21
21
DUMB-DUMB-DUMB-DUMB DUMB-DUMB-DUMB . . .
A nd the next thing I knew I was being marched down the aisle to the traditional wedding march, with a hundred and forty-five curious strangers and a handful of genuine well-wishers standing up staring at me. I focused on Ranger, waiting for me at the end of the aisle, a smile upon his haughty lips. Even through the hazy veil of white and dulling drug, a handsomer groom would be hard to come by. And, as my father pointed out, an important man. He, once again, seemed larger than life, up there in his dress blues, with his flashing gold buttons, gleaming dark hair, and bright white teeth. To his immediate right Slater towered with him, white gloves propped on his saber, with an ironic smile on his dark handsome face. A little too far to the right of the best man, Andrew was bearing his role as stand-in groomsman. He appeared even smaller in comparison, due in large part to his sullen countenance and hunched shoulders. A little farther to Ranger’s left, Ashley-Leigh posed in an indecently tight dress, beaming at the crowd like there might be a producer or two tucked in there. To her left, stood Jess, smiling encouragingly at me as I tried not to trip down the aisle.
We had arrived at the podium and my father delivered his single line, after a cleared throat: “Her father.” With just two words he still managed to sound like he was trying too hard. After which, he lifted the veil and gave me a little arm squeeze, the closest thing to affection he’d ever show in public, before gladly handing me off to a better man.
And then I was facing my future husband, who took my cold hands in his big warm ones, and flashed his dimples at me. He gazed down on me with Arctic eyes warmed to Mediterranean blue. I stared blankly up at him as the priest delivered his beginning line: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .” His low, melodious voice helped lull me into a complacent fog. There were no sharp points. No highs. No lows. I didn’t focus on anything or anyone, much less the man standing before me. I was brought round from my blank stare by a red-faced Mikey, tripping up the stairs to hold up his little pillow. A lot of approving tittering dispersed from the audience. I could barely appreciate it.
“Do you, Officer Ranger James Nealson, take this woman, Kathryn Lee Connelly to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The priest’s words rose above the podium.
Ranger squeezed my palms as though trying to get me to focus. “I do.” His words rang out sharp and clear. He slid the matching band on my ring finger. “With this ring, I thee wed,” he proclaimed. His eyes gazed into mine as he repeated words about loving and cherishing, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. He seemed— sincere , and maybe even a little choked up. But I knew better than that. He was playing the dashing groom, a part he played well, like most things he did.
The old priest turned to me with a beatific smile I couldn’t return. My turn. “Do you, Kathryn, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.” I was a flat line of cooperation, reciting my vows without either choking or stumbling over the words. I didn’t even think about what I was saying. Then a moment of pause as we faced our audience. There was a slight shift as our guests became aware of an eminent departure.
The priest’s voice rose above the rustling: “If anyone can show just cause why this man and this woman may not be joined together, let him, or her . . .”—tittering laughter—“speak now . . . or forever hold their peace.”
I spied Weston among the other brass in the front row. He stood out to me, not because his dress uniform flashed the most chest candy, but because he actually glanced furtively behind him. He was front and center on the groom’s side propped between a senator or congressman, I forgot which. There were two in attendance, and quite as interchangeable as the attractive cadets in their dress blues packed in the pews. But the person I focused on the most, was Dr. D. Her wheelchair was parked in the back, on the bride’s side. Her body had stiffened, as if bracing for something.
A couple of cleared throats and a cough happened, but no one busted through the closed doors.
Ranger, in a rare moment of levity, dramatically swiped the back of his hand across his brow. This elicited the expected laugh from our guests, who needed a reprieve from the tension of the solemn ceremony. No one laughed harder than Dr. D.
A lump formed in my throat. I needed to swallow it down before this next part.
The priest’s words began gaining momentum as he inched closer to the climax. “You have declared your consent before the church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, let man not divide.” He glanced meaningfully at us in turn before announcing: “I now pronounce you . . . man and wife.” Benevolent smile. “You may now kiss the bride.”
Cue The Academy anthem from the string quartet. Could there be a more fitting song for this moment? My husband peered down on me with a wry smile. I read about five different emotions on his face as I stood waiting for it: humor, happiness, concern, triumph, irritation. It ended with a softer expression of something I couldn’t read because he closed his eyes and fastened his lips to mine in a sweet, lingering kiss that turned humorously passionate. He was playing to his audience, who reciprocated by whistling and clapping, calling out for more. I was passively accommodating to the shenanigans.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ranger Nealson.” The priest announced to a standing ovation.
Who is that? My new husband lifted our clasped hands above our heads as though we were champions, really putting on a dog and pony show for everyone. And the audience ate it up. They collectively laughed and clapped and cheered as we waltzed back down the aisle as man and wife. Funny. I felt no different than I had twenty minutes before. Certainly not a half that makes up a whole. Maybe it was just because I was hardly feeling anything at all.
After we exited into the foyer, the photographer pulled us aside for some chapel wedding shots of the family, such that it was. Inexplicably, Weston insisted on posing between the bride and groom. Ranger requested a snapshot with just the two of us and our ring-bearer. And Ashley-Leigh insisted on a dozen shots of the bride and her maids. The photographer kindly did one of just me and my two-tuxedoed brothers, and one of me and the father-of-the-bride, who actually put an arm around me and squeezed his approval.
Finally, we were allowed to leave. My new husband grabbed my hand and took a moment to grin at me like we were coconspirators before pushing open the door. We exited beneath the saber arch. Bells tolled as male cadets clad in their navy best held sharp silver blades over our heads. How fitting is that? After the tunnel of swords, well-aimed handfuls of birdseed pelted our backs as we ran for the limo and dove in. During the ceremony someone had tied old Academy trainers to the back of the limo and polished the back window with Mr. and Mrs. Nealson.
A muted silence contained us newlyweds as revelers either dashed for their vehicles or stayed to rain birdseed on the getaway car. Ranger immediately let out a blast of pent-up air. He lifted a thumb knuckle to his mouth. Peered sideways at me. “Well, Mrs. Nealson . . . we did it.” He grinned at me again, flashing both rows of teeth and both dimples.
A lip lift from me. “That we did.”
His smile faded. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
A faint nod. “It was.”
“I’m actually glad we did it in a church and not on campus.”
I remained silent on that one.
“You look radiant, by the way.” He ran a thumb across my wrist.
“Thank you.”
“The dress is perfect on you.” He smoothed down a portion of my veil.
Another lip lift. “I’m glad you like it . . . you picked it out.”
Ranger expelled a hard blast of air. “Alright, Shorty, whatever beef you got with me needs to go back in the freezer for now. I need you to get your game face on. There’s a lot of important people there waiting for us. A lot of donors. A lot of brass. Don’t forget—we’re ambassadors for The Academy. Weston went to a lot of trouble to accommodate us. Let’s show him it was a good idea . . . or all this planning to keep you out of Missions, has been for naught. Plus, it’s our wedding night. I’d like to try to have a good time.” He turned and looked at me meaningfully.
I stared straight ahead.
“Capeesh?”
I nodded.
“Use your words.”
“Fine,” I said.
He continued to stare at the side of my face. “Jesus Lord. I need a drink.” He ran a hand through his hair before leaning forward to pour some form of alcohol from a decanter. After a deep gulp: “Fuck. This tastes worse than . . .”
“Buzzard puss?” I put in.
His head whipped around to stare at me. So, he remembered from whom that line was stolen. Whatever good humor remained on his face vanished. It was a stupid move on my part. But I was low on inhibitions and caring. He nodded his head at me as if he suddenly got it, then scooted over in his seat, so we were no longer sharing the middle.
Icy silence remained for the duration of the magical drive across The Golden Gate Bridge, until horn honks blasted out behind us. Carloads of caravanning Suburbans broke us out of our miserable reverie. One pulled up on our right side while jeering cadets hollered out the window or made obscene hand gestures. Ranger pressed the button for the sunroof and stood up long enough to flip them the bird. Relentless honking and hooting and hollering followed this. Followed closely by a couple of moons out the backseat window of a speeding Mercedes bus .
I watched it all dispassionately. Ranger settled back down, looking windblown and good-humored. He threw his arm around me, and raised his glass in a salute, before the cars rushed off, just like his good mood. He discarded his drink, and I immediately picked it up to see if it was as bad as he made out.
He immediately removed it from my hand. “You’ll be holding a lot of champagne flutes tonight.” He arched a black brow at me. “See that you do more holding than sipping.”
Uncompanionable silence remained for the remainder of the drive through the financial district. We headed south at Market to the St. Regis Hotel, a sleek modern structure adjacent to some botanical gardens, I’d probably never set foot in, and the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, I’d only see via my PAC. The limo pulled into the porte-cochere and valets scurried to open our door. I bet they had no idea a blast of ice awaited their warm congratulations.
Well-wishes and congratulations rained down on us from all sides as we headed to the ballroom, where we were greeted by our very own engagement photo, set on an easel for all to admire. A bubbling sob rose to my throat as I took in my happy innocence. There was a girl who still believed we were falling. Ranger also paused a moment to study the photo. He drew in a deep breath and sighed before pushing the door open for me to enter.