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For it is ridiculous.
I’ve known this woman for a month, and though I’ll never doubt my love for her, I doubt my ability to be what she deserves.
“No,” I say out loud. “Stop thinking about it.”
I have to do something this afternoon before I meet Ashley and the others at the chapel for our double wedding.
I won’t let Ashley down.
I’m not much of a gambler, so I decide to take in a matinee. Drag Queens in Outer Space.
Should be good for a laugh.
Ashley texted me the information for the chapel. She told me she couldn’t see me until the wedding. Superstition or some such.
I stand with Dennis in the small foyer, talking to the officiant.
“Have you written your own vows?” he asks.
“Traditional vows for Willow and me,” Dennis says.
I’ve given vows absolutely no thought. “Yeah, traditional is fine.”
“Very good. Rings?”
“Got ’em.” Dennis pats his pocket.
“Ashley has her engagement ring,” I say.
“You need rings for the ceremony,” Dennis says.
I know that. Why didn’t I think about it? I could have gone back to Tiffany & Co. instead of watching a really bad show this afternoon.
“Not a problem,” the officiant says. “We offer a lovely line of rings.”
Of course they do.
I choose the most expensive set, though they’re white gold, not platinum like Ashley’s engagement ring. Big deal. I’ll replace them as soon as I can.
“Do you know the lady’s size?”
“I do, actually.” I pull the receipt for the Tiffany ring out of my pocket. “Six.”
“Great. And your size?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never worn a ring in my life.”
“We’ll just measure you.” He pulls out a device and has me stick my finger through holes until one fits. “Eleven and a half. Excellent.”
I crack out the credit card and pay for the rings.
The officiant checks his phone. “Looks like the ladies have arrived, which means you gentlemen need to go into the chapel so you don’t see them until they walk down the aisle to you.”
Dennis and I follow him into the chapel, which isn’t nearly as gaudy as I expect. It’s actually nice. Apparently Dennis and Willow opted for a traditional ceremony and not one of the chapel’s Elvis-impersonating shindigs. Good.
Oddly, I’m not at all nervous. In fact, I feel eerily calm. I’m standing next to a man who’s younger than I am and who’s about to marry my fiancée’s mother.
Twilight Zone city.
Organ music begins, but I’m not sure where it’s coming from.
Traditional, of course. Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.”
Here comes the bride, all dressed in white…
The words from my childhood. Not sure where I learned them. Dee and Bree, maybe, when they used to play dress-up while I was trying to study for my college boards.
I stand on one side of the officiant while Dennis stands on the other.
Then I turn.
Ashley and her mother, with linked arms, walk toward us.
Willow looks nice, but her daughter totally eclipses her.
I have no idea what she’s wearing, what color. All I see is her in total—my angel, my mother’s garnet necklace sparkling around her neck, her new ring sparkling on her finger, but nothing sparkling nearly as much as her beautiful blue eyes.
My angel.
My Ashley.
The ceremony passes in a daze.
I repeat the vows the officiant speaks.
And Ashley is my wife.
We’re walking down the aisle together…
All in a haze.
My God. What have I done?
Chapter Thirty
Ashley
It happened.
I’m Mrs. Dale Steel.
Dale and Ashley Steel.
As if I’m back in middle school, I imagine writing Mr. and Mrs. Dale Steel on the cover of my three-ring binder, complete with ornate calligraphy.
Mom and I talk all during the limo ride to the restaurant for our wedding dinner. Dennis chimes in now and then, but Dale is noticeably silent.
I make it a point not to second-guess him. If he wanted to get out of the wedding, he could have.
He didn’t.
So clearly he wants this as much as I do.
I look down at the sparkler on my left hand. So beautiful, but honestly, the plain white band means more to me. It’s that ring that Dale slipped on my finger as he wed me. After he promised to love me in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, till death do us part.
My hand rests comfortably in his warm and much larger one.
I squeeze his hand slightly.
He squeezes back.
Good sign. Definitely a good sign.
The limo pulls up at our restaurant, the Linen Room. The driver opens the door, and Dale helps me out. We walk in silence into the place.
“I hear the pastry chef here is excellent,” Dennis offers.
“He can’t be any better than you, sweetie,” Mom says, looking up at him with stars in her eyes.
“I guess we’ll all be the judge of that.” Dennis laughs.
“Mr. Steel,” the maître d’ greets Dale. “It’s a privilege to serve you tonight. Your table is ready.”
He leads us to a lovely table in the back of the restaurant, secluded from the rest of the patrons.
