Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2014

She follows his Instagram.

It’s mainly because her great-great-grandson Bertie insisted upon it after helping her set up the essentials; Twitter, Instagram, and even Facebook; (“it’s for old people, but don’t worry, Grammy, you are too.”) She didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Even after nearly thirty years of divorce, teenage girls still flooded the comments of clips from their old movies with the hashtag #shirbert. Social media isn’t something she’s used to, but sometimes she’ll find herself subconsciously scrolling through her ex-husband’s profile (everyone stalks their ex-husband’s social media page at some point, right?). Snarky captions with an excessive amount of emojis, (she knows they’re his words), and posted by some other figure due to his arthritis (she has reason to believe it’s Bertie’s girlfriend, Alice, who stays at Gilbert’s place after being one of Vogue’s leading editors as a part-time job.) Mostly, they’re photos when the family comes to visit, there are some oldies but goodies; a few monochrome throwbacks of him and Dick Van Dyke at the 1957 Golden Globes, accompanied by a few with his arm around her shoulder, both of them widely smiling at the camera. Another post shows her, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, and Rita Hayworth at the 1949 Oscars; all in hugely discomfiting dresses laughing over champagne.

(Sometimes, her finger may slip, but she likes his post and unlikes it mortifyingly after regaining her consciousness.)

He doesn’t have Facebook, likely because according to Alice, “It’s old, grainy, and no one actually uses it anymore.” Sometimes she goes through his Twitter; it’s mostly climate change, retweets of screencaps from his old movies (their old movies??), and messages of congratulations to the Golden Globe winners, the Emmy nominees, the Oscar nominees, the Grammy winners, and pictures of him and the cats (he also drags the patriarchy. And she’s reminded for a split second why she fell in love with him, but then shakes those thoughts away because they’ve been divorced for nearly thirty years now and both slowly but steadily inching their way toward the grave to join the half of their family who have already made it there long ago.)

“Grammy, stop lurking,” Bertie sighs as he walks in one day, carrying a large crate of mangoes. “Look, why don’t you just call Grandpa? You know he’d appreciate it. And you haven’t been in the same room since what, 2001? I can’t remember if that was Thanksgiving or you both had to host the Tonys, but please, just talk to him. Stalking his socials aren’t helping with anything.”

“It’s been thirty years, Bert. He doesn’t want to see me. What about all those times he could’ve called, y’know? Thirteen years, 4,748 days, and not once did he ever respond.”

(She remembers the last message she left him — Hello, Gilbert! Trying to get the hang of this messaging thing. Lovely hosting the Tonys with you tonight, maybe we should get together for dinner sometime, and there hadn’t even been a ‘Read’ sign afterward.)

“The dude was born in 1927, for God’s sake. He probably doesn’t even have a damn phone because Alice set everything up for him on hers. If he did, he would’ve texted you back by now. And he also has arthritis, so you gotta like — call him, okay? Grab the goddamn wall phone, press in his number, and then talk to him. He has to have a wall phone!” Bertie exclaims in frustration, throwing his hands in the air.

“Doesn’t everyone stalk their ex-husband’s social media sometimes?” Anne offers with a half-hearted smile, setting down her phone and picking up a mango from the crate. “These were his favorite.”

“That’s it.” Bertie punched a few numbers into his phone. “It’s Thanksgiving, Grammy. You are going to have a civilized, face-to-face conversation with Grandpa that does not involve lurking over his social media and mortifyingly unliking his posts. We’re flying to New York, whether you like it or not.”

Chapter Text

1947 – the Bronx, New York

“Fifth time this week,” Anne sighed from her perch on their shared creaky chair, holding up another eviction notice that their irate landlord, Gregory Pippins, had angrily nailed on their door earlier. “I swear, if that man even sets his foot here outside that door next week, I will not hesitate to come out there and dismember him with my scissors. If Jack the Ripper escaped unidentified, so can I. And I’m certain half the tenants here would be extremely grateful to me instead of reporting me to the police.”

“That’s my girl,” Gilbert smiled proudly, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder. “Who knows, she could’ve been Jacqueline the Ripper. And maybe someday, that old bat will finally kick the bucket.”

“To that, I’ll say good riddance,” Anne pouts as Gilbert starts up dinner, then brightens as she grabs a dollar-store bottle from across the counter. “If it’s anything like your last thirty-nine attempts, champagne.”

Three words, eight letters, territory they haven’t yet explored. Sure, they’re roommates and they occasionally share a bed (up that to frequently), but love? A concept that might’ve crossed both their minds on more than one occasion, but they were too incompatible. She’d known that since she’d smacked him with her slate back in Avonlea School, and every single heated interaction since. Sure, he kept her on her toes, and he was the only other person who yearned for an escape like she had. He didn’t want to die unremembered, and neither did she.

So, here they were. In a shitty little apartment in the Bronx, coughing up gas fumes and taking odd jobs to make ends meet. And love is definitely out of the question; it’s a mutually beneficial relationship. They’re in this arrangement for a better future, to make it big in the movies and become idolized. And then, they shall part ways forever and never have to see each other’s faces. Maybe he’d send her a postcard every Christmas, maybe she’d come to his movie premieres and applaud like his many fangirls, but that was the extent of their relationship.

“C’mon,” Anne smiles, lifting up the window with her free hand not holding the champagne bottle and turns back, her outstretched hand an invitation. Gilbert chuckles, taking it as they climb out the window onto the fire escape leading to the roof. This is their special hiding place, where they commiserate the joys and sorrows of life together. They watch the New York skyline pass by, passing the bottle of champagne between them and taking swigs until they’re both drunk and delirious and saying shit they won’t remember tomorrow.

Through the haze of alcohol, Gilbert looks at Anne, a strange, sudden clarity in his eyes. He impulsively leans over to kiss her, cupping her cheek as if she were made of the finest china. She closes her eyes, savoring the feeling of his lips. Sour, from the champagne, with his signature scent of smoke and vanilla.

It isn’t love.
But it could be.
…

Anne receives a call not long after she agrees to Bertie.

Her grandson has made the arrangements for them to fly out to New York — they’re crashing with Gilbert, since all the hotels nearby were fully packed this time of year, and it would be good for publicity since the tabloids hadn’t had anything to report since Philippa Gordon and Jonas Blake’s dramatic split. Of course, Bertie would actually have to call the ex-husband she wasn’t too keen on seeing, which was something she cursed herself for not planning before.

Reluctantly, she allowed Bertie and his sister Maud to assist her in the process of packing. Because maybe maintaining a cordial relationship with your ex-husband you haven’t seen in almost a decade is good for your mental health. She doesn’t think of him much these days, she says to Bertie and her children to assure them, but that would be a lie. She knows that he lies about her too; they were both much too stubborn for their own good.

Chapter Text

1945

“Promise me one thing,” fifteen-year-old Anne had said in the room of their empty schoolhouse, holding out her pinkie finger.

“Depends on what that thing is,” seventeen-year-old Gilbert chuckled, but he knew he’d agree even if she said she was starting a cult. He’d gladly follow her to any corner of the earth. It was always in his eyes, so wide and tentative around her, hanging onto her every word — even when she’d smacked him with her slate, it hadn’t dissuaded him from the notion that he’d marry this girl someday.

Anne leans in conspiratorially. “After the war, promise me we’ll go to New York together. It’s only a ways away from PEI. We can take a train there for two or three nights. We can get a little apartment in New York City, next to Broadway. I’ve already saved up a little bit of money—”

“What about Matthew and Marilla? What about Diana and Ruby? Sebastian, too, the farm?” Gilbert asked, skeptical. He was rather honored that out of everyone she could’ve asked, she asked him — but why? “You love them. Why are you leaving?”

Anne sighed. “Gilbert, there’s no life for me here. You know that. I love them so much, and I shall miss them dearly, but if I stay here, what will I become? A teacher, like Miss Stacey? A farmer’s wife, a spinster? If we stay here, we’ll be accepting our fate of obscurity. We graduate, we go to Queens College, we go home and get married, raise children, a couple of pigs, and die. There’s no adventure to it. No passion, like the movies, no escapades.” The words “we” and “passion” sent a hot flush through Gilbert as he thought of the potential future they had together, and he hoped it wouldn’t show on his face.

“Besides, we can always come home for Christmas.” Her pinkie had retreated slightly to match with the slight falling of her features, her excited smile gone. Gilbert’s heart ached, wishing he wasn’t the cause of that.

“We’re coming home for Christmas. And Thanksgiving. We’ll be staying until New Year’s. And we’ll send letters routinely,” he said sternly, extending his own pinkie finger. “Promise me.”

Anne’s joyful, infectious grin was back within a second as she shook his pinkie vigorously with her own, sparks flying between them as she bounced her head excitedly. “Yes. Yes! YES!” She threw her arms around him, knocking him back in surprise. Gilbert chuckled and reciprocated, gently patting her back.

After Anne’s 16th birthday in March the following year, they’d packed their bags and said their goodbyes. As they boarded the train to New York City, they looked back once and thought, home is behind. The big wide world is ahead and waiting for us.

…

1947

It wasn’t much; just a dingy little flat in the Bronx, a few jobs for a creaky mattress and broken floorboards. More often than not, it was a pack of cigarettes and dollar-store champagne on the roof, talking about their future and how stupid were to think they could actually make a living out here. Aside from the occasional correspondence from their hometown, Anne and Gilbert were, for the most part, alone in this new world, where the ground they walked on wasn’t stable (literally) and bills were flooding the mailbox, the irate and drunk landlord paying visits to their door every week and continuously threatening to kick them out.

Their luck changed on a sweltering July morning; a casting call for the roles of Anne and Frederick in the upcoming adaptation of Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion’ came, Anne returning with a flyer and stars in her eyes. At the audition, Anne and Gilbert looked an odd pair — him in an old suit of his father’s, two sizes too large, and her in the misshapen green dress from her old school days that she attempted to adjust after snagging old material from one of the kinder neighbors.

“The diner’s down the street, kids,” the pot-bellied man huffing a fat cigarette behind the desk said, not bothering to look up.. “I think they have a discount on Shirley Temples today, you better hurry before they close.”

Of course no one took them seriously – after all, they were teenagers, teenagers with no experience or rich parents and shabby hand-me-downs. “We’re here to audition, sir,” Anne said. “For your adaptation of Persuasion. This is Saccharine Studios, is it not, and are you not Mr. David Woodward?”

“That depends, who are you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and taking a brief look at their big. “Do you need to know where the soup kitchens are? Left of 38th, now scram. Some people actually have jobs to do.”

“Sir, we are here to audition,” Anne says, more firmly this time. “Did you not hear us the first time? We’re playing Anne and Frederick Wentworth. Now, if you don’t mind, we’d like our scripts.”

Woodward was stunned into silence at the gall of such a small person, and a woman especially — Anne took it that his wife was entirely too scared of his temper to do anything about it. Gilbert could do nothing except lean back and silently chuckle in awe. Someday, he thought, I will marry this girl.

Chapter Text

1948

Their names lined marquees all over the country. People from everywhere were flocking to theaters to see Jane Austen’s Persuasion, adapted by the young rising stars Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and Gilbert Blythe. Despite their lack of name or notability, their chemistry was electric and palpable, having audiences rooting for them until the very end of the film. And the world would rewatch it after their first showing. Over and over again, until it became a classic staple of American filmmaking and these people would pass the film onto their kids and grandkids.

That Christmas, high off the success of Persuasion, Anne and Gilbert returned home to Avonlea, with a horde of paparazzi trailing after them. Rachel Lynde and her husband Thomas did well to keep them away, distracting them with the charms of what the quaint little town had to offer.

“My dearest Diana!” Anne yelled, jumping into Diana’s outstretched arms and swinging her around after getting off the train. “How are you, my kindred spirit? Oh, how I missed you!”

“How I missed you!” Diana screamed in response, pulling Anne closer to her. “I am never letting you leave again. I mean it. But I do want to see you in more films. Persuasion was exquisite!”

“I hope I never leave again, either. I’m stuck in an apartment with this idiot,” she stage-whispers, subtly gesturing to Gilbert standing behind her on the platform.

“Lovely to see you again too, Diana,” Gilbert says, going in for a hug. “This idiot is the one you sold out theaters with, so I’d watch my tone.”

“Heaven knows where you’d end up without me,” Anne says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. Diana watches their interaction with amusement, wondering if the pair can see what is so obvious to everyone else.

“Ah, when’s the wedding?” Bash says, running up behind Diana in the Cuthberts’ horse-drawn cart to embrace Gilbert. “She the only person who can get you smiling like the moke you are.”

“I missed you too, Sebastian,” Gilbert smiles begrudgingly. “How is Delphine? The farm? I have so much to catch up on.”

They joined the Cuthberts back in the cart, where they all piled atop one another. Anne hugged a tearful Matthew and Marilla and promised them that she was doing fine, that she was eating and healthy and hadn’t found herself in a ditch at any point. They made their way back to the house in merry chatter to make up for lost time, the horse’s trotting punctuating their words.

Home, Anne thought, what a wonderful place.

At Christmas dinner, all of the family and friends gathered around the Cuthberts’ small dining table, candle-lit and full of warm conversation. Additional chairs were pulled up, and plates of food were steadily brought out from the kitchen in a stream.

“I hear you just got engaged to Moody, eh, Ruby?” Anne teases her childhood friend, elbowing her in the ribs. “I always knew you two were a match. When’s the wedding?”

“Next June,” Ruby blushed, “and I sure hope you come, Anne. Mrs. Moody Spurgeon! Can you believe it?” She squealed and showed off the small diamond ring on her right hand.

“Of course I’ll be there,” Anne assured. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me from coming to the union of two people I adore.”

Across the table from her, Diana and Jerry looked disgustingly in love and made no move to hide it. “Bets on when he’ll propose,” Gilbert whispered into Anne’s ear, suddenly behind her. “I give it three months.”

“Six,” she rebutted. “Loser does the dishes for a month.”
“Add laundry to that, too.”
“And groceries.”
“Deal.” They shook on it, and Gilbert left to take the New England cranberry pie out of the oven.

She couldn’t help but smile at the bounce in his step and the way the oven mitt fit his hand just right. Anne must’ve zoned out, since Mary, Gilbert’s sister, had to tap her on the shoulder twice to get her attention. “Anne? Hello?”

“Oh!” She snapped back, blushing bright red — Anne’s pale complexion did absolutely nothing to hide her blazing cheeks. “Mary! So good to see you again!”

They embraced, and Mary took a seat next to Anne after placing down the turkey. “New York, eh? How’s it been?”

“Actually? Amazing,” Anne grinned. “It’s so different from Avonlea. It wasn’t too good at first, but we made it. And now we’re back here with all of our kindred spirits. There’s always so much happening — Times Square, packed to the brim. Billboards, marquees… it’s all so mesmerizing. I do hope you shall visit, Mary,” she says, squeezing the older woman’s hand.

“I’ll try,” Mary chuckled, “but with the house and Delphine and the farm, I think it’ll be a decade or two before I make it there.”

“I’ll eagerly await that journey,” Anne said, smiling so hard her cheeks might hurt. She looks around and thinks that this is the stuff dreams are made of — surrounded by the people she loved, a hefty paycheck, and good food, what more could she ask for?

Gilbert brought out the cranberry pie, much to everyone’s delight. They all sat down and said grace before digging into their meal, as if they were starved beasts who hadn’t eaten for years.

“I missed your cooking,” Anne yells across the table to Marilla, her mouth full of plum puffs. She knows it’s not dignified, and surely she would be boycotted if any paparazzi were ever to get ahold of this, but these moments weren’t meant for their eyes. They’re homely, intimate, and warm. “New York wishes.”

“You flatter me too much,” Marilla says, but beams brightly. Matthew makes a grunt of agreement, nose-deep into his turkey.

Anne looks around at the table, and her eyes land on Gilbert. Their eyes lock for a split second, and he gives a small wave before turning back to his meal.

“He’s in love with you, Anne,” Mary murmured next to her.

Anne turned, surprised. “How do you know it’s love?”

“It’s in his eyes,” Mary responded, her eyes drifting over to Bash, spoon-feeding Dellie bits of plum puff. “When you’re not looking… he does. When you can’t help but smile at the simplest of things he does, when every moment lasts an eternity.”

Mary looked at Anne, so much unspoken emotion in her eyes. “Whatever you do, Anne, marry for love. Only for love.”

…

2014

This Thanksgiving, it’s different.

Sure, she’s been at his place during that time every year after the divorce, and it’s an arrangement that works. She’s skipped out on the past nine years due to declining health and the general awkwardness of being in the same room as the ex-husband she hasn’t seen since she hosted the Tony Awards, and she doesn’t realize how much she misses him until she sees his face.

The grandkids and the great-grandkids and family members stream through the door — a recently widowed Sebastian, Gilbert’s adoptive brother, who’s going on 95 and being wheeled around by Delphine, his daughter, now 69. This year, Bertie’s sister Maud just married Senator Hermann Montgomery, which the household reacted to in great spirits and flowing champagne. Anya, ever the doting mother, was pressuring a red-faced Bertie and Alice to do the same.

“Alice and I are taking it slow, Mom. Give it a few years, please,” Bertie blushes a bright red. “You know, what if we don’t want to marry each other? What if we’re just in this for fun? Has that ever occurred to you?”

Alice smacked Bertie’s arm. “So three years isn’t serious to you?”

“No, honey, I swear—“
“You don’t want to marry me?!”
“I do, darling, I will—“
“Stop talking, Gilbert John Blythe the Third, you’re ruining my makeup,” Alice finally concluded, pulling out a compact mirror. “We can discuss this later, I’m off to talk with your grandma. Maybe she can convince you that this isn’t ‘just for fun.’”

Anne watched the scene from her perch at the dining table, hands folded primly over her knee. She holds back a laugh at the absurdity of it all and makes a note that she will be facing Alice’s wrath later, along with Bertie’s apologetic reassurances.

Across the room is Gilbert.

Even after all these days, his looks are still enough to make any woman swoon, due to his extremely complex skincare routine and the personal gym in his basement. Maybe his chin is a little rounder, his cheeks a little softer, his hair much whiter, but he is still beautiful. He’s the sun, and everyone else is a planet merely absorbed into his magnetic field.

Jeanne, Delphine’s daughter’s one-year-old, is grasping onto his leg with her chubby hands. All the great-grandkids surround him at once, talking over one another and trying to capture his attention about their latest escapade into the Bahamas or something related. However, he only has eyes for the one person across the room — her, and it sends a tingle down Anne’s spine.

He’s looking at her as if they haven’t missed a day together. As if for the past thirty years, he’s been by her side every step of the way. At every doctor’s appointment, at every award show.

Anne suddenly feels nauseous and excuses herself from the room, hoping that a view of the Atlantic and the sea breeze could cure her from whatever trance she fell into.

…

Chapter Text

2014

Gilbert joins Anne on the balcony overlooking the ocean, listening to the distant sounds of the crashing waves meeting the shore. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” she chuckles, trying to find a way to break the awkward silence. Placing one hand on the railing, she examines it - the last time she was here, the wrinkles and age spots on her hands weren’t there.

She knows she’s growing old; they both are.

Gilbert takes Anne’s free hand and brings it up to his lips. He clasps their hands together and traces circles on hers with his thumb, unsure of what to say next.

“I’m really glad to have you here, Anne, I mean it,” is what he finally settles on, in a formal tone so different from the easygoing Gilbert at dinner tonight - this is the voice he reserved for hungry reporters who tried to get as many details out of him about their lives, the affairs, and the kids. For her, however, a trace of softness always lingers somewhere amidst its curtness.

“Me too,” she whispers. Something else is on her mind - Anne knows she can never leave well enough alone, and the words slip from her lips before she can catch them. “Do you remember when we walked through this house for the first time?”

1949

After they’d finished brushing the last bits of rice off their clothing, Gilbert and Anne Blythe now stood in front of the door to their new penthouse, key in his hand. “I feel like there’s something missing,” the groom muses thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

“What is it?” Anne murmured, still in awe of their new living conditions. “We’ve got everything we need - you, me, and a better future ahead of us. We can take on the world.”

“Before we do that, I get to carry my lovely bride over the threshold,” Gilbert declares, reveling in Anne’s delighted squeal as he sweeps her off her feet. “We must stick to tradition, must we not?”

He is rewarded with a languid kiss from Anne, her blissful smile making his heart stand still. He’s seen it so many times before, yet he could never tire of it.

“Hello, wife.”
“Hello, husband.”
They close the distance again and don’t stop until they make their way to the bedroom, in a haze of lust and pure love amidst it all. In a frenzy of the excitement befitting newlyweds, they waste no time trying to make skin-to-skin contact; while Anne discards Gilbert’s shirt and dress pants easily, her wedding attire is more of a nuisance for him.

“How many - goddamn things - does it take - to get one wedding gown off?” Gilbert grunts as he tries to undo the buttons on her corset. “It’s 1949 for fuck’s sake, you think they’d make these a little more convenient.”

“Why, Mr. Blythe, I did not know that you used such vulgar language,” Anne gasps, feigning a scandalized look.

“Well, Mrs. Blythe,” he answers, “is it so wrong to get all these barriers out of the way on our honeymoon?”

She giggles and takes it off herself, laughing at Gilbert’s slack-jawed stare across from her. She pulls the chemise over her head and tugs down his boxers, both of them laughing as they fall back onto the mattress. After that, there is no more need for words.

…

The morning after, they wake up naked next to one another, a newfound sense of intimacy in the room. It’s just like every other time they’ve done it as teenagers in that dingy Bronx apartment, yet somehow much more meaningful.

Gilbert rolls over to be met with the sun shining on Anne’s bare back, illuminating her fiery locks and the freckles that cascaded down her back to the parts he’d spent last night exploring. He grins mischievously, tickling her to wake her up.

“Hey, stop that!” she laughs, all traces of sleep vanishing as she registers the sensation. A full-on tickle war ensues, in which they chase each other through the house with nothing on and finally reach the pool in the freezing December air. Anne jumps in first and yelps due to the frigid winter water. She pulls Gilbert in after her, and they cling to each other’s bodies for warmth.

Sex in an outdoor pool in 1954 in below-freezing water was probably not the best idea either of them had, but they didn’t think much of it. (Sure, hypothermia could really be a potential issue, but they’re living in the moment.)

Finally, they resurface and truly look at each other — for real this time, one of many more looks to come, the first of many happy years spent in each other’s merry company.

“Hello, wife.”
“Hello, husband.”

…

Of course, he remembers. He’s always remembered.

“How could I ever forget?” Gilbert smiles softly. “Time of my life. I’d give anything to go back to then.”

The silence that hangs between them conveys the unspoken message; there’s still something there that never died. Even when she packed up and left in a hurry and he didn’t chase after her, they still loved each other. Even when the divorce statements and papers were finalized, there were longing glances across the courtroom that both of them pretended not to see. Even at the fucking Tony’s, Jesus Christ, there was nothing subtle about the way they touched. Handshakes that lingered a little too long, smiles that dared to drift off into a daydream, tightly clipped and formal conversations acting as a disguise for so much more.

They stroll around the penthouse like old lovers with her holding onto his arm. As if it's from a force of habit, as if it’s what they’ve been doing for the past thirty years. A lot has changed, though nothing has at all — he still has that devilish glint in his hazel eyes, and that smile remains so damn teasing as if he might just reach over and steal a kiss at any given moment. “I’ve missed you, Anne-girl. It’s not New York without its queen.”

Is it normal for an eighty-five-year-old lady to blush like she’s still a schoolgirl from her ex-husband's words? Probably not.

“You still think that, when I’m old and wrinkling?” Anne laughs lightly. “I’m not the girl I used to be.”

“To me, Anne, you’ll always be the queen of New York,” he answers sincerely, a faint blush on his cheeks. His eyes are still like cups, overflowing at the brims when he looks at her. And for a moment, Anne allows herself to get lost in them and wonder what would’ve happened had they spent the last thirty years together. What would it have been like if she’d stayed in New York? Would it be them sneaking out of family gatherings together for a breath of fresh air and stolen touches, like they were doing now? Would it be candid photos posted by the grandkids to social media to adoring fans in the comments?

God, she misses him so much. Anne longs to go back thirty years in time and stop herself from making the biggest mistake of her life, one she couldn’t undo — they were both too passionate, too stubborn for their own good, and with the decline of their careers — but a quiet respite lies in moments like these; it’s like nothing has changed, and they’ve spent all that time together.

“How’s Alice taking care of you?” Anne abruptly changes the topic, snapping out of that oh-so-sweet, goddamned lavender haze effect that Gilbert still has on her. His smile drops a little as if he were expecting her to say ‘And it’s not New York City without my king’ or whatever cheesy line the girl of sixty years ago would’ve said.

“Fine.” He recovers quickly, ever the Oscar-nominated actor. I’ve got a bet with Sebastian that Bertie will propose within a year. For God’s sake, they’ve been together since freshman year of high school. That’s practically a lifetime in Hollywood.”

“You and Sebastian with your damn bets,” Anne chuckles, shaking her head. “From the looks of it, I think he’s serious.”

“My only hope is that I’ll live to see the fool propose,” Gilbert remarks. “At this point, Alice will be with their third grandchild before they tie the knot.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Anne retorts, raising an imaginary glass. Gilbert grins boyishly and does the same, bumping their empty hands together. If Anne closes her eyes, she can remember the opulence of those award shows, champagne towers and sparkling diamonds and flowing velvet and Gilbert winking at her from where he was catching up with one of their old costars.

“Reminiscing?” he asks, snapping her of her thoughts.

“Quite so. Especially around the holidays,” she admits. “I wonder, often—what it would’ve been like—had we not…”

Gilbert clasps her worn, weathered hand around his own. It’s such a bittersweet feeling, knowing their time is limited, together and on this earth alike.

“We never talked about everything that led up to us and this house,” he states wistfully, face suddenly younger. “Take a trip down memory lane with me, won’t you, Anne-girl?”

…