Epilogue
A not-quite-packed house turns to watch me escort Faith’s mother to a front row seat at the Leopold Opera House. Once I’ve seated her next to my mom, I turn to the stage and ascend the stairs to where Pastor Bryan waits, grinning.
I give a nod to Dr. Jeremiah Hitchings. He lifts his baton, directing the Leopold Community Theatre’s small pit orchestra to begin “Ten Minutes Ago” from Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Cinderella.
Ushers open two sets of doors at the rear of the auditorium, allowing a short stream of silver-gowned bridesmaids and their tuxedo-clad counterparts to waltz—literally—down the aisles, toward the stage.
Of the six waltzing couples, only one and a half needed help with the choreography—Ryan, Danielle, and Gretchen Prescott—but a quick lesson from one of the other bridesmaids, an aspiring choreographer, took care of that yesterday.
The Prescott members of the wedding party are, perhaps, not dancing as smoothly as the others, who—like Faith and me—are all theatre nerds of one variation or another, but they’re doing all right.
It took Faith only about two and a half years to finish her degree, thanks to the college credits she earned in high school.
I proposed eight months ago—the same day she moved into her first New York apartment.
Next week, while we’re on our honeymoon, some of the guys who share this stage with me now will be moving Faith’s belongings into her second New York apartment. Mine.
Ours.
While I wait for the star of this show to make her entrance, I mentally rehearse the lines I’ll recite—perhaps the most important lines of my life—in just a few moments.
The theatre seats are filled with a colorful mix of family, friends, and strangers—an interesting blend of locals, school chums from London and Michigan, and theatre friends from New York, as well as several business associates of the Prescott family and sponsors of my parents’ mission work.
A pause in the music and . . .
There she is. My own Cinderella. My bride.
Madeleine Faith Prescott.
“Thank you.” The whisper through my lips is the sincere shout of my heart, but those syllables feel somehow insufficient to express my gratitude. This beautiful woman, my Madeleine Faith, is my bride at last.
With one hand nestled in the crook of her father’s arm and the other slightly lifting the hem of her wedding gown, Faith ascends the steps toward me, where my heart pounds upstage, center.
She is simply . . . radiant. I know I should take a moment to look at and appreciate the one-of-a-kind gown—provided at cost as a gift from another theatre friend, a costume designer—but I can’t take my eyes off her face.
“Friends, family, beloved,” Pastor Bryan says, stepping forward. “Today, we gather together to witness the joining of Noah Thomas Spencer and Madeleine Faith Prescott in holy matrimony. Who gives this woman in marriage to this man?”
“Her mother and I.”
Faith winks one cinnamon-colored eye at me, just before leaning toward her father’s cheek and leaving a kiss behind. My smile quirks to one side. Oh, how we struggled not to laugh when that line came up at rehearsal last night!
Dr. Prescott places Faith’s hand in mine—perfection—and then turns, descending the steps to take his place beside his wife.
I turn to face my bride. Her beauty, always stunning, shines with a brilliance that makes me weak.
The ceremony is a blur of her love meshed with mine.
All we’ve been through, together and apart, is culminating right here, right now.
I’m not ashamed of the tears that fall as I pledge my vows and slip freshly soldered rings on Faith’s finger, and I cherish each of her tears as a platinum band slides onto mine.
“By the power vested in me by the State of Iowa, as witnessed by our Triune God and these friends and family members, I now pronounce you husband and wife!” Pastor Bryan takes a step back.
I am hers. She is mine. And we’re going to kiss to prove it.
“This has become something of a habit,” I say, closing the little bit of space between us. “Kissing you on this stage, with an audience.”
“No, that was Liesl kissing Rolf, not me kissing you. But Madeleine Faith Spencer has never been kissed by anyone, anywhere.” She inches forward. “Not even her husband.”
“Hmm. I can change that.”
I cup the side of her face with my hand, loving the flutter of her eyelashes as she tilts her smile toward mine.
“I love you,” she whispers as a breath against my lips—words I return before claiming her kiss.
I am determined to make this first kiss one Madeleine Faith Spencer will remember for all of her days. But one perfect kiss is not enough for my bride. I pull back, but Faith grips the lapels of my tuxedo jacket and presses her lips to mine again.
Our second kiss is a rather rousing encore—at least in my opinion.
The audience agrees, breaking into laughter and wolf-whistles above the cheers and applause that began with our first kiss as husband and wife.
We’re both laughing when our lips finally part. My right hand takes her left, and then, as one would expect from two actors on a stage, we raise our joined hands and take a bow.
Last night, we rehearsed the recessional to an instruments-only version of “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” from Mamma Mia!
, but when one of my groomsmen shouts a series of nonsensical but familiar 1950s-esque syllables and the pit orchestra begins the reprise version of “We Go Together” from Grease, we realize our plans have been hijacked . . . perfectly.
Grinning, we glance at each other and shrug. Though we didn’t plan it, couldn’t have, Faith and I execute a perfectly synched hand jive before rejoining our hands, descending the stairs, and running out of the Opera House toward . . . life.