by Rachel Hauck
Ah, weddings. She loved them. She really loved them. Weddings were magnificent declarations of all that was good in this life. Loyalty. Honor. Love. Esteeming another above yourself. Weddings never failed to stir her or arouse in her a bittersweet wistfulness born of her own hope of marrying one day.
When Amanda and Ben exchanged vows, Holly sighed and went a little teary-eyed. Or maybe she was going teary-eyed over Josh, standing so solidly next to Ben. The best man. Indeed.
One of the candles in the unity candle set was slow to light. And the maid of honor almost bobbled Amanda’s bouquet at one point. But those were the little things that made weddings charming and real. Everything else went perfectly.
When the ceremony concluded, Holly dashed around like a runner on a steeplechase course, making sure that the flower girls and ring bearer were all returned to their rightful owners. Then Mitzi trapped her and fired a dozen staccato questions at her regarding parking issues and when the decor could be taken down.
After Mitzi departed, Holly looked around and saw that the entire church had emptied faster than a glass bottle of Dr Pepper. She hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Josh since he’d walked down the aisle during the recessional with the maid of honor on his arm.
She let herself into the sanctuary and trailed her fingers along the long swags of ribbon, the glass hurricanes confining candles that had already been blown out, the sprays of flowers mounted on the inside ends of the pews. She took a seat on the very first row.
She needed to rally herself, go home, get cleaned up, then make an appearance at the reception. She’d sent in a response card saying she’d attend. Far more critically, the reception would be her last chance to see Josh.
She’d rally. She would. But the day had drained her physically and emotionally, and she needed a minute to sit and take in the hushed calm of her surroundings.
One of the decorators had brought in a towering wrought iron arch that stood on the dais in front of the altar. A garland of large waxy leaves, twigs, and the same flowers that had graced Amanda’s bouquet covered the entire arch and even rippled a few feet onto the dais on either side. Lovely.
During the ceremony, the arch had served as a picturesque frame for Ben and Amanda. But it hadn’t framed only them. On its far side, it also framed the altar. As Holly studied the altar, light gleamed and slid along one plane of the cross.
When she’d parted from Josh eight years ago, God had remained. He’d been at her side through her hardest moments, her saddest moments, her loneliest.
Whatever comes, I trust you, God. If your plans for me don’t include Josh or don’t include marriage, then I’ll keep on trusting you. The silence of her aloneness settled over her like pixie dust. She couldn’t stop herself from adding a short p.s. to her prayer. If Josh does happen to . . . perhaps, maybe, please . . . be the one for me, then I pray that you’ll give me just one more opportunity with him.
The side exit door whooshed open and Holly snapped her head to the side to see Josh standing in the opening, backlit by a late November sky. His dark gaze cut across the space and locked onto her.
Her pulse leapt then began to pound. What could he be doing here? He was the best man. He was needed at the reception.
He walked toward her. “I was looking for you. Out in the parking lot, and then on the road to the winery. I couldn’t find you.”
“I’m not,” she motioned to her clothing as she pressed to her feet, “dressed for the reception yet.”
His brows drew down. He appeared both determined and unsettled, standing there, sleek in his gorgeous tuxedo. “I’ve been looking for you a lot lately, Holly. All day today. Last night at the rehearsal dinner. Just now. I . . .” His hair was slightly mussed. His eyes bright with fervency. “I realized that I’ve been looking for you for years. I’ve been looking for you ever since I left Martinsburg.”
Hope rose within her painfully. What? Had he . . . had he really just said that?
He continued, recklessly honest. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking for you.”
“You don’t?” Her voice emerged as fragile as a skein of silk.
“No. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of you, either.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve been telling myself to keep my mouth shut around you until I leave Texas. But I’m not going to make it.” His lips settled into a hard, resolute line. “I’d rather make a fool of myself than remain silent.”
She gaped at him in patent astonishment.
“I can’t not tell you that I love you,” he said. “I . . . I desperately love you.”
Holly inhaled a jagged gasp. His words were almost too marvelous to process. He’d handed her dearest dream to her without warning. He loved her? Joy began to unfurl inside her.
She walked to him, stopping so close that she was able to rest her palms on his chest. She hadn’t touched him in a girlfriend-like manner in ages. To do so now felt like pure, heady bliss. She smoothed his lapels, feeling the tremor in her hands.
He stared down at her as if he was afraid to believe that the news might be good.
The news was very good. For them both. She was still a little afraid, but God was faithful. He countered her fears by filling her with an undeniable sense of rightness. She looked directly into Josh’s eyes. “I love you too.”
He gave her the exact same crooked smile he’d given her the day he’d first told her that he loved her. “You love me?”
“I do. I love you.”
“I’ve loved you since high school,” he said. His arms came up to support her back. “I tried to stop but I couldn’t. Seeing you again has only made me positively sure that you’re the one for me.”
“I’ve loved you since high school too.” She interlaced her hands around his neck. Laughing breathlessly, she quoted his words back to him. “I tried to stop but I couldn’t. Seeing you again has only made me positively sure that you’re the one for me.”
He kissed her. And she kissed him back. And he kissed her more for good measure. There, with the altar’s cross watching over them and the day’s last sun rays pouring through the stained glass like a benediction.
Holly’s heart soared with amazement and gratitude and love. Josh! Josh loved her.
He pulled back a few inches. “I lied about needing your help to find a rehearsal dinner location. My assistant booked the olive oil farm months ago. I misled you because it was the only way I could think of to spend time with you.”
“Your assistant booked the olive oil farm?” she asked, like one of those parrots that repeats things. It was hard to think straight at this particular moment. He’d just incinerated her with his kisses and sent her whole world spinning with the declaration that he loved her.
“Yes.”
“Months ago? Your assistant had the very same idea that I had and booked the farm months ago?”
He nodded and swept a section of her hair away from her cheek. “I’m sorry for deceiving you.”
“You’re forgiven. And also, by the way, you have a very good assistant. Has she considered turning her attention to brokering peace in the Middle East?”
His expression warmed with amusement. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I’ll stay in Martinsburg,” he said. “I can work from anywhere.”
“So can I, Josh. I’m a writer.” Her hands were still intertwined behind his neck. Oh, the happiness of this! “Relocating to Paris for a while doesn’t actually sound too shabby to me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“If this is Paris, France, home of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and croissants that we’re talking about, then no. It doesn’t.”
“You’d move to France?”
“Yes,” she answered, growing more sure of it. “I would.” He’d given her an irresistible motivation to grab hold of her very own real-life adventure.
“I love you, Holly.”
“I love you, Josh. Now kiss me some more.” She was
grinning and crying at the same time. “But be quick about it. You’re the best man and we have a wedding reception to attend.”
Miracle of miracles, God had brought Josh back to her. And this time, she wouldn’t let him go. This time, Josh wouldn’t leave her behind.
This time, the timing was perfect.
Epilogue
Holly,
Today is our wedding day. In just a few hours I’ll get to see you in your wedding dress, you’ll walk down the aisle to me, and before God we’ll promise ourselves to each other for the rest of our lives.
Thank you for agreeing to be my wife. For loving me. For showing me what matters in this life.
Neither the years we spent apart nor the distance between us had the power to change my love for you. My heart was, and is, and always will be yours.
Je t’aime, Holly. I love you. Till death do us part, my love.
—Josh
Dedication
For my dad—the best father and Papa Bear around.
I love you more.
Chapter 1
The suddenness with which life can upend itself is alarming. One second you’re two months away from matrimony—unable to find that perfect dress but confident it’s out there in the wide abyss of bridal boutiques—and then wham. An MRI reveals a tumor in the brain of the man you love more than life.
Only that man isn’t your fiancé.
This singular diagnosis turns your entire world on its head. Instead of the bride-to-be, you are the woman who has canceled the cake order and returned the ring, all while apologizing profusely to your wounded ex-fiancé who was nothing but kind and patient.
It’s a hard thing to recover from—these sharp, unexpected upheavals.
And just when my life started to normalize, everything went flip all over again. Three weeks fresh and I’m trying to acclimate. After all, if Dad can do it—if he can go from the picture of health, to the trenches of cancer-battle, to the cruel tease that was four months of remission, to the shockingly cold waters of a two-month time clock, then what’s my excuse? In my weakness, I have forced my father to be the strong one, to comfort me, yet he’s the dying man.
This has to stop.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the aroma that is Mayfair, Wisconsin, in the beginning of autumn—a paradoxical combination of fresh air, burning leaves, and the scent of Eloise’s famous pumpkin bars wafting from the front windows of her bakery. A flock of geese honk overhead. I look up at the clear blue sky—the dark bodies in V-formation—wondering if I couldn’t join them somehow. Grow a pair of wings and take flight to someplace where time and death do not exist.
Instead, I let out my breath, remove the two-day accumulation of mail from the mailbox, and head up the walkway, taking in the modest home of my childhood—buttercream siding with country-blue shutters, flower boxes outside the windows, and a pair of burning bushes that bookend the front, their leaves a vibrant bloodred. It’s a house that carried my brother and me from infancy to adulthood and has since treated a pair of empty nesters with kindness these past nine years. At least until the diagnosis.
Will Mom put it on the market after he’s gone?
Shaking away the question, I unlock the door, step inside, and blink at the mess before me. Saying yes to cat-sitting while my parents drove up to Door County for the weekend was my first attempt at climbing aboard the be-strong-for-Dad train. If Mom and my brother can hop on so quickly, going about life with smiles and unshakable faith, then surely I can at least feed the cats and empty the litter box. Animals are, after all, my forte. What I failed to remember, as I eagerly agreed to the favor, was that my parents’ cats are not normal cats.
Case in point?
The mess of kitty litter and down feathers scattered across the hardwood floor. A groan escapes from my mouth like a slow leak. Off to the side, Oscar lounges beside the emptied-out carcass of a throw pillow.
“Seriously?”
His furry tail twitches lazily.
I head down the hall toward the room with the closet where Mom keeps the cleaning supplies. Floorboards creak beneath my cross trainers as I smooch the air and whistle for the other beastly feline to come out from hiding. The tabby is a no-show, which can only mean she’s responsible for the mangled pillow.
I cross the small office that was once my brother’s bedroom to set the stack of mail on Dad’s desk. Something catches my eye. A familiar leather-bound journal sits precariously close to the desk’s edge—a birthday present I gave Dad three years ago, before cancer cast its ugly shadow over our lives. My father isn’t much of a writer, but I knew the collection of quirky quotes on the top of each page would make him chuckle.
Trailing my finger down the spine, I find myself wishing I could go back to the time when tragedy was something that happened to other people, or better yet, wishing I could fix what is wrong now. My inability to do anything but cat-sit leaves me with a helplessness I’m unaccustomed to feeling. As I turn away from the desk, the journal falls to the floor with a whap, and a piece of paper slips out from its pages.
I bend over, but the words—written in neat, straight script at the top—stop me mid-reach.
Bucket List.
I pick up the paper carefully, delicately—like it is a find as rare as the Dead Sea Scrolls. These are my father’s dreams. His dying wishes. The things he wants to accomplish before the end. Carefully written on the sheet of paper I now hold in my hand. I sit on the edge of Dad’s swivel chair, knowing this is private but unable to resist the temptation. If there is something on this page I can give him or help him accomplish, how can I look away?
Take Marie to Ireland.
He did. Two years ago, after his surgery. Before his first round of chemo. Dad got himself a passport and booked the tickets, and they flew across the Atlantic. They spent a whole week visiting pubs, riding bikes through ancient ruins, looking into Mom’s genealogy.
Let Liam teach me to ride a motorcycle.
He did that too. I’ll never forget watching the pair of them in matching Harley Davidson bandannas, driving around Mayfair’s town square while Mom clutched my arm, convinced her two boys would become one with the cement.
Run a half marathon with Emma.
I smile at the extrabold line crossing this one off, as if showcasing my father’s triumph. Dad is not a runner. I was a bit perplexed when he asked if he could train with me, but I welcomed the extra time together.
Fix the boat with Liam.
Just how much time did those two spend in the garage, resurrecting that hunk of junk? All four of us took it out on the lake for the first time this past Fourth of July. I’d strapped on a life preserver and brought rations, sure we’d either sink or be stranded. Turned out, I didn’t need either. The day had been a success.
Go on a hot air balloon ride.
Swim with dolphins.
Emotions well in my throat—a hot, sticky mixture of joy and sadness. As much as I don’t want my father to go, I’m so proud of the way he’s going. Moisture builds in my eyes as I reach the items that are not yet crossed off. Yet being the key word, because I know my dad.
Spend a weekend in Door County.
(He’ll get to cross that off as soon as he comes home and relieves me of crazy cat duty.)
Take dancing lessons with Marie.
(Mom will love that.)
Walk Emma down the aisle.
The words are like a sucker punch to the gut. I deflate in the chair. Unable to swallow. Unable to breathe. Unable to do anything but press a palm against the pit forming in my stomach.
Chapter 2
My brain has switched to autopilot. I’m not sure how I arrived at my small bungalow on the edge of town. At some point, I must have put the page back in Dad’s journal, cleaned the mess in the living room, fed the cats, and driven home. But it’s all a fog. I keep picturing myself as a little girl, donning my mother’s veil and her oversized white high heels, walking down a pretend aisle on my daddy’s arm toward Scooby,
our very first family dog. A great stand-in groom, may he rest in peace. The memories wrap around my heart and squeeze tight while my mind worries those five words raw.
Walk Emma down the aisle.
The pit in my stomach grows—deepening and widening while I walk haphazardly through the yard. As sick as the discovery has made me, at least I saw it now instead of after, when it would have been too late. At least I have a chance to do something. My thoughts scramble this way and that, grappling for a solution, until one comes—wild and half-baked. What if I called up Chase and told him I changed my mind? Never mind the fact that I ripped his heart out two years ago; we should get married after all. Would he hear me out, or would he hang up the second I announced myself on the other end of the line?
I step onto my porch, over two loose floorboards, and stop. The front door is ajar. My brow furrows at the thin strip of space that leads into my home. Forgetting to lock up is one thing—a common side effect of growing up in a tiny northern Wisconsin town. But forgetting to shut the door all the way?
No, I wouldn’t do that.
Which means the latch must be broken—one of many broken things in my well-loved home. It’s a perfectly logical explanation, and yet I find myself clutching my purse tighter as I quietly open the screen door. This is the moment in scary movies when viewers scream, “You fool, don’t go inside!” I step over the threshold anyway. This is Mayfair. There are no serial killers. There probably aren’t even any burglars. Even so, the lack of greeting from Samson has me on edge. A vision of my beloved pooch drugged and dragged into the bathroom while some drug dealer strips my home for cash flashes through my mind. It is the epitome of far-fetched. Knowing this, however, does not stop me from exchanging my purse for the vase on the sofa table.
