Eight years to the day after we had our moment in the snow.
A slow drip of time had taken us to the day of our wedding. She had given me no confirmation either way, whether she was even in the same country or the same city, or whether I would be carrying her into the church over my shoulder in chaos or walking beside her in harmony.
Being somewhat superstitious, I refused to see her before the wedding. That didn’t stop me from sending Mitch to make sure she got on the plane though. She did, much earlier than planned.
What is a wedding without a bride?she had asked me.
“A fucking bachelor party,” I muttered to myself.
Turning, I studied the Julian Alps white-capped with snow, their hefty boulders underneath hardly visible through the purple haze that shielded them.
The range stretched from Italy to Slovenia, where we currently were, my history meeting part of hers. Lake Bled encircled the lines of the Alpine Forest and the surrounding city before the mountains, violet as the sky above, a water mirror to the small island where we would be married.
The tear-shaped island seemed to float, ice crusted and dotted with tiny burning lights, in the middle of the lake. The water reached one long step, the first of ninety-nine. The tradition stood that the groom should carry his bride up each step, and while he does, she should be silent.
The only word you’ll get in edgewise!Mick had said, slapping me on the back.The last peaceful silence before real life sneaks in.
Discretion was the better part of valor. Yeah, the silence could be used as an advantage, but a man would want the time to admire the woman in his arms, to know what it was to carry her, to feel her weight in his life, to promise to take that weight in his arms when the burdens of life became too much for her to climb alone. I’d take care of my wife,mia moglie, carry her, for the rest of our lives if her life demanded it of mine.
Beyond the rise of ninety-nine stones, an old church stood at its peak, a seventeenth-century structure that spread out over the water, its bell tower ending in a pointed cross wavering in reflection when a gust of wind blew.
Smoke and mirrors for the weak-hearted in faith. Nothing about it looked uncertain to me. It seemed to be the place that marked my salvation in this life.
If I could make it up those ninety-nine steps and into the church, where we would ring the bell three times for luck, then make a wish, I knew I’d find my grace. She was my Sunday incarnate.
A sturdy-looking castle sat beyond the church, but it was hardly visible from my point of view. It held no interest for me.It’ll do, I would have told Scarlett because she liked to hear my reaction to things. I wasn’t reactive enough, whereas she felt life on another level. The girl that never sat out the dance—she was mine.
It was grace leading to forgiveness that I was after, hers and mine. I couldn’t seem to find my own without receiving hers first.
Across the water a trumpet sounded, pulling my attention away from the church. Eyeing the lake narrowly, I walked to the edge of the snow-blanketed bank, stooping down low on one haunch. A white swan seemed to cut through the glass surface, smooth and gentle as she moved forward, her song echoing in the winter’s air like a siren’s call.
A sign, I thought. Of what, I wasn’t sure.
The swan’s black mask melted into an onyx beak, the shape of it almost resembling the instrument that the sound of her bill produced. She sailed past me, so graceful that it was hard for me not to see the woman that I waited for in her ability to float.
She ruffled her feathers, giving me an imperious stare before she went about her journey and left me out in the cold alone.
It wasn’t late, but winter had bruised this part of the world with its relentless hold. Darkness lowered to meet violet, one balancing against the other, while the outstretched forms of long-dead branches moved with the sharp wind.
The uncertainty of the situation made the weather feel colder, sharper, able to touch marrow. I shook it off, reaching into my pocket, feeling for the blue ribbon that Scarlett had left behind that night out in the snow. The edges were frayed, but the touch of it felt like safety. A religious medallion with her essence embedded in its fibers. If I had been an ancient knight, this simple piece of her would’ve taken me into battle with no fear.
Years ago, I had the shape of it tattooed on my arm, as permanent in my life as my heartbeat.
The lastpletnaboat apart from ours took the last set of guests out to Bled Island. The wooden boat had a flat bottom, a pointed bow, and an awning to protect its passengers from extreme weather. The small oarsmen had two oars in his hand, using what the locals called astehruddertechnique to propel the craft.
Watching as it made the trip across the lake, I noticed the light blue ribbons waving in the wind behind it. I glanced at the boat waiting for us and knew that, whether she came or not, I’d take it. I’d be the one to announce to an entire congregation of people why she hadn’t come.
Cause I’m a bastard and I don’t deserve her. Never have.
Even so, I would hunt for her mercy until the day that death came to claim me. Starting the moment after telling the entire congregation that came to attend our wedding to either stay seated or go. I’d turn into an Italian Viking, pillaging the place until I found her. Then I’d throw her over my shoulder and force her into the church. It wouldn’t be beneath me to claim what was mine.
I’d have my bride; this was a done deal.
Time continued to move forward, and with it, no sign of my bride. The oarsmen prepared to take us across met my eye and shrugged. He had been respectful the entire time, as silent as the man he was supposed to row across the water.
Unlike the photographer I had sent away earlier—the one who asked me who I modeled for. His presence hadn’t been a total waste of time though. I demanded to know if he had seen my soon-to-be wife, and he shook his head and said, no, there were four of his kind, and he was assigned to me.
“Ona je kar cakate,” the oarsmen yelled toward me after more time had gone by.
