I held Christine’s hands as we drove along on the John Hanson Highway, back toward Washington. Her face tilted toward mine, and I kissed her in the cozy darkness. I loved the sweetness of her mouth, her lips, the softness and smoothness of her skin. She was wearing a new perfume that I didn’t recognize, and I liked that, too. I kissed the hollow of her throat, then her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. I would have been happy to do just this for the rest of the night.

“It is unbelievably romantic,” she finally said. “It is special. You are something else … sugar.”

We cuddled and hugged all the way into Washington. We talked, but I don’t remember the subject. I could feel her breasts rising and falling against me. I was surprised when we arrived at the intersection of Massachusetts and Wisconsin avenues. We were getting close to the surprise.

True to her word, Christine hadn’t asked any more questions. Not until the car eased up in front of Washington National Cathedral, and the driver got out and held the door open for us.

“The National Cathedral?” she said. “We’re going in here?”

I nodded and stared up at the stunning Gothic masterpiece that I’d admired since I was a boy. The cathedral crowns over fifty acres of lawns and woods and is Washington’s highest point, even higher than the Washington Monument. If I remembered correctly, it was the second-largest church in the United States, and possibly the prettiest.

I led the way, and Christine followed me inside. She held my hand lightly. We entered the northwest corner of the nave, which extends nearly a tenth of a mile to the massive altar.

Everything felt special and very beautiful, spiritual, just right. We walked up to a pew under the amazing Space Window at midnave. Everywhere I looked there were priceless stained-glass windows, over two hundred in all.

The light inside was exquisite; I felt blessed. There was a kaleidoscope of changing colors on the walls: reds, warm yellows, cool blues.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I whispered. “Timeless, sublime, all that good Gothic stuff Henry Adams used to write about.”

“Oh, Alex, I think it’s the prettiest spot in Washington. The Space Window, the Children’s Chapel — I’ve always loved it here. I told you that, didn’t I?” she asked.

“You might have mentioned it once,” I said. “Or maybe I just knew it.”

We continued walking until we entered the Children’s Chapel. It is small, beautiful, and wonderfully intimate. We stood under a stained-glass window that depicts the story of Samuel and David as children.

I turned and looked at Christine, and my heart was beating so loud I was sure she could hear it. Her eyes were sparkling like jewels in the flickering candlelight. The black dress shimmered and seemed to flow over her body.

I knelt on one knee and looked up at her.