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issue before. Early on, in the first rush of love, I’d deliberately not mentioned it for fear of scaring the somewhat flighty Kate. Later, I guess, I’d just gotten settled. It was a ridiculous scene, and for a second I thought about walking out. But Kate is a proud woman, and I knew if I left she would never forgive me. Besides, I’d been sure since the start that she was the one, and if this was what she wanted, was it really such a sacrifice?
    Nonetheless, I hesitated for a second, the car keys in my hand biting like tiny knives. Kate’s opal-colored eyes sparkled defiantly, the picnic around us gone quiet. Then I put the keys back in my pocket and picked up the half-empty champagne bottle at Kate’s feet.
    “Okay, then,” I said, raising it as if for a toast. “Kate, will you marry me?” The funny thing was that as the words left my mouth I felt my anger leave too, replaced with assurance and the closest I’ve yet come to joy.
    A few people on an adjoining rug turned around to look at us, one of them knocking over a deck chair as she craned to hear Kate’s answer.
    “Are you serious?” asked my bride-to-be. Then, without waiting for an answer, she leaned over, took my face in her hands, and kissed me until we were both breathless. Through the applause of the watching guests I heard the clink of glasses and the laughter of children playing at the end of the garden.

CRESSIDA
•
    It wasn’t his looks that attracted me to Luke. I can be sure of that because I hadn’t even laid eyes on him when I first started falling in love. It happened over Christmas, at the end of my second intern year. After six years of medical school, then two years in the public hospital system, I was exhausted, and had no greater plans for the festive season than to crash at the family beach house before commencing my pediatrics training in January. The rest of my family was there too, but they’d been in the same boat and understood my fatigue enough to leave me to a routine of sleeping in and long afternoons lying on the sand.
    The first note appeared on Boxing Day. After Christmas lunch I’d come down to the beach for a swim, as I’d also done the day before, the first of my leave. Our house was right on the water, with a little beach hut off to one side. My mother had insisted on the hut so that all our beach equipment—buckets and spades when we were younger, sun lounges and umbrellas as the family grew up—could be left there and not transferred inside, where sand might sully her carpets. It was a hot afternoon, and I had gone to the beach hut for an umbrella when I found the note, jammed into the U of the padlock. To the girl with blond hair and green bikini it read, the words spelled out in a loose, attractive script. I unfolded it, glancing around. Only a lone geriatric dog walker was in sight. Merry Christmas! the note read. Can I be your present?
    I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by the attention, or terrified that I had acquired a stalker. On reflection I determined to be neither, and got on with reading my book.
    But the next day there was another one. You’re too pretty to stay under that umbrella , it said. Can I tempt you away for a swim? Foolishly, I blushed at the compliment, and again looked around. The beach was rocky, and relatively unpopular. A few families splashed nearby, but there was no sign of my anonymous suitor. I felt annoyed, and more than a bit silly as I scanned the horizon. Was this supposed to be a joke? Maybe tomorrow I’d stay at the house.
    But when tomorrow came my curiosity got the better of me. Despite myself, my pulse surged as I approached the beach hut, noticing the now familiar white cardboard wedged into the lock. This time it was wrapped around a small bunch of flowers, pink daisies with faces as yellow as egg yolk. With eager fingers I opened the note, dropping the flowers into my bag. Hello again, gorgeous , it said, the tone confident and cheeky. Can we meet just once?