29. Fran
— ? —
Fran
The greenhouse has never looked like this.
String lights drape across the framework in soft arcs, casting everything in a warm golden glow.
My winter flowers, paperwhites, amaryllis, the early tulips I’ve been forcing from bulbs, fill every surface, their sweet scent mixing with the smell of fresh bread from the potluck table.
Space heaters hum in the corners, keeping the January cold at bay while our guests settle into the mismatched chairs Junie borrowed from the community center.
“You look like you’re about to panic,” Bree says, adjusting my dress, ivory, flowing, designed to accommodate a forty-week belly that has absolutely no intention of being subtle.
“I’m not panicking. I’m… processing.”
“Processing looks a lot like panicking from where I’m standing.”
“Then stand somewhere else.”
She laughs and smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re getting married today. Again. To the same man. In a greenhouse full of your own flowers.”
“I know.”
“It’s kind of perfect, Fran.”
“I know that too.” I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the baby shift. She’s been restless all morning, like she knows something important is happening. “I just - the first time was so different. Eleven minutes in a courthouse. A kiss at the corner of my mouth that felt like a handshake.”
“And this time?”
“This time I actually want it.” The words come out thick with emotion. “This time I’m choosing it.”
Bree pulls me into a careful hug, mindful of the belly and the dress and the elaborate updo that Junie spent an hour creating. “That’s all that matters. The choice.”
A commotion from outside the greenhouse door makes us both turn. Rosie comes barreling in, flower petals scattering from the basket she’s supposed to be carrying in an orderly fashion.
“AUNTIE FRAN!” She crashes into my legs with the force of a small hurricane. “I throwed the flowers! I throwed them EVERYWHERE!”
“I can see that, sweetheart.” I look at the trail of devastation behind her. “That’s… that’s a lot of flowers.”
“Daddy said to throw them!”
“Daddy meant in a line, not in a radius,” Rafael says, appearing in the doorway with a sheepish expression and baby James on his hip. James is nearly a year old now, fat and happy and currently gumming a flower petal he’s somehow acquired.
“The aisle is mostly covered,” Bree assures me. “In a creative, free-form sort of way.”
“Free-form flower arrangements. Very avant-garde.” I crouch down as far as my belly will allow. “Rosie, you did a wonderful job. The flowers look beautiful.”
“I’m the BEST flower girl!”
“You are absolutely the best flower girl.”
She beams and runs off to cause chaos elsewhere, probably in the direction of the food table. Rafael follows, fishing the petal out of James’s mouth with practiced ease.
“Ready?” Bree asks.
I take a breath. Look around at the greenhouse I’ve filled with my work, my flowers, my life. Think about the man waiting at the end of an aisle scattered with petals by an enthusiastic toddler.
“Ready.”
The ceremony space is small and intimate, exactly what we wanted.
Thirty people, maybe, arranged in a loose semicircle around a wooden arbor that Logan built last week.
He decorated it with climbing vines and more of my flowers, weaving them through the lattice with the same care he brings to his furniture.
He’s standing beneath the arbor now, in a dark suit that fits him perfectly, looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I’m forty weeks pregnant and waddling. The man is clearly delusional.
“You look amazing,” Theo says as he offers me his arm. He’s standing in for the traditional father-of-the-bride role, since my actual father isn’t invited and I wouldn’t want him anyway. “Like a fertility goddess who could also run a successful small business.”
“That’s very specific flattery.”
“I’ve been practicing.” He guides me toward the aisle. “Ready to make an honest man of my brother? Again?”
“He was never unfaithful. Just… emotionally withholding. And he’s owned that.”
“I’m putting that in my toast.”
We start down the aisle, and I barely see the faces on either side: Junie crying already, the grandmas from Marigold dabbing at their eyes, friends from both towns smiling and sniffling.
All I can see is Logan, waiting for me with that look on his face, the one that says he can’t believe this is actually happening.
The one that says he’s chosen this. Chosen me.
Halfway down the aisle, a familiar honking sound makes everyone freeze.
Gertrude waddles out from behind a potted fern, her white feathers gleaming, a tiny black bowtie fastened around her neck. She positions herself directly in my path and honks again, louder this time, as if demanding to know why she wasn’t consulted about this whole affair.
“Gertrude,” I say. “We talked about this. You’re a guest, not a protestor.”
She honks.
“I’m still marrying him. You can’t stop me.”
Another honk, this one somehow conveying deep skepticism.
“He’s been feeding you grain for months. You like him now. Remember?”
Gertrude turns to look at Logan, considering. He waves at her, a little nervously.
“Hi, Gertrude,” he says. “You look very handsome in your bowtie.”
The goose makes a sound that might be acceptance or might be a warning, then waddles off to settle near the front row, where she’s established herself as some kind of deranged flower girl supervisor. Rosie immediately abandons her seat to sit beside her feathered friend.
“Well,” Theo says. “That was dramatic.”
“It wouldn’t be my wedding without a little goose-based drama.”
We continue down the aisle, and then I’m standing in front of Logan, and Junie’s cousin Maria, our officiant, is welcoming everyone and explaining that we’re here to witness a renewal of vows.
“A renewal,” Maria says, “because marriage isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. And sometimes, on that journey, you have to stop and say: yes, I choose this - still, again, always.”
I feel tears already, and we haven’t even gotten to the vows.
“Logan and Fran have written their own promises to share with each other today,” Maria continues. “Logan, would you like to go first?”
He takes my hands, and his are trembling slightly, and I love him so much I can barely breathe.
“Fran,” he begins, and his voice is rough. “Two years ago, I stood in a courthouse and married you because my father told me to. I said vows I didn’t understand to a woman I didn’t deserve, and I spent the next nineteen months proving exactly how unworthy I was.”
“Logan-”
“Let me finish.” He squeezes my hands. “I was cold when I should have been warm. I was distant when I should have been present. I let you disappear inside your own marriage because I was too scared to let anyone see how much you meant to me.”
A tear escapes down my cheek. He reaches up to brush it away.
“But here’s the thing about you, Fran. You didn’t let that be the end of the story. You walked through fire - literally - and came out determined to build something better. You gave me a second chance I hadn’t earned, and you watched me earn it, day by day, until we ended up here.”
He pauses, collecting himself.
“I love your brain. I love the way you see connections no one else notices, the way you can look at a field of dirt and imagine flowers that won’t bloom for months.
I love your laugh, especially when you’re laughing at me, which is often and deserved.
I love your stubbornness, your courage, your absolute refusal to be anything other than exactly who you are. ”
More tears. I’m going to be a mess in all the photos.
“I promise to be present. To show up, every day, in the ways that actually matter. I promise to be warm in daylight, not just in the dark. I promise to build you beautiful things and make your tea exactly right and let your goose bite me without complaint.” A ripple of laughter from the guests.
“I promise to be the husband you deserve, for real this time, for the rest of my life.”
He’s crying now too. We’re both crying. It’s a disaster.
“Fran?” Maria prompts gently. “Would you like to share your vows?”
I take a breath, try to steady my voice.
“Logan,” I say, “the first time I married you, I thought I was making a deal. A transaction. Two years of being your wife in exchange for a farm deed and my freedom. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you. I certainly didn’t expect to fall in love with the man you could become.”
He’s watching me with those amber eyes, and I have to look away for a second or I’ll lose it completely.
“You frustrated me,” I continue. “You made me feel invisible and lonely and like I was shouting into a void. But you also - in those quiet moments, in the dark, when you forgot to be cold - you showed me who you really were. And I couldn’t stop loving that person, even when the daylight version broke my heart. ”
I squeeze his hands.
“What you built for me - the cottage, the dressing table, this whole life we’re creating together - those things are beautiful.
But that’s not why I’m standing here. I’m standing here because of the man who asked our baby for permission to propose.
Who fought a car seat for an hour and let my cousin’s husband win.
Who lets me laugh at him because he knows that’s love too. ”
More tears. From both of us. From Bree and Junie and probably half the guests.
“I promise to keep laughing with you. To keep growing, keep changing, keep choosing this even when it’s hard.
I promise to let you in - all the way in - and to trust that the man I love in daylight is the same one who shows up in the dark.
” I pause. “I promise to protect you from Gertrude. Mostly. When it’s convenient. ”
The goose honks in protest.
“And I promise,” I finish, “to be your wife. Not because our fathers decided it, not because of any contract or clause. Because I want to. Because you’re the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life. Because I love you, Logan Davis. Simply. Completely. For real.”