A Series of Fortunate Events

WEDNESDAY

I’m staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of McAllister’s Deli.

I’m regretting the blown opportunities to have done this the right way:
1) That night on the back porch when we shared cigars;
2) The front 9 of the 3-par when Rick helped me look for my fifth lost ball;
3) Dozens of other already forgotten, but clearly superior snatches of time.

Why hadn’t I manned up and asked before now? Hard to say.

Was it a desire to wait for the perfect moment? A sneaking suspicion that Rick was actively avoiding the topic? Or, maybe just a general unwillingness to spoil his goodtime?

So, here was my non-moment moment. My chance to skip the shaky preamble and get to the heart of the matter -- preferably before my club sandwich arrived at the table. (Because even if he said “no,” I’d still have all that crispy bacon to look forward to).

Ryan’s dad went easy on me, granting his blessing and only threatening to kill me once if I screwed things up. (This was a threat I’d heard before, and that I later got in writing).

With Rick’s blessing I had my final co-conspirator on board and it was time to put the plan into action: Cue the fake phone call from the sister’s boss, credibly establish the “last minute coup” of rooms for 6 at a historic bed and breakfast, continue with my own performance as the absent minded, somewhat distant spectator to the whole matter.

THURSDAY

Thanksgiving day was simple. All I had to do was gamble on horses, study and collect the ring just feet away from her, and make pretend small talk with a room full of dangerously knowing smiles, all while fighting a severe head cold. Somehow, I pulled it off: I got the ring without Ryan seeing, no one spilled the beans, and I even won big on a filly in the eighth race-->which leads to my horse betting advice: pick your horses like lottery tickets, have a favorite number and ride it to victory. Another piece of advice: don’t go to Churchill Downs unless you are fully prepared to marry a Richardson.

SATURDAY

With the b&b innkeeper on my side and the “keeping it real” bouquet and bottles of cava in place, I was feeling good about the impending proposal and trying to put a positive spin on how our engagement was going to be built on this foundation of lies and deceit.

The final act was set to occur along the tour of the house and after keeping my cool for the past 6 weeks, I was at my wits end. I had even thought about pushing the whole thing forward a day and was not going to waste another moment after we got to the B&B with this pretense.

I fake-introduced myself to the innkeeper, and retook the tour of the house (a lovely red brick Victorian in Louisville’s Historic District, it is said that the imprints of happy children, former residents, still…). When we got to “our” room on the tour, the innkeeper pointed out the attached balcony, and thoughtfully suggested that we “go out, and take in the view.”

A well laid plan leads to perfect execution:

Inn Keeper: “….and this room has a lovely balcony. Why don’t y’all take a look?”
Me: “Hey Ryan, let’s check it out!”
Ryan: “What?” (hissing) “No, we’re in the middle of the tour…”
Me: (leading her forward) “C’mon, it’ll just take a second…”
Ryan: (turning head backwards at the rest of our party) “But everyone is waiting…”
Me: (voice lower, mind racing, hand pushing against Ryan’s hip, other hand opening the balcony door) “there is something cool out here, uh…”
Ryan (still hissing) “it’s rude”
Me: (voice even lower ) “Go. Out. Side.”

So we step out onto the balcony, into the cool fresh air, and a vista of the park. My bride to be looks at me with shock and growing recognition in her eyes and coos romantically those words I’ve longed to hear.

Ryan: “Forrest, you are acting really weird, and you are starting to freak me out.”

I begin stammering out a semi-improvised speech. Ryan, still confused, takes a step backward, tripping as her heel slips on a divot in the floor and falls back to sit squarely on the banister of the second floor balcony. This is not going well. (I’d prepared myself for the possibility that she might say “no” but I hadn’t planned on her jumping!)

Acting fast, I got down on 1 knee. Maybe stuff sounds better from down here? At least it makes it easier to grab her feet if she did in fact attempt to go over the ledge. The kneeling helped, but opening that little box saved the day.

“Holy S--t”
“Is this for real?”
“Does the inn keeper know?”
“Does everyone else know?”
“Did my mom and sister see the ring?”
“So, are we not staying here?”

Me: (still on the ground) “Babes, can I get a “yes”? I think I’m kneeling in some gravel...”

From here I was pulled to a standing position, and we kissed to make it official. I secretly celebrated her eagerness to put the ring on herself, and save me the embarrassment of admitting that I have NO IDEA what the correct hand or finger would be. Back inside we went for hugs and cheers and chocolate covered strawberries.

I got engaged in Louisville on a gloriously clear Saturday night.
I woke up Sunday morning with a beautiful fiancé, and a WICKED champagne hangover. Seriously, why hasn’t anyone ever warned me about this?