When she returned to the dining room she saw that Peter had placed the vase of flowers on the heavy oak table and lit the candles. Not only that but he had opened the French doors which opened onto the small patio where her father had once barbecued some of their summer dinners (and, she hoped, would again). The smells and sounds of early summer drifted in and the candle-flames danced delicately in the slight breeze
Peter turned from where he was pouring the wine, then came to her and took her in his arms. They swayed to the music for a few moments, then he kissed her—a sweet, lingering kiss—and said, “This is so beautiful.”
They sat down. The table was a long one, with seating enough for a dozen guests, but Jane had placed herself at the head, closest to the kitchen in case she needed to run back for anything, and Peter at her right.
As she sat she noticed that Peter had set the small gift-box next to her place. She looked inquiringly at Peter, who just grinned at her. She decided to wait until they’d finished, and picked up her fork. But as they ate she couldn’t help glancing at it and wondering. More lingerie? Possibly,










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