Epilogue

MacKenzie

I’m standing at one end of a wooded path, the boughs of ancient trees bowing to my processional about to take place. At my side is my best friend, Abby, for once utterly feminine in a soft pale green, form-clinging silk that blends perfectly in the twilight of the forest setting. Ahead of us are rows of chairs filled with well-wishers, including my parents. Everyone is curiously quiet and alert as I begin my solo approach beneath thousands of strings of tiny lights that form an open-sky arch overhead.

At the end of the path awaits the Reverend Doheny, his Bible clutched in his anxious hands. Next to him is the Best Man, Mort, and I can see from my position that both are showing signs of panic as the groom’s spot remains empty. In the front row, Walter is plainly waiting for the ceremony to be over so he can dance with the woman of his dreams, Abby. To one side, a girl I knew from Wellesley, Susan, is playing the harp, watching for her signal to begin the wedding march.

The guests are becoming anxious. Is history about to repeat itself?

My eyes are glued to the altar where Michael is not waiting. I’m feeling ill in a déjà vu sense. Not again!

Suddenly behind me, I hear footfalls scuffling through the mulched path and a woman’s strident voice. “Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

“Shhh …” comes a man’s whisper, and suddenly Michael, and a semi-reluctant Olivia come around the curve of the path into open view.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Olivia exclaims in a loud voice, the purple-flowered pillbox hat pinned to her head sitting at an odd angle. “Look at this, will you? I’ve played joints that aren’t as pretty as this,” she adds. The guests begin to titter and I’m suddenly filled with a sense of joy, peace, and completion that could not come about any other way.

Michael winks at me, and I’m thrilled that he was so thoughtful as to bring the colorful Olivia to our wedding. He practically drags her down the path—Olivia walking slowly with her head held high as she makes her own entrance. She nods to guests as she passes, accepting their gawking as affirmations of her talented and almost royal procession.

Michael seats her in the front row and takes his place, Mort coming to stand behind and to the side of him. Susan plucks the opening notes, and I begin my own walk down the path. Dad wanted to walk with me, but I’m doing this alone. It’s a symbol; to me and to Michael that I’m independent and making this decision all on my own. I think he’s taking a certain amount of pride in me; I know I am.

When I approach the altar, I barely hear the words being said and don’t remember to say, “I do” until there is a wordless vacuum giving me my cue. Michael repeats his vows, and then he’s sliding the matching wedding band onto my left hand. He sets back my veil, kisses me deeply, and then picks me up and carries me back down the mulched path. “I love you,” he says loudly enough that those around us hear and nod in acceptance that this time, I’ve made the right decision.

Twisting around in Michael’s arms, I toss my bouquet directly to Abby. “Here hang on to this for me, will you? I think you might need to borrow it,” I add, and she has the utterly feminine reaction of blushing. There might be hope for her yet, I realize.

We dine that evening beneath the sky and the twinkling lights at long tables covered with white cloths and sparkling crystal. At one juncture, I leave Michael long enough to step over to a white grand piano and perform Chopin as I watch Michael’s face. It is such a romantic evening that almost everyone has forgotten to argue or complain—all except Aunt Olivia. She’s squawking that Mort has two left feet and could do with a session or two at Arthur Murray’s. He wants badly to act offended but is wise enough to know that he who argues will sleep alone that night.

I won’t be sleeping alone tonight, and neither will Michael. Nor will we sleep apart for the thousands of nights to come.

There is a poignant moment when Mort stands to give the best man’s speech.

“I’m a very proud man to be given this honor this evening. Not many know, but Michael found me drunk and almost passed out on the bricks before one of my many pubs. He pulled me to my feet, got me a room and a hot meal that night and brought me to the U.S. with him. He restored my dignity and gave me a chance to find love again.” Here he looks at Olivia, who shakes her head and turns to draw upon her cigarette holder. “I have a home with Michael and Mac, at least I hope I do …” he stops and looks my way. I laugh and nod. “Very well, then. I would also like to say that I’m very proud to call Michael my friend, for a finer man I’ve never known. He does not boast, and there are few who know of the many, many generous acts he’s committed. There are many who will sleep in a bed tonight through his generosity; many whose children will eat and others who are at this very moment studying in a dorm rather than prowling the street in gang colors. I’ve only known Michael a short time, but were I able, I would be proud to call him my son.” This brought tears to my eyes, and I wasn’t the only one dabbing my eyes.

My mother got up and gave a different and slightly self-serving speech about me—mostly about my musical accomplishments and that she’d supported me through it all.

There is a socially tense moment when Olivia stands, already having imbibed a bottle of champagne on her own. We all believe she is about to launch into a speech of questionable nature, but it turns out she’s merely looking for the ladies’ room.

***

A year after our wedding, Danielle is born, and she’s still demanding attention when her brother, Michael, Jr. joins her. Michael continues his work, but it has taken on a different light in my eyes now. Like my mother, I choose the role at the center of our social world. I go on to become a major fundraiser. Michael appropriates the funds to build libraries, schools, and more decent housing in areas that were formerly blighted. Years later when a hurricane wipes out almost an eighth of the state, he is at the forefront of rebuilding, sheltering victims, and feeding them in the interim. I’m proud of my husband, and I believe, he is equally proud of me.

THE END

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