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Wedding Moments
It hung on the clothes rack; gaudy pink satin contrasting with the dark sensible suits that lined the rest of the wardrobe.
A floral disaster adorned with frills. Her mother’s wedding dress.
Like an excitable child at Christmas time, her mother had unveiled the dress with a flourish and a “Tada! It’s perfect for you, isn’t it?”
Abby hadn’t had the heart, or the strength, to refuse.
She had endeavoured to tell herself that her mother knew best, yet that little voice inside reminded her that this was her life, her wedding, and it should be her dress. But like always, she had ignored it, pushing it back to the recesses of her mind.
With a sigh, she plucked the dress off the hanger and tugged it on. It was too tight, constricting her breathing and movement. Like mum.
Abby didn’t even bother to glance in the mirror on her way out.Beatrice had rehearsed for this moment at various times of her life; as a playful girl filled with romantic notions, to an infatuated teenager still inexperienced in the ways of the heart, to a hopeful university student who didn’t want to give up on love.
“Do you take this man for your lawfully wedded husband, to cherish and love, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
She couldn’t help a backwards glance at the rows of empty pews on the right hand side of the church. The bride’s side. She tried to ignore the yawning spaces and tightness in her throat.
“He’s working class, for heavens sake! A tradesman! For once, Beatrice, can you do something right with your life?”
Another memory, determined to make itself known, flashed before her mind’s eye.
“Higher!” She laughed, as the world dipped and rose in front of her.He let out an exasperated laugh. “What are you, five years old?”
“At least I’m more mature than you.”
She yelped when the swing suddenly jerked to a stop, but before he could punish her for her retort, she was running, leaving a trail of laugher in her wake for him to follow…
A gentle pressure on her hand drew her back to the ceremony. She looked over at the man standing next to her, a reassuring smile on his face. He softly squeezed her hand again, and without hesitation, turned to face the priest.
“I do.”The sparkling liquid fizzed and bubbled as it cascaded down the tower of champagne flutes.
Patrick remembered the night when they had opened that bottle of Jacob’s Creek Champagne. The clear, melodious clink of glasses seemed to reverberate through the air. It reminded him of her laugh. Musical.
“I do believe, sir, that you are trying to get me drunk”, Gabrielle said through her sultry smile, the bangs of her hair loosening and coiling prettily as she tilted her head to regard him playfully.
“Only because I love you”, he replied. There. He’d finally said it to her face after months of whispering it into her hair as she slept.
Surprise. Sober. Silence.
The champagne flutes tinkled as guests celebrated at the wedding, and the melodic lilt of her laugher drifted over to him.
Musical.The band was playing their song. Father and daughter swayed to the low thrum of the cello and the rich mellow notes of the saxophone. She missed a beat and fumbled with the steps. High-heeled points connected with polished black shoes. Pain blossomed in his toes and she smiled apologetically up at him.
“You always said I was never much of a dancer. Two left feet.” she said as she laughed, radiant with happiness.
His baby girl was now a beautiful bride. Evie didn’t even notice how slowly he had walked her up the aisle, or how he didn’t let go of her arm until the last possible moment, too intent was she on her groom.
They were leaving for America in a month. To stay.
He closed his eyes, but still couldn’t stop the tear that escaped and trailed down his weathered face. I’m going to miss you, Evie. She reached up, gently brushing it away before embracing him tightly.
“I know, dad. I’ll miss you too.”She glanced distastefully at the throng of screaming girls that had gathered directly in front of her, each vying for the bride’s bouquet of roses.
Come to think about it, Drew had never liked roses. They always reminded her of jealous innuendos, dark bruises and candlelit dinners for one. Absentmindedly, she fingered the petal of one of the roses in the vase on her empty table, before plucking it away from the heavy blooms.
Velvet. It felt like velvet.
With a sigh, she let the burgundy petal fall to the table.
Romance is dead.
Excited squeals brought her attention back just in time to watch the bride send the bouquet sailing into the mass of reaching hands. It pirouetted in the air in a perfect arch to land squarely in her lap.
She stared down at the twelve beautifully formed roses, and in the midst of moans of disappointment and teasing congratulations, she couldn’t help the smile that tugged on her lips from breaking out into a full-fledged grin.
