I haven’t seen Tag since last night. He left my room two minutes before midnight so that he wouldn’t risk seeing me on our wedding day. We decided to have the ceremony here at Chiara. It seemed fitting somehow. He could’ve spent the night anywhere, but I’d be willing to bet he’s at our cabin. It gives me chills just to think about it.
My closest friends and family are all waiting for me downstairs, as is Tag. Mom hired a decorator from Atlanta to come and make the grounds and the main house wedding-beautiful, and it is. I peeked over the upstairs railing this morning and it nearly stole my breath. This small, intimate wedding is more perfect and more fitting than the grandest of events could be. For me, anyway. And for Tag.
A soft knock at the door has my stomach clenching into a nervous knot. One of my best and oldest friends, Shannon, my maid of honor, pokes her expertly coifed head in. “It’s time.” Her smile is bright and beautiful, if a little envious. She has no qualms about marrying for money and very much looks forward to her impending nuptials to Avery, the son of one of her father’s associates. Shannon is attracted to Avery, though, so her situation isn’t as . . . distasteful as mine was.
She leaves the door ajar and walks away, probably to get in line at the top of the stairs. Seconds later, I hear the harpist begin her first song, the one that the wedding party will enter to. The one that comes right before mine. My stomach flutters and I get up to walk to the heavy, floor-length mirror that leans up against the wall in the corner.
I see Weatherly O’Neal. She looks the same as she’s looked every time I’ve seen her for the last month, only today there’s a shine in her purple-blue eyes and a slight flush to her cheeks. Her black hair is drawn into loose curls artfully arranged on top of her head. The few tendrils left dangling frame her small smile, a smile that doesn’t betray the way her heart soars. She was bred to remain calm and collected during stressful times. Times like these. But I can see it, though. I can see the change—the happiness, the hopefulness. I can see that she fell in love with the most unlikely of men in the most unlikely of ways. And I can see that, despite the convenience of the arrangement and its questionable origin, she is thrilled to be walking down the stairs, down the aisle toward Tag Barton.
I make my way out of my room, along the hallway that’s dripping with bunches of white roses and purple wisteria. It smells like heaven. It feels like heaven.
My father awaits me at the end of the hall, standing at the top of the stairs. His face is expressionless at first, but when his eyes rake me from the top of my veiled head down to my richly beaded, A-line, Sarah Burton gown, he softens. Minimally, but still he softens. When I reach him, he turns to face the stairs and holds out his arm for me.
I don’t want to start an argument, but I hate the thought of walking down that aisle and not telling him how much it means to me.
“Dad . . . I . . . I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, eyes still trained straight ahead.
“For walking me down the aisle. For giving me away. To Tag. I know you don’t approve, but . . .”
Long seconds elapse before he sighs. I see it more than I hear it. His puffed chest visibly deflates.
“You deserve better. Is it so wrong for me to want the best for my daughter?”
“No,” I admit. “No more than it is for me to want to be happy.”
“I only wanted to keep you protected and cared for.”
“That’s something that you can’t spend the rest of your life worrying about, Dad. I’m grown. This is what daughters do. And their fathers worry about them. But they try to make it work.”
“I’m not most fathers.”
“And I’m not most daughters. I’m an O’Neal. Can’t you just trust that you raised me right and be happy for me? Just this once?”
Finally, he drags his eyes over to mine. Reluctant, but willing. It’s a first step, anyway.
“I’ll try.”
I hate to press my luck, but while I’m at it . . .
“And Tag. Do you think you could take it easy on him? Just give him a chance?”
“Weatherly, I—”
“What if you’re wrong about him, Dad? What if he is the best thing for me? Would you really want to take that from me? To risk ruining it? Everything we both ever wanted for me, for my life?”
He studies me. Closely. Quietly. Almost as though he might find answers or assurance somewhere in my eyes. So I do my best to give him what he’s looking for.
“I’ll try,” he says again, but this time I believe him. Something about the small smile that curves one side of his mouth tells me that he’s finally admitting that this is happening and that maybe, just maybe, he should make the best of it. “At least he knows how to make good wine. Looks like we’re gonna need a helluva lot of it.”
I laugh softly. From William O’Neal, this is the best I’m going to get.