When he returned, she was clearing two plates from the table. He asked her to sit, and she looked at the box in his hand with a mixture of suspicion and tenderness. "David," she began, "please tell me you didn't do something extravagant because of that ridiculous incident at the store."
"I did something extravagant because we've been married forty years," he answered. "The incident was an unfortunate complication." He sat opposite her and placed the box on the table, leaving it unopened. "Before you look, I want you to know I didn't buy this to replace something you lost. Nothing could do that. I bought it because you made a promise possible, and I never forgot the part you played."
Evelyn's face changed. She lowered her eyes to the box, then looked back at him. "David," she whispered, understanding before she had seen what was inside. He opened the lid, and the sapphire caught the candlelight in a small blue flash.
For several seconds Evelyn did not move. Her expression seemed to hold two versions of herself at once: the young woman in the old photograph, and the older woman whose hands bore the signs of years spent gardening, raising children, and making difficult choices. She reached toward the necklace but stopped just short of touching it. David had expected tears, perhaps laughter, perhaps one of her practical comments about how much the jewelry must have cost, but he had not expected the stillness.
"You remembered," she said at last. He nodded. "Every year." She looked at him, and he saw the beginning of tears in her eyes. "I thought you had made your peace with it long ago."
"I did," he replied. "But making peace with something doesn't mean forgetting. When you sold yours, I was so ashamed that you had to give up something you loved. I spent years thinking I needed to earn the right to give it back."
Evelyn closed the box gently, then placed her hand over his. "I loved that necklace," she said. "June gave it to me, and I felt beautiful in it. I won't pretend selling it meant nothing. But do you know what I remember most clearly about that Friday?"
David shook his head. She smiled through her tears. "I remember Maria bringing a plate of homemade cookies into the office the following Monday because she was grateful payday had arrived when it should. She didn't know about the necklace, and I didn't need her to. I remember Bernard calling to say his boys were going to be able to take part in the school trip after all. I remember thinking the necklace had become something useful."
David lowered his eyes. "I promised I'd buy you another." Evelyn nodded. "I know. And I knew you meant it. But you must never believe that forty years of loving me could be measured by whether you kept that particular promise."