Annie had dreamed of her wedding day since she was six years old and received a bride doll. She'd even planned and revised how the day would unfold a hundred times. Her mother had read the notes and lamented how she didn't remember her own wedding. Annie vowed she'd never repeat that mistake. Then, when her mother died while she was a teenager, she became even more detailed with her plans. The day needed to be perfect.
She stood now, dressed in the white lacy gown she'd designed and sewn herself, and waiting with her father behind the closed doors to enter the church, afraid she'd forgotten something.
"You've got five minutes," Dad whispered. "In case you change your mind."
She shook her head. She'd never do that. She pictured walking down the aisle, all eyes on her, and tripping because she was so clumsy. "One second." She released his arm, and dashed back to the dressing room, slipped out of her tight pink silk sandals, and pulled on scuffed running shoes. No one would see them.
"Ready?" Dad asked.
"One second." She opened a door just a pinch. Sigurd, her groom-to-be, the most surprising man she'd ever met, stood holding the reins of a great white steed, a silver and gold coat of arms embroidered on the black blanket draped over its back. No, no, no, he couldn't have taken her literally when she'd mentioned wanting to leave her wedding in a glistening coach that would carry them to a hillside castle. That part would be impossible anyway since the nearest castle was five hundred miles south of here. She let the door slide shut.
"Well," Dad said, puzzlement written across his face.
"Did you know about this?"
"What?"
"A horse? A white horse?"
He shook his head.
The guests would have to wait for her and she stepped outside to scan the parking lot. Nothing amiss. Sigurd's ten-year old Toyota sat nearby. It had been painted with Just Married in large sloppy letters, a string of empty cans tied to the rear bumper. She felt a jolt of disappointment, but this was what they'd agreed upon. A simple wedding. A three-day honeymoon at a nearby Bed & Breakfast.
She ran back inside, tugged at her father's arm, and the two pushed the doors open, and she walked into the church on an aisle strewn with red rose petals. A clown, red nosed and wearing a suit with large red and green polka dots, stepped in front of them, the ring cushion in his hands. He paused for a moment and glanced back at her and winked.
Sigurd stood at the front of the church, wearing riding gear, his hands behind his back, a broad smile on his face. His best man held the horse's reigns.
"You're sure?" Dad whispered, and she nodded.
None of this was making sense, but she'd figure it out later.
The ceremony proceeded as she'd planned it, even to the vows she'd written and rewritten for each of them.
"You may kiss your bride," the preacher said.
Sigurd swept her into his arms, and set her on the horse. Then he leaped up behind her, turned the animal around, and the two cantered out through the wooden doors. Outside, the air was still, the only sounds the hushed chirps of birds.
"What, what, what?" she asked.
"Wait," Sigurd said. "First the reception."
They trotted to the back churchyard, the tables spread in reds and golds, a juggler spinning bottles high in the air at one corner, a gymnast performing cartwheels, a marching band seating themselves at the edge of an open lawn.
He slid from the horse, extended his arms to lift her down, and then he danced her across the grass, the band picking up the cue to play a waltz, and he spun her around and pulled her back in close. "I wanted you to have a day you'd never forget, so I made a few changes," he whispered. "I'm sorry, but I can't offer you a castle."
Her heart spilled over with love, her eyes with tears. She would never let this man go.
BIO: Brigitte Whiting has completed the Nonfiction and 3-Year Fiction MFAs at WVU. Her work has been published in Village Square and Literary Yard. She lives in Maine where she enjoys watching the wildlife that visit her yard.
A Day to Remember
