On January 28, 2012, I found myself driving to Tilghman Island, a narrow strait of land, surrounded by all the beauty of the Chesapeake Bay.  Caitlin was in the passenger seat, a weekend bag was in the back, and my camera bag was neatly tucked away in the storage section of the Jeep, in hopes of capturing a moment or two.  After driving through the resort towns of Easton and St. Michaels, we pulled onto the single lane road, edged over the draw bridge, and made our way towards the Lazy Jack Inn, Carol and Mike’s four-room bed-and-breakfast overlooking the Dogwood Harbor.

As we parked outside the Inn, I felt a nervous energy slowing building inside me.  I tend to be both perfectionist and easy-going, to want everything in its place—alphabetized and right-side up—but able still to accept a degree of disorder and uncertainty when chance creates it.  But on this Saturday, with the afternoon yielding to sunset, I wanted perfection.  I wanted the Inn, our suite, and our dinner to be just right.  I wanted the evening to be as romantic as I had envisioned it.  And, most importantly, I wanted myself to be as romantic as I had envisioned, to cast off, for the evening, the easy-going, care-free side of my personality.

As the doorbell rang, the quiet reverberation was silenced by my own thumping heart.  Our Innkeepers greeted us, walking us to our room, the Nellie Byrd Suite, and my fingertips began to moisten as I clutched the camera bag with greater resolve.  Caitlin set her things aside as I took stock of the room, casting my eyes toward the armchairs at the foot of the bed, overlooking the sunset, and the fishing boats returning to harbor.

There was never a question of whether Caitlin and I would get engaged.  We had started dating in January 2009, and after spending a year apart in Memphis and Cincinnati, our future together seemed certain.  In November 2011, I bought the stone, a peach-colored Sapphire.  A few months later, Caitlin and I ventured into the city together to look at settings.  The question was not whether, but when.

That Saturday, standing in our suite, a brilliant sunset casting its crimson glow against the fireplace, the macro question shifted to a micro one.  The question of when was now what precise moment?

When Caitlin came to the window, ready for dinner, I encouraged her to sit down in the armchair.  I squeezed in beside her, half on her lap, half on the chair’s left arm.  We had waited and waited for this moment.  We had waited through a year of distance, and through several more months of unforeseen separation, as Caitlin’s work took her to Geneva.  Finally, there seemed no point in waiting further.  Not even for dinner.  Not even for an hour.

I sat beside Caitlin and reached into my camera bag, removing the ring that had been nestled inside.  I looked down at Caitlin, opened my fist, showed her the ring, and asked her the question.

She said yes.