I don’t have a seat. I’m waiting, standing in the back of an impeccably white canvas tent set up in the hydrangea-filled garden of the Endicott Estate. The rambling colonial-style mansion is big enough for an inside wedding, but when this August morning dawned fair and sparkling, we knew the tent had been the right decision. I’m waiting, in my actually not-so-terrible maid-of-honor dress, and watching through the French doors as Mom and her hairdresser fuss with some last-minute changes.
A tuxedoed string-and-flute quartet, stationed in one corner, quietly plays music of hope and love and possibilities.
And there’s Josh.
He steps through the tent’s flowered entranceway, then steps back, pantomiming a whistle. He gives me the spinning-finger signal to twirl. “Yet again, you dazzle me, Charlie McNally,” he says. “Is that the dress you said you were ‘destined to loathe’? The nightmare in Pepto-Bismol chiffon, I think you called it?”
“Yes, well, it wasn’t so bad, as it turned out. Watch.” I twist a little, and the tiers of pale gossamer fabric swirl gracefully around my ankles. “Kind of Ginger Rogers, maybe. And since you’re very Fred Astaire in that black tie, maybe we can-” I pause, concerned again. “But do I look like cotton candy?”
Josh takes my hand and pulls me closer to him. “I adore cotton candy,” he says softly. “It’s deliciously sweet, and it melts in your mouth. And it always leaves you wanting more.” He slides an arm around my waist. “You sure you can’t leave right now?”
“Daddy!” Penny, wearing a miniature of my dress and white pearlized Mary Janes, trots up and throws her arms around Josh’s waist. She pushes herself away from him and holds out her arms like a model. “Do you like my dress?” She points a toe out from under her skirt. “And my shoes? With the tiny baby pearls on them?”
Josh kisses the top of her head. When he looks up, his eyes are misting with a glimmer of pride, and love, and the passing of time. “I remember when you were a tiny baby,” he says, touching a just-curled lock of her beribboned hair. “Now you’re all grown-up.”
“I know,” she says. “So I’m going to wear these shoes every day.” She points to the gold and white chairs. “Now you have to go sit down, Daddy,” she instructs. “We’re having a wedding.”
Josh blows me a kiss, then one to his daughter, and heads for his seat.
“You look so pretty, Charlie Mac,” Penny says.
“So do you, sweetheart,” I say, adjusting the corona of late-summer peonies circling her dark curls. Where she came up with it, I don’t know. But she called me “Charlie Mac” for the first time last night at the rehearsal dinner. “Um” seems to have left the building. Lucky I had on waterproof mascara. “You all set on walking down the aisle?”
“I go first, I walk slow,” Penny recites. “Step, touch, step, touch. All the way up to Ethan. Then you come next. Just like we practiced.”
I hear a flurry of activity from the front flaps of the tent. It’s Maysie and Matthew, both looking at their watches, shepherding their children inside. Max is focused on some handheld electronic game, which he tucks into his pocket as soon as he sees me. I notice Molly has on little kitten heels. Apparently Maysie lost the adolescent footwear battle.
Mays shoos the three of them to their seats, and gives me and Penny careful hugs, as much to protect her burgeoning stomach as our wedding attire.
“You okay?” she asks me. She turns to Penny. “And you, honey? You look just beautiful.”
Penny nods, and points her toe out for approval again.
“Very nice.” Maysie nods appreciatively. “Pearls.”
Maysie tucks her arm through mine and cocks her head toward the front row. “That’s quite a picture,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s what I was looking at, too,” I agree. “Who’d have thought that group would be lined up together? Dressed to the hilt and at my mom’s wedding? You’ve got to admit, it’s a memory maker. And Dorinda.” I pause, taking a deep breath, as her reality sets in. “Well, it looks like she’ll have another chance at family.”
“All because of you, Brenda Starr,” she says. “And what’s more, Oz will never get elected, now that Tek finally admitted to faking that photo lineup. Voters just don’t like evidence tampering, you know? Even the Great and Powerful can’t spin his way out of that one.”
“Ah, who knows,” I say. “If he can blame it all on Tek, one rogue cop? All politics is loco, isn’t that what they say? But look. Check out Will Easterly’s arm.” I point to the gossip-worthy scene. “Seems Dorinda is acclimating nicely to freedom.”
A solo flute begins the gentle melody of the Mozart Concerto in E flat. I know that’s the signal the ceremony is about to begin. “This is it,” I say to Maysie. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m glad you could be here.”
“You’re next,” she whispers. “Even if you don’t catch your mom’s bouquet.” She trots toward her seat before I can reply. And I don’t have time to think about that right now.
“All ready?” I whisper to Penny.
She smiles confidently. “I’m set, Charlie Mac.”
“Me, too,” I say.
I look past the rows of guests to the white canvas runner making a path down the aisle to the flower-laden dais. Lush pink and white peonies and lavender hydrangea, the essence of summer, cascade down the podium, their fragrance filling the tent. The late-afternoon sun gives the white canvas a pink glow, a wedding decoration from the universe that’s not offered in any catalogue.
Behind the dais, Oliver Rankin, made a justice of the peace for the occasion, offers last-minute encouragement to a beaming Ethan Margolis. My soon-to-be stepdad, in charcoal pinstripes and a white-rose boutonniere, fairly radiates happiness and anticipation. He looks like it’s all he can do to keep his feet on the ground. Ethan pats his pocket, where I know he’s tucked Mom’s ring, and gives Rankin an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The audience, watching the blissed-out groom, murmurs a soft rustle of affectionate laughter.
The quartet pauses. The sweetly familiar opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D sound softly from one violin. The audience quiets, waiting.
Penny picks up her ivy-sprigged basket of white rose petals. “My turn now, right?” she whispers. Her eyes are shining with excitement.
I touch her hair, then give her a tiny kiss on the forehead. “You’re the prettiest flower girl ever,” I say softly, wiping away a trace of my lipstick. “And the best.” I pat her on her crinolined rear. “Now do your stuff, kiddo. I’ll be right behind you.”
Penny heads down the aisle, carefully touch-stepping and strewing rose petals. I take a deep breath and nod to Oliver, who motions the audience to rise for the bride.
I turn to the entrance of the tent. And there’s Mom.
One hand flies to my chest. For an instant, I’m unable to breathe. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. She’s elegant, confident. And, I’ve got to admit, beautiful. This is her day.
Ready? I ask silently.
Mom settles her dove gray chiffon skirt as it catches the slight August breeze, and rearranges her bouquet of blazing late-summer dahlias.
With a soft smile, she nods and blows me a kiss. The poignant music swells behind us. We stand, eyes locked, mother and daughter, surrounded by friends and family. Slowly, Mom raises two fingers in the peace sign.
To us? She mouths the words, but I understand her perfectly.
I raise my own two fingers, and give her our signal back.
“To us,” I whisper. “To us.”