And I winked back.
And, somewhere between the Southern pineapple cheese ball and Kyoko’s shrimp tempura, after Stella caught the bouquet, it was time for Cinderella to flee. And everyone else as well, after decorating Adam’s truck with shaving cream and Silly String.
I was fixing my veil for the ride when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Shiloh.”
I lifted my head, and every single word in my brain fled. I just stood there, gulping air. And then finally shut my jaw.
“Dad?” I managed, frozen like a raccoon in the headlights.
He stuck his hands awkwardly in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably. Cleared his throat. And just stood there. “Um…hey.”
“Hey.”
I let the corner of my veil drop. Speechless. And felt my lips curve into a smile at our ridiculous attempts at communication. Just like…well, old times.
“Tanzania’s sorry she couldn’t be here.” He gestured clumsily, scratching the back of his neck and fidgeting with the keys in his pocket. “But…yeah.”
He looked so old now, compared to the young, smooth face I knew from years ago. Flashing eyes that once sparked with anger, mouth that belted out songs and shouts. Head turned away from me as he left, suitcase in hand.
Now those lips wore parentheses of lines from frowns and smiles, and gray streaked his thick, dark hair. He’d softened, and the lines around his eyes made him seem gentler somehow. We stood nearly eye to eye; he was not as tall as I remembered.
Two other kids besides Ashley and I called him “Dad.” Begged him to watch their softball games. Laughed with him over dinner.
I was no longer the youngest sibling; I was the second of four. The thought boggled me, made my throat go dry.
“You came,” I finally managed, finding my voice.
“Well, he asked if he could marry you, and nobody’s ever… I mean… Shiloh, I…”
He blinked faster, and I felt my throat closing up. Tears running over, spilling onto the makeup Trinity had applied so perfectly. I looked away in embarrassment—crying over a dad whose face and name I barely knew.
I groped around for a tissue, and one pressed itself into my hand. I looked up into Adam’s face, heavy with emotion.
“Mr. Jacobs.” He extended a hand and shook Dad’s. And he passed the other arm around me, his warm fingers brushing the bare skin of my shoulder. I sponged my eyes, trying not to smear my mascara.
The jingling of Dad’s pockets stopped. “Shiloh, I wasn’t…you know. Around much,” he said, voice husky.
I wiped my nose and mumbled something, but Dad’s voice—sharp, urgent, almost harsh—stopped me. “No. Listen. You deserved…”
He took a heavy breath, catching with emotion, and gently stroked the curve of my cheek. “You’re so beautiful. You look like your mom when you—” He broke off, turning away. “I should have been there. For you.”
Yeah, well, you weren’t.
But instead of spouting all the hateful things I’d once wanted to, instead I saw myself in slow motion, wrapping my arms around my father’s neck. And he awkwardly patted my back.
Around us people laughed, talked. Candles flickered. Glass and crystal sparkled and plates clinked. But for me I noticed only the spicy, unfamiliar scent of Dad’s cologne, like a stranger’s, and my cheek pressed against his hair.
I knew once Dad let me go, he would walk away and check stock updates on his cell phone, too emotional to talk. He would wave good-bye at the door as Adam and I sped away, and the familiar old silence would return.
A call here and there, both of us trying to recover two missing decades, long after our lives had forked. Years we could never bring back, no matter how hard we tried. Besides, what could he promise me now anyway? To chat like best friends? To gush and visit and fill the house with our laughter?
No. We both knew better than that.
But when I missed him, when I wondered what it felt like to have a father who loved me, I would remember this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, raising his head.
I patted his shoulder as he pulled away. “I know.”
Not I forgive you, although I did. Not I love you, although in some measure I did, too.
Just an acknowledgment of what I knew as truth, and what I hoped could someday—by some miracle—be a little something more.
Dad stepped back and wiped his face. He straightened his shoulders and reached for Adam’s hand. Squeezed it hard. “Take care of her, my man.” He affected a light tone.
“Don’t worry.” Adam smiled down at me, hand circling protectively around my bandaged waist. “I’m glad you came, too. I wanted to meet you.”
Dad patted my head, trying awkwardly not to mess up my hair. He seemed like he wanted to say more, but did not. And he disappeared into the crowd.
It took a trip to the bathroom to recover my nerves, running a dry tissue under my eyes and brushing on fresh mascara. My reflection in the mirror glowed back, pink-cheeked, the veil falling over my bare arms as I dried my hands.
Adam was waiting for me outside the bathroom door.
He kissed my forehead, brushing back my wayward strands of hair. “You okay?”
“Sure.” I squeezed his hand and let out a pent-up breath. “You know something? Ashley wired the bridesmaids’ dress money to Becky’s account. And she sent us tickets to Japan.” My voice wobbled as I remembered Japanese crows. The ringing hum of Tokyo cicadas. “Wade’s working at Delta now, so he gets some freebies. They were going to use them for a vacation.”
Adam’s face transformed from surprise to joy. “Well, wonders never cease. Ashley’s not all bad then.”
“Not entirely. Let’s say…three-fourths.”
“Four-fifths. Maybe a little more.”
I laughed. “Ray Floyd wasn’t the only one with identity mix-ups, huh? Ashley did surprise me, I have to admit. And so did Dad.”
We were almost to the door, tingling with excitement, when Adam suddenly turned to me in the empty hall. “You never told me your middle name,” he said. “Remember, Shiloh. No secrets.”
No wonder he wanted to know, after the fiasco with Ray and Amanda and their middle names.
I faced him, considering. “Will you make me another bonsai?”
Adam crossed his arms, a smile at the corner of his lips. “Deal.”
“All right.” I let out my breath. “Papillon, okay?”
His eyes sparkled. “French for ‘butterfly.’ I like it. It’s perfect for you.” He took my hand, and I could hear everyone rushing around outside to meet us. Distant footsteps and laughter echoed through the hallway. And when I looked up, I saw Adam’s lips. Warm and full, just like when he kissed me in front of the church. Pressing gently against mine and drawing me in for more.
“Not so fast.” I pulled him back, jerking my gaze reluctantly from his lips to his eyes. “You haven’t told me your middle name. Remember? No secrets.”
A look of pure fear crossed his face. “It…it starts with a J.”
“I know. Bible name?”
He nodded miserably.
“I thought so. Jehoshaphat? Jabez?” I pursed my lips. “Jezebel?”
“Shiloh!” He looked annoyed. “Jezebel’s the evil queen who got eaten by dogs.”
“Well, tell me then.” I tapped my slippered foot impatiently.
“Okay.” Adam took a breath. “Jedidiah.”
“What? You’re kidding!” I doubled over in laughter despite my tender abdomen.
“Come on, Shiloh!” he ordered, face flushing. “No more secrets, and no weird middle names for our children. I promise.”
“Deal!” I took his hand. Just before he leaned down and kissed me. Really kissed me. Long enough, suffice it to say, that people outside began to murmur about where we were.
And then he pulled me, laughing, toward the bright double doors.
About the Author
Jennifer Rogers Spinola, Virginia/South Carolina native and graduate o
f Gardner-Webb University in North Carolina, now lives in South Dakota with her husband, Athos, and their son, Ethan, after nearly eight years spent in the capital city of Brasilia, Brazil. Jennifer and Athos met while she was serving as a missionary in Sapporo, Japan. Find out more about Jenny at www.jenniferrogersspinola.com.
'Til Grits Do Us Part Page 37
