with me, having lunch with both of them was going to be extraordinary.
We made plans. Before we ended the call, she added, “And wear something nice. I know you often dress casual at work. We’re going to go somewhere special.”
As I was sipping coffee that May morning, I realized my sister was visiting on Flower Mart Day. Flower Mart is Baltimore’s oldest public festival, signifying the arrival of spring. It’s a boisterous street party where revelers show off Preakness derby hats, chew on lemon-peppermint sticks, and sample locally harvested crab cakes, oysters, and soft-shell crabs.
A portion of Charles Street is closed, local vendors sell flowers, jewelry, art, crafts, and a menagerie of other items; their tables encircling the Washington Monument and along the sidewalks of the Mt Vernon parks. There are contests and entertainment. A little something for everyone.
Early that morning, strolling along Charles Street from my parking lot to my office, I observed vendors setting up for the day. A stage was assembled in the middle of the block, food trucks were lined up on Madison Street. I had been on the Flower Mart committee a few years earlier. I greeted old friends and favorite vendors. It was like the intersection of Mayberry R.F.D. and Cheers; friendly, folksy, everybody knows your name.
I skipped up the steps of 14 West and soon after, I became ensconced in a meeting. I covertly stole glances at my phone, excited to meet up with my sisters. The library clock chimed the quarter hour as I glided out of the meeting and towards my office. Nancy was climbing the steps, intercepting me. Linda was right behind her. Perfect timing.
“Hey, I’m so glad you found my office. I’m sure finding a parking spot wasn’t as joyous. I totally forgot what a big day this is. Ohmygosh, it’s so good to see you…,” I had the speaking pace of an auctioneer.
Nancy gave me a hug; she turned me towards my office. Dominating the doorway was Ron, in his military dress uniform.
I looked from Ron to Nancy, very confused.
“Ron! Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked.
Ron nodded.
Delicate soprano notes streamed up from the park, “…O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave”. Clapping and cheers resounded.
I was discombobulated. My limbic system was having difficulty regulating my varied emotions. Surprise. Curiosity. Delight. Excitement. And a smidgen of anxiety.
“Are you able to join my sisters and I for lunch?” My stomach had already started to grumble, I could smell the barbecue grills that had been fired up hours earlier. I was envisioning talking my sisters into a café table to watch gaily festooned celebrants and their pets parade by, reveling in the pageantry of Baltimore’s rite of spring.
“Karen, I have something to ask you.”
Ron stepped towards me, swallowing my small hand into his, leading me down the staircase. My sisters parted, letting us pass between them. My eyes were on Ron, assessing his confidence, how good he looked in a uniform. I was proud to be on his arm. My co-workers were admiring Ron as well, their eyes gaping at us over the rails of the staircase, standing in shadowy doorways watching us descend towards the front door.
We reached the first-floor landing. Ron scooped me up in his arms, carrying me down the steps and across the parquet floor. His shoes are very shiny is all I could think.
A camera flashed. Again and again.
Slowly, I gained clarity on why Ron was at my office.
Someone ran to hold the door for Ron, since his arms were full.
Out in the sunlight, the carnival atmosphere abruptly became silent.
Little girls dancing around the maypole froze. Vendors and patrons cut conversations short. All eyes were on the man in uniform, holding the woman in red.
Ron gently set me down on the sidewalk, his strong arms cradling my shoulders, making sure I was steady, before reaching into his pocket for the velvet lined box.
As he knelt down, seconds prior to the world becoming obscured like a kaleidoscope, and tears brimmed in my eyes, I saw the horse-drawn carriage patiently waiting at the curb, a sparkle from the silver ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of roses.
Somewhere nearby, on a Bose speaker, a duet by Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes played softly.
Afterword
As the carriage clip-clopped down Cathedral Street, the regal couple inside smiled and waved to the well-wishing pedestrians and motorists. Unbeknownst to the woman in the red dress holding a champagne flute, attached to the back of the carriage was a poster containing a photograph of her and her officer and gentleman.
The photo had been taken on a beach, capturing the crimson blush in the western sky. The barefoot couple was engaged in a toast, their champagne flutes lightly touching. In very large print beneath the photo were three magical words: SHE SAID YES.
