A Rather Charming Invitation (48 page)

“Actually, yes,” I said, a bit shyly, but without an ounce of hesitation. “Yes, I certainly do.”

“Good,” he said with a smile.

“And you?” I teased. “How do you feel about it?”

“I feel fine,” he said tenderly. “You see, right from the beginning, I somehow always knew that we belonged together. I believe you’ll find it quite convenient. I’ll be here to kiss you every day . . . catch you if you stumble—as you are wont to do occasionally, when you’re off on one of your mad assignments—and, I can also offer a shoulder to cry on . . . a hug to protect you from the rain . . . that sort of thing. In short, to be here on call, at all times . . . just in case you need me.”

“Oh, but I do,” I said. “I need you always. I need you to stick around for a long, long time.”

“Excellent,” he said, as we finished our little glasses of champagne. “Then I’d say, it just so happens to be a wonderful day for a wedding.”

And, as beautiful as the rest of the day became, I must say that my most vital memory, the one I cherish above all, is that sweet little moment alone that we had together, just the two of us, eating our breakfast, quietly listening to the others as they stirred and rose, and the house came to life. It is truly lovely to watch a day gently unfold, a perfect new beginning, every morning.

When it was time to dress, we parted ways. After my bath, I spritzed myself with the cologne that Oncle Philippe had made just for me. Jeremy had been whisked off to one of the guest rooms to dress. That left me alone in the big bedroom, but not for long. I was standing there in my new satin lingerie, when Honorine, Aunt Sheila, Tante Leonora and my mother trooped in, chattering excitedly, to fuss over me. They were carrying my gown, which had awaited me overnight in the closet of the small guest room we called the Renaissance Room.

The ladies all looked so pretty in their gowns. Honorine was in violet silk, Aunt Sheila in light yellow satin, Tante Leonora in a silvery pale green chiffon, and Mom in a dusty rose taffeta. They were like a bouquet of flowers, fragrant and bright-faced.

Honorine had given me a customized box of cosmetics that looked like a painter’s palette, and now she helped me with my makeup, while the others carefully unwrapped the dress. Then they lifted it over my head, letting it descend all around me like a lovely white mist, its flowerlike folds drifting down to settle softly upon me. Aunt Sheila fussed with my hair a bit, getting it just right before my mother placed the cap-and-veil ensemble on my head, like a crown.

“
Regarde!
” Honorine exclaimed, steering me toward the mirror.

There was something very startling and dramatic, yet at the same time, natural, about seeing the dress in my own mirror, in my own home. While I stood there, my mother gave me the gift of a pearl necklace, from her and Dad. Then I stepped into the white satin shoes with gold heels.

When I was all dressed and ready, everyone else stood back respectfully, as Tante Leonora moved forward to take a final look at the full ensemble. She did a few lightening-quick adjustments—a tug here, a flick with her hand there, a pinch of a seam, a fluffing of the skirt, a smoothing of the train . . . then she, too, stood back and surveyed it all. I still don’t know exactly what she did, but it made a visible, subtle improvement.

“Someday, Tante Leonora,” I said, “you must tell me how you French women do it.”

“One day quite soon,” she replied, “you will realize that you already know.”

And then, as suddenly as the ladies had arrived, they all scurried away. I had that strange moment which many brides do, when everyone else was so busy getting ready that they left me entirely alone, and nobody seemed aware of this. So I stood there, listening attentively, as cars pulled into the driveway, and doors slammed, and there were footsteps everywhere—on the gravel path, in the hallways, out on the patio—and the musicians began tuning up, while the hum of voices downstairs grew louder and more excited, with the arrivals of more and more guests. I heard the classical trio playing a Beatles tune,
In my life, I love you more . . .

“Wow,” I said to myself. “That’s one big party going on down there.”

Knowing I’d caused all this, I got a little scared. There was a knock at my door, and then my father came in. He was wearing his super-best suit, the kind that makes a man look seriously great, the one he uses only for extremely special occasions. This, too, thrilled me. It meant that my wedding really was a great big grown-up sophisticated deal.

“How are you, Penn-ee?” he inquired. He squeezed my hand.

“Fine,” I said, still standing, so I wouldn’t crumple my dress.

“Is everything okay?” he asked calmly, sitting down at the end of the bed, as if we had all the time in the world. At first I didn’t catch on. I was so accustomed to him telling me that Jeremy was a fine boy, so I was a bit surprised and amused by his next comment.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he said neutrally, as if it would be completely okay if I told him I’d changed my mind and wanted to fly the coop. If I’d said so, he probably would have serenely taken me for a long walk on the beach, and bought me an ice cream cone.

I smiled. “Yes, Dad, everything’s okay.” Then I added, “But thanks for asking.”

“A father must, you know,” he replied.

There was another knock at the door. Honorine came rushing in, with a big, shiny white box.

“Your flowers have arrived,” she said breathlessly. She put it down on the top of the chest of drawers. When she opened it, the scent of freshly cut roses filled the air. My bouquet had come from Philippe’s flower fields, arranged by a local florist. The roses were, just as I’d requested, a burgundy-red, with velvety green leaves, and little sprigs of white baby’s breath here and there. They were bound in gold and white ribbons, with white streamers edged in gold.

“Your mother says be sure to hold it up, not down,” Honorine said with a smile, then went out.

My father and I looked at each other. “Typical Mom,” I said.

There was another quiet moment, during which a cool breeze came off the Mediterranean Sea, pirouetted across the lawn, twirled a little jasmine in its fingers, and then tripped lightly into the room, where it settled, warm and soft and caressing, like a veil across my skin. Someone knocked at the door, but did not enter. My father seemed to know what it meant.

“It’s the message from downstairs. It’s time,” he said. He opened the door, stepped into the hall, and waited out there, leaving the door ajar for me.

I took one last look at the room, for no reason whatsoever, except that, well, yes, I would be coming back . . . But I would return as a married woman. I wondered how it would feel. I felt a surge of anticipation now, a kind of flow of courage, you know, the courage that comes from moments when you feel you’re truly alive.

I picked up the bouquet, and went out to the landing. My bridal party was standing there, poised as if on the brink of something very serious. No one spoke now. Honorine came over to carry the train of my dress for me, and she and I descended the left staircase—slowly, slowly, slowly—while everyone else went down the other staircase, on the right. I saw my old boss, Bruce, at the foot of the stairs. He was not only quietly “directing” my wedding video, but, with his camera on a tripod, he was shooting this part of the opus himself, covering the procession, as the bridal party gathered in the circular foyer. Bruce had discreetly placed two other cameramen in the corners of the drawing room.

Honorine fluffed out the train of my dress again, and made a careful, last-minute check, in that earnest way she has of taking her assignments very seriously. Then, she went to the open door at the back of the drawing room, and nodded to the musicians, who began to play Handel’s
Water Music
. Honorine tilted her chin up, poised like a pearl diver about to leap, and then off she went, starting the bridal procession. She moved down the center aisle, very slowly, scattering pink and white rose petals along the way. When she reached the first row, she took her seat beside her family.

Aunt Sheila was next. She was standing near Jeremy, and gave his cheek a light kiss. Then she turned and blew me a kiss, and went to the drawing room door. As she did, a very elegant-looking silver-haired Italian gentleman rose from a chair in a back row. Jeremy’s Grandfather Domenico had arrived from Italy, with a few of his relatives who were seated nearby, watching with delighted smiles. He wore a smart grey suit and vest, with a yellow flower in his buttonhole, and now, he stepped into the aisle, and offered his arm to Aunt Sheila, who took it gracefully. Together they went down the aisle, until they reached the front row, where they found their seats across the aisle from Honorine’s family.

From the foyer, Jeremy moved forward. In his pocket he wore a silk handkerchief of the same burgundy color as the roses in my bouquet. Now he looked at me intently as he passed by, and I got a brief, reassuring whiff of the cologne he’d gotten as a gift from Oncle Philippe. I smiled at Jeremy, and I saw, reflected in his smile, that he had seen what I wanted him to see. He turned, very serious, and went through the doorway, into the drawing room, then, slowly, went down the aisle alone. When he reached the end, where the tapestry was, he turned, faced the crowd, and waited.

My mother took my hand in hers, squeezed it, then released it. My father offered her his arm, and the two of them went down the aisle, walking in perfect time with each other, until they reached the aisle seats in the front row on the bride’s side.

So, then it was just me. I stepped forward, pausing at the threshold of the room.

The music changed. You know what it was. The pretty little classical trio played it very sweet and light, and the charming melody wafted across the room to me, as if it were beckoning me to come.

Suddenly I felt myself floating forward, gently, on the balls of my feet, as if I were propelled by a puff of air, like a sailboat, now drifting down the aisle, past all those familiar faces to my right and to my left, which were so startling to see, after the heightened moment of solitude I’d just experienced. It was like watching my past life go by, as I spotted my girlfriends from the States, smiling at me with excitement, and Jodi from the charity group, who gave me a conspiratorial wink; and then I saw Diamanta’s face in the crowd, having come over from Corsica. The Count von Norbert and his son Kurt were there, too. And sweet Simon Thorne, looking dapper as ever—I think that Great-Aunt Penelope surely liked having her old dancing partner here again. Then there was Thierry and Monsieur Felix, looking spiffy in suits; and Charles and Rupert, apparently each unaware of the other’s significance to Honorine . . . and Harold, Jeremy’s old boss from his law office.

It seemed as if they were drifting past me faster now, but they were all there . . . Erik and Tim, looking so proud, as if they might bust their buttons; and Tante Leonora, Oncle Philippe, David and Auguste, making such a beautiful row of family with Honorine; and Guy and Rollo, and even, by God, there was Great-Aunt Dorothy, appearing so impressed that she looked like a canary who’d swallowed a cat.

I saw, across the aisle, Uncle Giles and Amelia beaming at me from their seats alongside Grandmother Margery, who appeared rather pleased and proud; possibly because Clive, the English photographer who’d photographed the Beethoven Lion, had been aboard the Wedding Train, snapping away madly, taking shots of all the guests on the train, whose faces then appeared in the newspapers’ society columns . . .

But while I was moving past them all, there was one face that was like a bright, guiding light throughout, steering me across the gulf . . . Jeremy, waiting for me there, standing before the tapestry. Next to Jeremy was our captain, Claude, who stood ready to perform the ceremony. I came floating up and took my place beside Jeremy, landing as softly as a feather, borne on a breeze. The music stopped, and I heard our words reverberating in that lovely room.

“And now,” said Claude, “you may kiss the bride.”

P
enelope’s Dream
pulled away from the harbor, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. Our voyage began just cruising along the French and Italian Riviera, finding secret, private little coves where we could row ashore for romantic picnics. For a charming while we turned off all the phones and radios, allowing ourselves to just be lovers alone and away from the cares of the world. Well, not quite alone. There were ducks that swam beside us for awhile, and real swans, too . . . then gulls swooping overhead.

One afternoon, we were lying on our backs in the steamer chairs, gazing idly at the sky, watching the clouds to see what pictures we saw in them.