Impulsively, I stretch up on my toes to kiss my father’s expertly shaved cheek. This is the man I remember from my childhood and that little glimpse makes this day all the more perfect. “That’s more like it, Dad.”
As we look into each other’s eyes for a few more seconds, our truce is cemented. I’m marrying Tag because I want to. Because I’m falling more and more in love with him every day. Because I think we can be happy. Maybe not rich, but happy. And that’s worth more to me than millions of dollars, especially now that my charity is taken care of. And my father is walking me down the aisle. This is as close to perfect as I’m likely to get.
The familiar, traditional wedding march begins to play and I hear the shift of clothing as everyone in the room below stands to their feet. I wind my shaking hand around my father’s elbow and he reaches up to place his fingers on top of mine. Together, we begin our descent.
Guests start to come into view as the staircase sweeps toward the formal living room. Most are smiling, all are standing, facing us. I see them, but I don’t see them. My eyes and my mind are waiting breathlessly for one man to appear.
And then he does.
My foot touches the floor, my father and I turn, and there he is. Tag. Standing at the front of the aisle, flanked by his friends on one side and the minister on the other. I’m aware of all these other details, but still, he is all I see.
His raven hair gleams like black ink in the afternoon light and his pale eyes shine like silver moonbeams from the chiseled planes of his face. There’s a smile in them, much like the one that graces his full lips.
His wide shoulders and trim waist are displayed perfectly in a brilliantly cut black suit. The creamy white of his shirt matches my dress as though it were taken from the same swath of silk. His big hands are clasped lightly in front of him and he never takes his eyes off me as I approach. It’s as though we are the only two people in the room. No guests, no musicians, and no air. Just us, in a beautiful vacuum adorned with fresh flowers.
We stop a foot away and my father ceremoniously takes my hand and transfers it to Tag’s waiting palm. I turn to him before he can go. “Thank you, Daddy,” I say, not having called him that since I was a little girl. It was something playful between us when I was growing up—he’d call me Weathervane and I’d call him Daddy. And then we’d both smile and he’d ruffle my hair. It was how he said “I love you” and how I told him that I knew. And I did, back then.
Surprisingly, his dark blue eyes mist just before he leans forward to kiss my cheek. “Be happy, Weathervane.”
My happiness is doubled as I watch him move quickly away to sit beside my teary mother. That was his way of saying that, no matter what, he loves me. Still. Always.
And I’ll take it.
Tag’s fingers squeeze gently around mine and I step forward to stand at his side. I sneak a peek up at him as the minister begins. He’s looking down at me, unabashedly, smiling. I wonder if the happiness that he wears so easily right now could be because of me. I hope and pray that it is. I hope and pray that he won’t one day regret his capricious decision to marry a woman he hardly knows just to help her out. Or just because they have phenomenal sex. I hope and pray it’s more. So much more.
With his shimmering eyes fastened to mine, Tag raises our joined hands to his lips. He presses them firmly to my knuckles and lets them rest there for several long seconds before he drops them back to his side and turns to face the minister.
We listen in silence to his words and when it comes time to repeat our vows, Tag surprises me with vows of his own.
“Some of life’s most beautiful things come at unexpected times and in unexpected ways. I never expected to meet you, here of all places. I never expected to feel the way I feel about you, now of all times. I never expected to be standing here with the most breathtaking bride I’ve ever seen, me of all men. I promise to give you every part of me that I can, from this day forward.”
He kisses my hand again, right over the ring that he placed there just a matter of weeks ago. And when he lowers it again, I feel his thumb brush back and forth over my skin, like he’s marking me—always marking me—giving me another physical reminder of this day, of this moment. But he needn’t have bothered. I won’t ever forget this day or this moment. Not for as long as I live.
When his voice has stopped reverberating through my soul, the minister moves to finish the ceremony. “Do you, Taggart Gregory Barton, take this woman—”