THE ENGAGEMENT
I was standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, watching my mother frantically prepare Christmas Eve dinner, when I first said the words aloud: "Mom," I said, "I think I'm going to ask Juliana to marry me."
A mother in her purest emotional habitat, she smiled, and then she cried. The day after Christmas, in a tiny, family-owned estate jewelry store in historic downtown Franklin, I bought the ring.
The target date, the one-year anniversary of the night we met, was rapidly approaching and once back in Los Angeles, I commenced the clandestine operation.
The plan was simple… lead her on a surprise escapade to the Big Apple. She would arrive at work in the unfriendly hours of the morning to find a bouquet of roses, and a letter instructing her to change into comfortable clothes, as her ride would arrive shortly. A limousine would arrive, seats covered in rose petals, and escort her to the airport. A second letter in the seat would let her know she'd be traveling, and instruct her to see the staff at the ticket counter to find out where she was headed. After arriving in New York City, a private car would be waiting to pick her up, and take her to the Ink48 hotel in Midtown. There, a bottle of champagne would greet her, along with another letter. She would have a few hours to relax before taking a cab just a few blocks to Woman Rink in Central Park. Her skates would be waiting, and as she slid onto the ice, she would find me waiting. Use your imagination to finish the story.
The execution of the affair, however, was something altogether more sophisticated. Sneaking in moments of planning where I could, the reality of the escapade evolved as such:
The morning of February 24th, 2010 Juliana beat the sunrise to consciousness and rushed to ready herself for work in her usual pre-caffeine drone. I had conspired with her boss to have her summoned to work an hour earlier than usual, allowing me a few moments to finish mustering the personal items I couldn't pre-pack without giving away the surprise. The instant our apartment door shut, I flew into a bridled panic of preparation. Minutes later, I hurled our bags into the back of Drew's car, the faithful accomplice who had volunteered to take me to the airport. Time was short, and I had to stay an hour ahead of her. Fortunately, her driver was prompt, and a quick rendezvous at the gas station allowed me to plant her bags, letters 2 and 3, and a little romantic decoration.
Halfway to the airport her texts began, but I remained illusively mute. We pulled into terminal 5 at LAX exactly 1.5 hours prior to my flight. We'd made it.
The line at check in wasn't short, but it certainly didn't stand up to LAX's potential either. I waited patiently, watching the clock as seconds felt like minutes, until it was finally my turn at the automated kiosk. I inserted my credit card, but instead of my itinerary, a message appeared: "Sorry, the allowable check-in window is now closed." Apparently all passengers are required to check in at least 1 hour prior to the scheduled flight time. My flight was scheduled for 9:00 am… The clock on the kiosk read 8:01. One minute. I had missed check in by 60 seconds.
Insert panic.
I flagged down an attendant like a senior citizen flagging down a teenage waiter and attempted to explain my plight, but his response, spoken in barley discernable Spanglo-fusion tongue, was even brisker than the kiosk's message of doom. "No help you, you need talk to ticketing," was all I got before he walked away.
Think. Think fast. Ticketing. Where is ticketing? There is ticketing. There is the line for ticketing. There is the line for ticketing that I will never get through before the wheels of the plane disappear into the morning sky like carnival balloons.
I marched to the front of the line, quickly assessing the socio-political situation, which, judging from the facial expressions in the line, was beyond grim. "Excuse me," I said to the first man in line, "I am proposing to my girlfriend tonight in New York, and I have missed my flight by 1 minute. I will give you $300 in cash if you let me go next." Turning reluctantly, he said, "Sorry, I can't help you." I made the same offer to the next person. And the next. And the next. I guess this line was filled with LA's rich and fortunate (or miserable and heartless). No takers.
In a last ditch effort to persuade any of these execrable souls, I turned to the man in the front of the line once again, reached into my backpack, and retrieved the black velvet box. Ring in one hand, 3 Benjamins in the other, I implored him to let me go next. "Here's the ring, it's not just a story. $300 bucks to wait an extra 2 minutes. Have you ever been in love?"
"I'm divorced," was his only reply.
Defeated, I dialed Juliana's number. As she answered the phone, I choked out, "I ruined it, baby." Still reeling in confusion, she asked me what I had ruined? Providing as little detail as possible, I explained that I had missed my flight and she would be going to New York without me.
In her usual way, she calmed me down and insisted we would figure it out, simultaneously asking the lady at the ticket counter if any seats were available on her flight. Indeed, a single seat remained for the nominal cost of $1,400. But I had less than 15 minutes to make it to the opposite end of LAX to terminal 1. As I scrambled onto the shuttle I called my father, who fortunately was also my banker. "Dad, I'm going to need you to raise my credit card limit... immediately."
By no small miracle, I arrived at the terminal counter on time, ego maimed and wallet ravaged. As we boarded the plane, I wondered if she would figure it all out. I suppose the morning's shock was enough to steer her towards "fancy anniversary trip" instead of "extravagant proposal." My secret somehow remained safe.
A few hours and a several glasses of champagne later, we emerged from the cab at the end of Avenue of the Americas and strolled through the brisk February air into Central Park. Although the surprise was shot, the Wolman Rink staff was expecting us at 8:30 sharp, as I had called just hours earlier to confirm that the ice would be open until 9:30. But as we approached the rink, there were no bright lights. No children laughing. And the sound of metal blades sheering across the ice was nowhere to be heard. The rink had closed early.
In disbelief I turned and said, partially intended as internal dialogue, "If this is where it has to be, then this is where it has to be." "What are you talking about?" she asked. As I knelt down on the chilly pavement, her face seemed to freeze in time. "Juliana Gnann Moore, will you marry me?"