42. Annette
Chapter forty-two
Annette
The Celebration
I keep looking at my wedding ring.
It catches the late afternoon sunlight every time I move my hand, sending tiny flashes of light dancing across the white fabric of my dress. I've probably admired it a hundred times since Pastor Ron pronounces us husband and wife, yet somehow it still doesn't feel entirely real.
Neither does the man walking beside me.
The path from the chapel to the reception tent curves gently along the lake, giving us a few quiet moments before we rejoin everyone we love.
The laughter drifting toward us mingles with birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves overhead, but for now it feels as though the rest of the world has respectfully stepped back.
Jamie's fingers remain laced through mine. Every now and then his thumb brushes lightly across my knuckles, as if he needs the reassurance as much as I do.
"So..."
He glances over with that familiar smile. "So, we're married."
"We are."
I lift my left hand again, unable to help myself.
"I still can't believe this ring belongs on my finger."
"I know exactly how you feel."
"You do?"
"I keep looking at you."
My cheeks grow warm. "And?"
"I'm still trying to convince myself the woman beside me is actually my wife."
For a moment I simply look at him. I've spent months learning the determined hockey captain. The stubborn patient. The exhausted man who slowly allowed me to see the heart behind the captain's C. Today I meet someone new.
My husband.
The word settles gently inside me, carrying far more weight than I ever imagined one word could hold. As we reach the entrance to the reception tent, applause erupts from inside.
"They're hiding!" Liam calls.
Jamie laughs beside me, and I realize with surprising certainty that this sound—his laughter—is one I'll spend the rest of my life protecting.
We step beneath the white canvas together.
Everything glows in the golden afternoon light.
Long farmhouse tables stretch the length of the tent, wildflowers brighten every centerpiece, and strings of café lights wait patiently for evening.
It isn't extravagant. It doesn't need to be.
It feels exactly like Briar Cove should feel.
Then I hear it.
"Mrs. Walker!"
I turn just in time to see one of the foundation children racing toward me. Before I can answer, he throws both arms around my waist. "I liked you even before you got married," he announces solemnly.
I laugh and kneel so we're eye to eye. "I liked you before I got married too."
"You still have to come skating."
"I promise."
He studies me for another second before nodding with complete satisfaction and dashing away again.
I remain kneeling for just a moment longer. Mrs. Walker. The name feels wonderfully unfamiliar. When I accepted my sports medicine rotation in Frostholm, I expected temporary patients, temporary coworkers, and temporary memories.
I never expected roots.
"Annette?" Jamie says.
I look up to find our other little friend Noah carefully carrying a wrapped package nearly half his size. His mom looks on from a distance, and I believe I can see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.
"This is for both of you. Would you open it now?" Agreeing, although not the typical reception plan, we unwrap it together. Hand painted letters wander across a rustic wooden sign with a little topsy turvy cabin painted beside a lake. And it is absolutely beautiful!
THE WALKERS.
My breath catches.
Beneath the words, Noah has also painted two tiny figures sitting side by side on the dock.
"I remembered the dock," he says proudly.
I can't speak for a moment. This isn't simply a wedding gift. It's a belonging.
My hand finds Jamie's without thinking.
"Oh, Noah, it’s beautiful. We will cherish this for many years. Thank you so much."
"I thought you could hang it by your front door."
I blink back unexpected tears and smile.
"I think that's exactly where it belongs."
***
Wrapping one arm around my waist, Jamie guides me farther into the reception tent. Every few steps someone stops us with another hug, another photograph, another quiet congratulations. And neither of us seems to mind.
We slow near the center of the tent, letting my gaze wander from table to table while conversations begin blooming around us again.
My dad is laughing with Jamie's. Coach is somehow deep in conversation with Pastor Ron, while Becca stands beside our mothers comparing wildflower arrangements as though they've known each other for years.
Across the tent, Caleb is helping one of the foundation children balance three cookies on a paper plate with the careful concentration of someone performing delicate surgery. Toby rescues a fourth cookie before it tumbles onto the grass, while Liam insists that his intervention deserves applause.
It does not. The children applaud anyway. I smile.
Marriage, I've already discovered, isn't made up only of extraordinary moments.
Sometimes it's standing beside your husband while he laughs with his father.
It's watching your mother straighten the lapel of his tuxedo because she can't quite help herself.
It's sharing amused glances every time Liam begins another story that everyone knows is about to grow dramatically in the telling.
Those ordinary little moments settle deep inside my heart, and I find myself hoping I'll remember every one of them years from now. Jamie is talking with Coach when Liam suddenly appears carrying the microphone. That expression on his face instantly makes me suspicious.
Jamie's shoulders sag in exaggerated defeat.
"Oh no."
Liam grins. "Oh yes."
I make my way toward them just as Liam clears his throat dramatically into the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen..."
Coach raises one finger without even looking up from his coffee.
"Liam."
"What?"
"Inside voice."
Laughter ripples through the tent.
Liam lowers the microphone by perhaps an inch.
"Better?"
"A little."
He smiles with complete satisfaction.
"As I was saying..." He gestures grandly toward us. "It is my distinct honor to invite Captain—"
Coach clears his throat again.
Liam sighs. "Jamie..." He looks toward my husband with exaggerated patience. "...and his beautiful bride to join us on the dance floor."
Jamie reaches for my hand. "I believe we've been summoned."
"I don't think refusing is an option."
"I was afraid of that."
His grin tells me he's enjoying this far more than he's pretending.
The applause grows as we walk toward the center of the dance floor together.
Above us, the café lights have begun to glow softly as the afternoon slips toward evening, filling the tent with a warm golden light that makes everything feel somehow gentler.
When the musicians begin to play, the melody washes over me, instantly familiar.
Months ago, after one particularly difficult therapy session, this very song drifted through the rehabilitation room while Jamie struggled through another set of exercises. Neither of us spoke much that afternoon. We simply listened while he stubbornly refused to quit.
I look up at him in surprise. "You remembered."
His smile is quiet. "I remember everything about that day."
Emotion catches unexpectedly in my throat. Of all the songs in the world, he chooses this one. Not because it's popular. Not because it's romantic. Because it's ours.
Without saying another word, he slides one hand gently around my waist. His other hand finds mine with the same quiet certainty it has carried all afternoon.
For just a moment we simply stand there.
The music plays. Neither of us moves. Then Jamie smiles sheepishly.
"I should probably warn you about something."
I laugh softly. "Should I be concerned?"
"I'm an excellent skater."
"I've noticed."
"But dancing..." He winces. "...may be exposing one of my weaknesses."
I can't help smiling.
"I guided you through months of shoulder rehabilitation. I remember every exercise. So, I think I can manage one slow dance with you."
Relief washes dramatically across his face. "That's encouraging."
"It should be." We begin to move, not with polished choreography or graceful turns, but with slow, unhurried steps that fit us perfectly.
What captures my attention is the ease in his smile, the relaxed way he laughs when he steps half a beat behind the music.
There’s a quiet confidence with which he pulls me a little closer, unconcerned with who might be watching.
As we sway together, I become aware of movement around us.
Jamie's parents step onto the dance floor first. His father draws his mother into his arms with the comfortable familiarity that comes from decades of choosing one another.
There is nothing rehearsed about the gesture.
Nothing dramatic. Just the quiet confidence of a love that has been faithfully lived.
Across the floor, my father offers his hand to Mom. She smiles exactly the way she did on their anniversary last spring, and suddenly I'm eight years old again, watching them dance in the kitchen while supper simmers on the stove.
Coach and Becca join them.
Then Caleb and Brooke. Paige and Liam. Foundation volunteers. Neighbors. Keisha steps to the floor with a handsome teen in a full blush. Then I can see why – out best man Toby joins with three little girls all teaching him the steps, which can only be described as adorable.
One couple after another drifts toward the music until the dance floor is filled with people whose stories are all different, yet somehow beautifully alike.
I rest my cheek lightly against Jamie's chest. Jamie lowers his head until his forehead rests lightly against mine.
"What are you thinking?"
I smile.
"I'm thinking I married the right man."
His eyes soften.
"I was just thinking I married the right woman."
The music continues around us while laughter drifts softly through the reception tent.