The Sleeping Beauty Proposal by Sarah Strohmeyer Page A

his chair and tented his fingers as if I were one of his students and he was soberly discussing my failing grade. “To make that kind of commitment is impossible for me. I can’t think of anything right now except this book. I’m up to my eyes in revisions.”
    â€œThen after revisions?”
    His lips twitched. Looking back, it definitely was one of those body language things I should have paid attention to. "Possibly. But don’t hold me to that.”
    The revisions were due in two weeks.All I had to do was hold on until then. Surely, Hugh would see the light after the book was off his back. Each night I prayed that the house would stay on the market, that it would wait for us. If only he’d get those damned revisions done, then I could give him the tour and he would fall in love with it as I had.
    Hugh finished the revisions, turned in the manuscript, and promptly made a concerted effort to sleep, relax, read, exercise, go out with friends, catch an independent film in Harvard Square, learn how to brew true Turkish coffee—anything but check out the house.
    â€œIt’s just as well,” he said when, brokenhearted and verging on tears, I angrily informed him that thanks to his foot-dragging, the house had been sold. “Don’t take it too hard. It wasn’t in our cards.”
    After that, we never discussed houses again.Though that didn’t stop me from looking—constantly—and praying that Hugh would change his mind.
    The familiar feelings of domestic longing come rushing back when I drive up to 25 Peabody Road.Though I’ve passed by this house and picked up Todd here a few times after work, I’ve never really stopped to appreciate the place.Twice as large as the adorable blue Spring Hill house in Somerville, it has a wraparound front porch, shutters, real stained-glass windows, and unbelievable privacy.
    Todd’s right. It is a rare find.
    Even Hugh would go for it, I think, immediately kicking myself for falling into the old habit of automatically asking myself what Hugh would do. I must get over him for my own sanity. I have to steam forward, forge the next stream, climb every mountain. Just because he won’t be upstairs writing doesn’t mean I can’t bake cookies in the kitchen.Though it won’t be half as much fun without our children, Meg, Beth, and Amy, the darlings.
    â€œHurry up.You’re creeping along like a couple of old ladies.” Todd is waiting for me on the front porch, showered and shaved, as eager as a kid on Christmas morning. “Until now, you’ve only seen the kitchen torn up, Genie.Wait ’til you see what we’ve done to the rest of the house. It’ll blow your mind.”
    â€œNot too shabby,” Patty says, slowly climbing the wide front steps. “I can’t believe it’s only half a mil.There must be mold.”
    â€œNo mold, baby.” Todd graciously opens the front door for us. “No kitchen. But that’s okay since Genie’s no cook.”
    "Ha, ha.” I stick out my tongue at him as we enter the recently renovated living room, where, much to my delight, a fireplace with a gorgeous new marble mantel awaits.
    â€œCan’t you see Hugh here?” Todd positions himself by the mantel, pretending to puff on a pipe. “Yes, yes. But you’re arguing from a strictly Hobbesian perspective. Consider if you will, old man, the Swiftian viewpoint. Blah, blah, blah. More hot air.”
    â€œIs that supposed to be British intellectual?” Patty asks. “Or Alistair Cooke with sleep apnea?”
    â€œLike there’s a difference.”
    One of Todd’s workers, a tall tan man with dark curling hair, walks by with a long strip of white painted molding balanced on his shoulder. Nick the carpenter. Crap. The last man on Earth I should have to deal with this morning.
    Not that I have anything against Nick personally. I’m sure he’s nice enough; at