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I told Belle that I didn’t think it was in the stars for me. I meant it when I said I was cursed where relationships were concerned. After what happened with Rachel, I’ve found it difficult to trust, which is why I’ve kept all my hookups short and sweet. I’ve thrown myself into my work and told myself I don’t need commitment and forever. But as I watch Gaby approaching the altar, I find I’m filled with a wistfulness I hadn’t expected.
It only increases when, just before she gets to the altar, Mason stops walking, and I realize the moment for our big surprise has arrived. James steps forward and gives everyone a big smile.
“We have a little surprise for you,” he says to Gaby. Then he turns and looks at Tyson.
Juliette has been working tirelessly with Tyson, running him through a physio routine every day with MAX. Since I arrived, we’ve all spent a couple of hours each day practicing this moment. But even so, I feel a lump in my throat as Tyson braces his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, pushes up, and gets to his feet, without the aid of crutches.
Everyone in the crowd who isn’t in the know gasps. Gaby’s hand rises to her mouth.
“Hello, beautiful,” Tyson says to his bride, walking a few steps forward. “I wanted to be able to stand at your side at the altar.” He holds out a hand to her.
Unsurprisingly, Gaby bursts into tears.
“Aw!” Belle, who’s also blinking away tears, runs up to her sister. “Don’t cry, you’ll smudge your makeup!”
It eases the tension, and everyone in the crowd laughs and delves into pockets and purses for tissues. Belle looks around, and I grab the square from my top pocket and wave it at her. She grins and comes to take it, and then lifts her sister’s veil and dabs away the tears as Gaby composes herself.
“Go on,” I see her whisper to Gaby. “He’s waiting for you.”
Gaby approaches the altar, and the crowd gives a wistful sigh as she takes Tyson’s hand and they turn to face Susan, the celebrant.
The ceremony progresses, but Gaby has eyes for nobody but her husband-to-be. I can see she’s concerned about him standing for so long, but we’ve timed it carefully to make sure he has a couple of breaks. They take a seat when Cillian and Tori play, and again when Henry and Alex do their set pieces.
I thought Henry was going to read a Maori poem, but he brings out his guitar and, to our surprise, performs a song he apparently wrote himself,He ra ataahua tenei—This is a beautiful day. He sings it first in Maori, then in English, the words talking about the natural beauty of the land and the ocean and comparing it to the love of the two people getting married. It earns him a huge round of applause, and yet more tears from the bride and her friends.
Next is Alex’s reading. Once again, I assumed he was going to read out a famous poem, maybe one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, or something like Rumi’s ‘In Your Light I Learn How to Love.’ I wouldn’t have put it past him to read something by Spike Milligan, either. Alex is rarely serious where matters of the heart are concerned, his natural cynicism making it hard for him to be romantic.
He walks behind the podium and says, “I know Gaby’s worried about what I’m going to say.” As everyone laughs, she pokes her tongue out at him. He gives her a rare smile and continues, “But today I’d like to read out to you a poem I wrote for this occasion.”
My eyebrows rise. He used to write poetry when we were studying it at university, but we were both a lot more open-hearted in those days. I didn’t know he still composed.
“Gaby gave me the inspiration for it,” he continues, “when we were talking about her writing her own vows. I—ever the cynic—said it must be difficult to come up with something meaningful. She told me that all she had to do was remember all the beautiful things Tyson has told her over the years, all the compliments and endearments she’s kept inside her like a box of jewels, and her vows practically wrote themselves. I thought that was a beautiful way to put it.”
I look at Gaby’s who’s pressing her fingers to her lips, obviously emotional. Tyson looks touched, too.
“So here you go,” Alex says. “It’s called Vows.”
He reads it from memory, and for a moment I see a family resemblance in the way his voice becomes low and mesmerizing, not unlike Belle’s when she’s doing her magic.
“She writes her vows in her private journal,
The one inside her, the color of blood, heart-red,
Its skin-thin pages are crammed with words,
The secrets you tell her that only she has heard.
Scrawled on her bones, etched into her head,
Swimming in her blood, so intimate, so personal.
She’s overflowing with all your words, bursting
at the seams, like an overstuffed cushion.
Soft murmurs, gentle phrases, snippets of speech
Slip through and float round her, brush against her cheeks;
