Shelly was already halfway out the door. “I’ll handle it,” she said over her shoulder. “You stay put.”
“I’ll go too,” Mom announced, grabbing a bag of crystals from her purse. “The cake obviously needs a vibrational reset.”
“Thanks,” I called after them. I turned back to Michael with a helpless laugh. “And this is why we’re getting married in the backyard instead of a fancy venue.”
“Smart call,” Michael agreed.
Another knock. “Mom?” Austin’s voice this time.
“Come in, sweetheart.”
My oldest son entered. In his junior groomsman suit, he looked so grown-up it made my chest ache.
“Patrick wants to know if you’re okay,” Austin said. “He says he has a bad feeling you might have climbed out the window.”
I smiled. “Tell him I’m still here. Just dealing with the usual wedding day madness.” I pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “When did you get so grown-up, hmm?”
He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I gotta go. I’m supposed to be helping Brody with his tie.”
As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at me. “You look really pretty, Mom.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
After he left, I stood and walked back to the mirror, studying my reflection. The dress was simpler than the one I’d worn for my first wedding—clean lines of ivory silk flowing from a sweetheart neckline, no elaborate train to trip over. My hair was swept up in a loose chignon, with a few curls framing my face.
Around my neck hung a simple gold pendant—a gift from Patrick this morning. Inside was a tiny photograph of Marco, a companion to the one of Shannon he wore in his own matching pendant. Our way of acknowledging the past was not forgotten but carried with us into this new future.
I placed my hand over the slight swell of my stomach, still small enough to be hidden by the careful draping of the dress. “What do you think, little ones?” I whispered. “Ready to join the circus?”
The discovery that I was carrying twins had been a shock. Last week, I’d suspected I might be pregnant—late period, unusual fatigue—but the doctor’s confirmation of two heartbeats had left me speechless. Patrick didn’t know yet. No one did, except Shelly.
Another knock, gentler this time. “Theresa?” It was Mrs. Kowalski. “It’s nearly time.”
I opened the door to find her standing there in a pretty dress, her silver hair arranged in an elegant bun. She looked softer somehow, less severe than usual—though she was eyeing the lingering sage smoke in the hallway with deep suspicion.
“You look wonderful, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said sincerely.
A faint blush colored her cheeks. “Thank you. And if I may say so, you look... lovely.” Her sharp eyes dropped to my midsection for a split second, and I wondered if she suspected my secret.
“The children are all assembled,” she continued. “Mostly clean, though I make no promises about how long that will last. And Mr. McCrae is waiting at the altar.” Her expression softened further. “He’s very eager to see you.”
“I’m eager to see him too,” I admitted.
Mrs. Kowalski reached out and straightened my necklace with gentle hands. “I want you to know,” she said, “that I am very glad you found each other.”
The words coming from this woman who had once seemed so determined to dislike me, hit hard. “Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski. That means a great deal to me.”
She nodded briskly, as if embarrassed by the moment of sentimentality. “Well, then. Shall we proceed? The musicians are ready, and people are waiting.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
The walk downstairs felt dreamlike. Our home, usually a war zone of toys and noise, had been transformed. White roses and greenery adorned the banisters. Through the French doors that led to the backyard, I could see the rows of white chairs, the flower-covered arbor where Patrick waited, and the sea of guests all turned expectantly toward the house.
My father, Jerry, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs next to Michael. He was wearing a tuxedo, but he’d refused the dress shoes in favor of his worn leather sandals, and instead of a cummerbund, he was wearing a hand-woven sash he’d bought in Peru in the seventies.
He was already weeping openly into a batik handkerchief.
“Look at you, Starshine,” Dad sniffled, pulling me into a hug that smelled of patchouli and expensive red wine. “You radiate power. You are a goddess of the harvest.”
