by Shandi Boyes
As I push down on the old brass handle on the whitewashed double doors, I remember a saying I’ve quoted numerous times the past five years.
Memories last a lifetime, but not all of them are sweet.
Chapter 2
A late fall wind whips up my hair, adding to my already disheveled appearance as I slide out of a rusted old pickup. “Thank you,” I praise the lady who rescued me from being stranded at a B&B ten miles out.
The leanly built lady with dazzling brown eyes bows her head before pulling her truck away from the graveled-lined parking lot of a cute little church on the outskirts of Rochdale, NY. When I requested for my Uber driver to alter our initially agreed-upon route, I never considered that I’d end up stranded on the side of an isolated road. Thankfully, my bad timing corresponded with the knock-off time of the maid from the B&B, otherwise I’d be not only wrangling a tousled hairstyle but blistering feet as well.
Although I’m arriving at my friend’s wedding a little ruffled around the edges, I’m glad I couldn’t harness the desire to capture some sneaky snaps of Ava and her bridesmaids getting ready. Photography is my life. It nursed me through some of my darkest days. When I have a camera in my hand, I truly don’t feel fear. Which is incredible for me, as normally, anything that goes bump in the night frightens me. But when I'm behind the lens, magic happens. One click of a button can capture the smallest memory for eternity, but it is the beauty behind the image that I treasure the most. A picture is a poem without words. So many things are said without a syllable needing to be spoken.
When Ava requested for me to photograph her wedding, I graciously declined. Staged shoots aren’t my style of photography. I like the raw emotions you rarely see when a camera is shoved in your face. I love the pictures that capture the individual in their natural environment. When they are staring into space reminiscing about the past, or licking a stream of ice cream dribbling down their dirty palms. When my clients look at their proofs, I want real life memories to be triggered, not fake ones of an ideal life in a perfect world displayed everyday on social media. Every red-blooded human knows there is no such thing as a perfect life. That isn’t possible in the world we live in. Life can be both cruel and beautiful. My photos aim to capture both sides of the coin. The good and the bad.
That was what I did today. I photographed the real Ava. I caught the little tear in the corner of her eye when she ran her index finger along the picture frames containing photos of the loved ones who can only attend her wedding in cherished memories. I captured the way her son Joel’s nose screwed up when asked if he was excited to meet his brother or sister due in a few months, and I caught Ava’s breathlessness when she slipped into her wedding gown for the very first time. I captured the real Ava today. It was a truly magical experience. One worth the risk of being stranded on an isolated country road.
Once my rescuer’s truck is nothing but a speck on the horizon, I dig my hand into my oversized clutch and pull out my compact mirror. I cringe when I spot my reflection. I wouldn’t say I’m an overly girly type of woman, but I’ve been known to have sporadic moments of girliness. Thankfully, today, I’m not having a moment. Although my sweat-slicked skin could benefit from a soak in a tub, my last-minute change of heart has stretched my time too thin to head to my hotel. My schedule is so tight, I had no option but to touch up my makeup during the bumpy fifteen-mile trip from the B&B to the church.
Have you ever applied makeup in a moving vehicle? It’s practically impossible. Well imagine doing it in a rusted old truck juddering down a road at forty miles an hour. I nearly lost an eye while adding a coat of mascara to my lashes. The driver swerved to miss a pothole, sending the mascara stick smearing across my face. I dabbed up the mess the best I could, but from the raccoon look I'm wearing, there is no doubt who won the mascara battle. Mascara – 1. Me – 0. Lucky for me, smoky eyes are making a comeback.
After returning my compact to my clutch, I secure the handle on my bag and drag it across the gravel parking lot. Pretending I haven’t noticed the little black stones ramming into the swivel wheels of my suitcase, I roam my eyes over the church Ava and Hugo are getting married in. It is very cute with large stained glass windows lining the entire east wing, and a beautiful glass atrium housing the silver bell that will ring at the end of their ceremony. It is quaint and charming; a stark contradiction to the graveyard attached to it.
By the time I reach the wooden stairs at the front of the church, I'm sweating profusely and my heart is hammering against my ribs. My perspiring state isn’t just from dragging my heavy suitcase up the small flight of stairs; it is from the prospect of walking into a church full of strangers. I’ve known Hugo for nearly seven years, but the only people I’ve met in his inner circle are his soon-to-be wife, Ava, and his mother, Mrs. Marshall.
In my industry, meeting strangers is a regular occurrence, but usually, it is only a handful of people at once. The last I heard, the number of attendees for Hugo and Ava’s wedding was sitting close to four hundred. I don’t even know four hundred people. I shouldn’t be surprised their guest list is so high, though. From the stories Hugo shared, his family have been upstanding citizens of the Rochdale community for longer than I’ve been born. And I’m sure when rumors circulated that an open bar was being funded by Hugo’s wealthy boss, Hugo had relatives he didn’t even know existed crawl out of the woodworks.
When I hit the top of the stairs, I run my fingers through my hair, not wanting to startle Hugo with my tousled appearance. The rake of my fingers stops halfway through my platinum blonde locks, closely followed by the beat of my heart. Hugo has seen me at my worst, so I’m sure windblown hair and smeared mascara aren’t going to faze him in the slightest.
After releasing a nerve-cleansing breath, I push on the church doors with all my might. Before I can grasp that the door is a pull design, not a push, the thick wooden door sails open and smacks me right in the nose. If that isn’t bad enough, the person fleeing the church like a groom with cold feet crashes into me, sending me sprawling onto my backside. My wrist jars on the hard wooden floor and a breathless grunt parts my lips. I inwardly squeal when my unladylike topple sends the free-flowing skirt of my dress flying over my head.
“Oh, shit, are you okay?” says a profoundly deep voice from above.
Grimacing with embarrassment, I yank down my dress before mumbling, “Uh huh. I’m fine. What were you doing racing out of there like a mad man anyway? The only person allowed to flee a church like it’s on fire is the groom. And considering Hugo has been waiting for this day for years, I highly doubt you're him.”
After scampering off the floor, I lift my humiliated eyes to the man who just barreled me over. Oh, for the love of god, Greek Gods do exist. Strong, powerful jawline; dark, well-groomed hair; sculptured cheekbones; and a pair of rich, soul-absorbing eyes all assembled on a suit-covered body that looks like it eats gladiators for breakfast. If I had to guess the mysterious man’s age, I’d say he is a couple of years older than my twenty-eight years. It isn’t that his chiseled face has signs of a man in his early thirties; he just has a mature approach about him. He has an edge of sophistication and seems well put-together – a stark controversy to the woman standing in front of him.
My gaped mouth gains leverage when the reality of the situation dawns on me. He just saw my panties—my hideously ugly panties. I’m not talking slightly frumpy with an edge of sexiness some men find appealing. I’m talking contouring from the middle of my thigh to halfway up my stomach skin-tone panties. Great!
Vainly pretending I can’t feel my cheeks burning, I lock my gaze with the dark-haired stranger. “Don’t panic. Despite mass hysteria, it was announced earlier this year that you can’t catch the wedding bug.” I tilt in closer to his side and whisper, “Just don’t tell my grandma. She’s got everything crossed that I come home from this wedding with the full-blown nuptial virus.”
I aim for my tone to be witty, but when the turmoil in his murky eyes escalates, I r
ealize my attempts at humor are borderline. I’ve never been good at cranking out the jokes, but I gave it my best shot. I’ll do anything to deflect the awkwardness of our meeting away from my contouring undergarments.
Before I can mutter another cringe-worthy syllable, the sound of gravel crunching under tires bellows through my ears. Cranking my head to the side, I spot two white Rolls Royces gliding down the church driveway.
“Shit, quick, it’s the bridal party,” I mutter, partly to myself, and partly to the mysterious stranger eyeballing me like I’m a circus freak.
Snagging my suitcase off the ground, I loop my arm around the mute stranger’s elbow and pace to the doors he just charged out. I’m not going to need to lift weights for a week with how much effort it takes to drag him into the church foyer. Anyone would swear he is the one about to get married with how reluctant his steps are.
Once we enter the small white foyer, I release the dark-haired stranger from my grasp so I can dump my suitcase in a coat closet on my left. His eyes track me as I cross the room, but not a peep seeps from his hard-lined lips. The hum of gleeful chatter beaming out of the church sanctuary causes the hairs on my arms to bristle and my heart to beat a little faster. Well, I’m assuming it is the liveliness causing my body’s odd reaction, but I can’t one hundred percent testify to that, as my stomach did a weird flipping thing the instant I curled my arm around the mute stranger’s elbow.
After closing the coatroom door, I run my eyes over the silent stranger as I pace back toward him. The well-fitting three piece suit he is wearing sends blood rushing to lower regions of my body. Even with a heavy groove between his eyes and an unapproachable demeanor, he is insanely sexy. The type of man you’d expect to see on the cover of magazines. Or do anything to see what he looks like under his clothing. Swallowing down my surprise at my inappropriate inner monologue, I stop pacing when I'm within reaching distance of the stranger.
“Your tie is wonky,” I mutter quietly, noticing the only fault in his entire package is his black bowtie dangling precariously to the left.
“May I?” I bounce my eyes between his stormy gaze and rumpled tie.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in slow motion before he briefly nods his head. My hands shake when I lift them to straighten his bowtie. My nervy response can’t be helped. The idea of entering a room where a large group of people are already seated rattles me, but I'm just as cautious being in the presence of a single man, even if he both excites and intimidates me.
My anxious composure isn’t solely based on the mysterious man’s incredibly handsome features; it is because he is also ginormous. His tall height towers over my five-foot-six stature by a good six to eight inches. His shoulders are double the width of mine, and the tormented look in his eyes sets me on edge. But, if I'm being honest, even with my insecurities on high alert, I’m drawn to him. Perhaps it’s because he reminds me of Hugo? On the surface, Hugo also looks rough and brutish, but his heart is as big as his frame. I wonder if the same could be said for this mysterious stranger?
“There you go. Perfect,” I mumble after ensuring his tie is sitting straight and center.
I take a step back and run my hands down the front of my misty green Chi Chi knee-length lace dress. “Do I look okay?” I ask, hoping my tumble didn’t add to my already tousled appearance.
Slanting his head to the side, the stranger’s eyes travel the length of my body. As the arch of his brow grows, so does the swirling of my stomach. I’ve gone through a lot of personal growth the past three years. One of my biggest hurdles was learning not to care about the opinions of others. But for some reason unbeknownst to me, I want his opinion, and I want it bad.
When he returns his eyes to mine, a tense stretch of silence crosses between us. My irritation swells. Not because he clearly doesn’t find me as appealing as I find him, but because I haven’t progressed as far as I thought I had in self-assuredness. His rejection not only dents my ego, it makes me realize I still have a long road to travel before I’ll be fully recovered from an incident that shook my core six years ago.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” I mumble to myself when the thick tension hanging in the air becomes too great for me to ignore.
The faint whizz of chatter trickling into the foyer turns rowdy when I swing open the double doors of the church sanctuary and walk two steps inside. Even with the burn of rejection hitting the middle of my chest, I can’t help but crank my neck back to seek the attention of the stranger standing mute in the foyer.
“Are you coming?” I question when his haunted eyes connect with mine for a fleeting second.
His rich chocolate eyes peer past my shoulder to the wedding congregation before he locks them back with me. The edgy cloud in his gaze mimics mine to a T; we are both unnerved at the idea of entering the jam-packed church. I give him a small smile, pretending my heart isn’t hammering against my ribs. Although the man standing in front of me is technically a stranger, I’d rather walk into the church with him by my side than alone.
“Come on,” I mutter with a nudge of my head, my words as shaky as my composure. “My dad has always said ‘even the most daunting tasks are less awkward with company.’”
For the slightest moment, his freaked-out mask slips away and a spark of determination fires into his eyes. It feels like minutes pass in silence before he gingerly pushes off his feet and strides toward me.
As we walk down the aisle, side by side, he remains as quiet as a church mouse, whereas my eyes scan the packed room looking for two vacant seats while trying to ignore the outlandish current of electricity zapping through my body from his closeness. For every step we take, the crease between my brows deepens. The energetic chatter filtering in the air vanishes as the room falls into complete silence. Even a pin drop would be heard. My hands dart up to smooth my air-blown hair when numerous pairs of eyes turn to gawk at us. I thought the stare my newfound friend gave me on the church stairs was daunting. It is nothing compared to the intensity of every pair of eyes in the room directed at us right now. Although the mysterious stranger has heart-racing looks that would conjure inquisitive stares from lust-driven women of all ages, he hasn’t just secured the devotion of every pair of female eyes in the room, he has acquired the zealous interest of nearly every attendee surrounding us.
When the tension in the room becomes throat-clutching, we gain the attention of the final pair of eyes in the room: Hugo’s mother, Mrs. Marshall. When her neck cranks back to us, her pupils widen, and she gasps in a staggered breath. After clamping her hand over her O-formed mouth, only just suppressing a painful sob, she leaps out of her chair and races down the aisle. The smell of floral perfume fills my senses when she throws her arms around the mysterious stranger’s neck and hugs him tightly.
Feeling confused and awkwardly out of place, I excuse myself from the heart-strangling reunion and take an empty seat a few rows up. It is only as I pace away from the dark-haired stranger do I realize the prying stares of hundreds of eyes weren’t directed at me. They are solely devoted to the handsome man with the haunted eyes.
My curiosity about who the unnamed man is grows when Hugo emerges from the vestibule at the back of the church ten minutes later. His long strides come to a dead stop when his eyes lock in on the dark-haired man now standing at the end of the aisle. Just like Mrs. Marshall, Hugo’s reaction causes tears to prick my eyes. He looks both shocked and relieved by the stranger’s attendance. With a smile on his face I’ve only seen a handful of times, Hugo aids his mother back to her seat at the front of the church before eagerly striding to the unnamed man. Their conversation not only attracts my full devotion; it demands the attention of every attendee in the room.
My gawking stare only stops when the whimsical voice of John Legend plays out of the speakers. Hugo spins on his heels to face the back of the church. My interest in the mysterious stranger’s status in Hugo’s life piques when Hugo gestures for him to stand next to him as the bridesmaids commence walking down th
e aisle.
If he is Hugo’s best man, why was he fleeing from the church?
Any further debate on the stranger’s identity is pushed to the background of my mind when the heat of a gaze secures my devotion. Lifting my eyes from my intertwined hands, I lock my gaze with a pair of eyes that causes both tears of happiness and sadness to well in my eyes from one little glance.
Hugo: my ultimate savior. The man who sacrificed his own happiness to ensure I kept mine.
Chapter 3
Hawke
Three hours later. . .
“Hit me.”
The bartender finishes polishing a crystal tumbler before placing it into an over-stacked steel rack on his left. Flinging a damp tea towel over his shoulder, he saunters to a wall of liquor at the back of the bar. I’ve spent the last hour of Hugo and Ava’s wedding reception guzzling down whiskey like my throat is on fire. Unlike the other wedding patrons, I’m not just taking advantage of Isaac’s generosity of an all-expenses paid bar tab; I’m struggling to keep buried memories hidden. Jorgie and Malcolm will always hold a special place in my heart, but in this town, I feel suffocated by the memories.
Memories are often my worst enemies. There are days where I think I'm doing okay. Then there are other days where every single thing I do reminds me of what I’ve lost. Today is one of those days. It isn’t just the anniversary of Jorgie and Malcolm’s death creeping closer. It is this place. Every inch of this town has Jorgie attached to it in some way. This is the hotel Hugo and I crashed in the night of my bachelor party; the park three blocks over is where I took Jorgie after dragging her out of a college party kicking and screaming, and the radiology center two miles from here is where we discovered our unborn baby was going to be a little boy. Jorgie chose Malcolm’s name while driving me to the airport for my next two-month stint in Iraq.
