* * * * *
"Sherry?"
"Yes, thank you," they both replied.
He poured glasses of the golden-brown liquid.
"Dinner should be ready in about an hour. I can tell you have something on your minds, so why don't we try to settle whatever is bothering you before we eat. I want you to be able to enjoy the delicious meal André has prepared for us. Please, sit down." They were in the parlor of the rectory. He gestured toward a small sofa and seated himself in the easy chair facing it.
Nikita perched on the edge of the cushion, her long legs akimbo. Michael gently pulled her back against him and put his arm around her shoulder. She took a healthy gulp of her drink and began to relax. It warmed her insides as his embrace warmed her from without. She waited, content to have him bring up the reason for their visit. He just sat there, in no apparent hurry to settle anything! She took another swallow, then poked him with her elbow. At his soft grunt, Father Philippe joked, "Mon fils, I suggest you begin talking before she resorts to sterner methods of persuasion!"
Michael responded with characteristic directness. "Will you marry us, Father?"
He had not dared to hope that this was why they had come to see him. But, considering his experience in the church a short while ago, nothing about this evening should surprise him. He beamed at them in approval. "Mais, bien sur, mes amis - it would be my pleasure! This calls for another drink, n'est ce pas?"
"Definitely," replied Michael. Nikita sagged back against the cushion. All the tension was gone now, and she felt numb. She held out her glass and the priest started to pour. "Enough," Michael said before the glass was even half full. She started to object, but one look from him made her think again. It certainly wouldn't do to get sloshed before dinner, tonight of all nights! She needed a clear head to plan the details.
"Let me see," said Father Philippe, flipping through the pages of his appointment calendar. "This is the middle of March. Allowing you time to prepare, and three weeks for the banns to be read, I would suggest the first Saturday in May. Is that too soon?" He was aware of a sudden silence. He looked up. They were staring at him in dismay. "Too long?" They smiled in obvious relief. Of course. How could he have been so naive! She must be enceinte!
He cleared his throat nervously. "Is there, perhaps, another consideration?"
Nikita realized what he was implying. She answered quickly, "No, Father. Only that we wish for a very small ceremony, so there should be no need to wait so long." She looked to Michael for approval. He smiled faintly and raised her hand to his lips. "Thank you," he mouthed.
"Of course. I understand. When exactly did you have in mind?"
"How about this coming Monday?" She turned to Michael. "The toy shop is closed on Mondays. No one in the village would question Genevieve's absence then." He nodded in approval. "What about Walter and Birkoff?" she asked him. "Is it possible for them to get away for the day?"
His eyes clouded for a moment, then he caressed her cheek. "I'll arrange it," he murmured. "Thank you," she said.
"Monday, then," agreed Father Philippe. "Shall we say, two o'clock?" They looked at one another, then nodded.
"Do you have any other questions?" the priest asked. They shook their heads. "Good. Dinner should be ready now. If you will excuse me, I will go and ask André to serve." As soon as he left, they came together in a rush of mutual hunger. Nikita's lips parted, and Michael groaned as he thrust his tongue deep inside. She felt liquid warmth purl within her, and all of a sudden, she wanted him so badly she was tempted to see if the parlor door had a lock. But then he pushed her away and whispered harshly, "Ni-ki-ta! We can't! There isn't time!"
"I know," she panted. "I know."
* * * * *
When Father Philippe returned, they were standing at opposite ends of the sofa, breathing heavily. Their lips were red and swollen. When they looked at him, guilt was written all over their faces. How could he help but rejoice for them?
"It won't take very long," he said, unable to resist a bit of wordplay.
"What won't?" Nikita stammered, her eyes widening.
"Dinner. It will be served in a moment," he replied.
"Just in time," said Michael dryly.
* * * * *
"I wonder what's so funny," mumbled André to himself as he knocked on the door to announce that dinner was ready.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Father Philippe had been right. It was nearly midnight before Michael and Nikita left. He would never forget this evening. He loved music, and he attended as many concerts as he could afford. But he had never heard the cello played in such an intimate setting. And with a mastery that transcended technique. It was obvious that for Michael, music was the portal to his soul.
Dinner had been quite enjoyable. André had outdone himself. They had spent a leisurely two hours at the table, and the priest had watched his visitors become increasingly mellow. He had to admit, in all humility, that he was quite the raconteur. He had been a priest for nearly thirty years, but he had been a keen observer of human nature for his entire life. He chose only the most humorous vignettes from his repertoire. For tonight, his sole purpose was to put them at ease. And he had succeeded admirably. Nikita had laughed so hard at his story of Monsieur Broussard and his truffle-sniffing cat that she had actually snorted like a piglet! And Michel's expression had been singularly unguarded. He was an appreciative listener - not one to laugh out loud, but his quiet smile was reward enough.
Finally, they had adjourned to the parlor. He chuckled out loud at the contrasting picture they presented. Michel had sat down with quiet grace. But Nikita - well, she had flung herself down on the sofa with such abandon that he was surprised the old thing hadn't collapsed! (After all, she is no midget!) They were a study in contrasts. She was light to his dark. Spark to his flint. Word to his deed. And they certainly gave credence to the theory that opposites attract. Father Philippe had wondered, if the lights were dimmed, he might actually see the electrical charge flash across the sofa from one to the other.
They had sipped cointreau while listening to one of his favorite CDs - "Rachmaninov Plays Rachmaninov," digitally remastered from a live performance recorded in the 1920s. At the conclusion of one of the Preludes, Michael had turned to Nikita and commented,
"Rachmaninov's hands were so large that he was the only person who could play that Prelude."
"What a jerk!" she had replied. "That's like - really rubbing it in, isn't it? I mean, to write something that nobody else can play?"
Father Philippe had nearly choked on his drink. He had never thought of it that way before. Leave it to her to take the iconoclastic view.
Michael had asked her, "Would you prefer that it had never been written?"
She had thought for a moment. Shaken her head reluctantly. "That would've been even more of a waste. . . . But I still think he was a jerk."
From that point on, the conversation had segued into a lively discussion of the modern arts. Not just music, but literature, art and architecture. Nikita's unorthodox opinions had added spice to the classic argument of "inclusive" art, easily understood by the masses, versus "exclusive" art, created for the enjoyment of the few experts who could appreciate it. She had suckered him and Michael into defending the esoteric while staunchly advocating "art for everybody". And she had steadily given way before their superior knowledge of the subject. Then she had delivered the coup de grace to their careful construct with three words.
"Play for us."
Without a word, Michael had set his glass on the coffee table and left the room.
"Don't worry, Father. He'll be back in just a minute. May I have another glass of cointreau?"
By the time he had refilled all their glasses, Michael had returned carrying his cello and one of the chairs from the dining room. In utter silence, he had removed the instrument from its case and tightened the bow. Pointing to the glass on the table, he had asked, "Is this one mine?" At Nikita's nod, he had drained it in one gulp. Then he had sat down and begun to play. In that moment, Father Philippe knew what Nikita had been trying to say. Michael might intellectually espouse the cause of the "esoteric artist," but when he played, he reached out to all who heard him. Without fear. Without reservation. Without deception. He touched them and was touched by them. He loved and let himself be loved.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next day was Friday. Nikita woke early. She lay staring at the ceiling, making a mental list. Flowers - food - music. What to wear. Call Genevieve. Get help. Not much time to prepare . . . for marriage. To Michael. Well, she had always enjoyed a challenge.
The challenge shifted suddenly in his sleep. Mumbled something. She listened more closely. He was speaking in French - still the language of his deepest dreams. She could understand only a word or two, beginning with her name. "N'kit . . . j't'aime . . . j'ai besoin d'. . . " At the last, he moaned and reached for her without ever waking. She gave him her hand, and he pressed it hard against the evidence of his "need". She turned to him and flicked her tongue over his nipple. He arched his neck and gave a deep groan. At the same time, she felt him turn to stone under her hand. She clasped him through the sheet, squeezing lightly, once, twice, three times. He lifted his buttocks, twisting in her grasp, and a damp stain spread beneath her palm. His eyes opened at the same time, and he called her name again - in a grating whisper. "Ni-ki-tahh!"
"Good morning," she drawled. "You were dreaming."
He was still panting slightly from his release. He licked dry lips and blew his breath out. He closed his eyes again and smiled with lazy satisfaction.
"A sweet dream. You were in it."
"It's a good thing for you I was," she quipped. "If I ever catch you dreaming about doing that with somebody else, you might wake up under less pleasant circumstances!"
He opened his eyes wide at her threat. He knew she was more than capable of carrying it out - although she hadn't yet, and under much greater provocation, he had to admit. Thank God he no longer need tempt fate. His only valentine was right here beside him, and he vowed that this mission was his last. God, he was half-hard again already, just thinking about what he intended to do to her.
He flipped her over and began a series of forays with fingers and tongue - teasing, tantalizing, tormenting her so sweetly that all coherent thought fled before his seductive touch. He saw her eyes glaze over and her mouth open as she took in tiny sips of air.
"Oh, oh, oh," she whimpered, as she convulsed under him. He pinned her arms with one hand while he slid up and down her front, rubbing himself against her from thighs to breast and back again - leaving a silvery trail across her skin.
"In . . . me . . . . " she finally managed to gasp, scissoring him between her legs so that he could hardly move.
"Now?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Please . . .NOW!" He abruptly released her hands and she went straight for him. He flinched as she curled her hands possessively around his engorged penis and stuffed it inside herself in one swift plunge. She wriggled further down in the bed, pulling him in deeper as her heels dug into his flanks. They stared at one another, eyes wide with shock, as they felt the tidal wave approach. Neither of them had the strength or the will to resist it - all they could do was ride it out.
* * * * *
The tide had receded once more. He was draped, boneless as a jellyfish, across her thighs and abdomen. She lay sprawled across the bed, her legs spread wide, languid - replete. For the time being.
* * * * *
"Michael?"
"Hmm?"
"We have a lot to do before Monday. We really should get up now."
He sighed. She was right, of course. They should get up. He had something important to do today. Something he wasn't about to confide in her. It would be his surprise.
"Why don't you take a shower first?" he suggested, rolling to one side and getting out of bed. "I'll make coffee."
"You've got a deal." She stretched and yawned, then sat up.
He threw on a pair of cutoffs and went downstairs. If he hurried, he could make the necessary calls before she finished in the bathroom. He dialed the first number, then began measuring coffee into the pot while waiting for his party to answer.
"Monsieur Boudreaux? Ici Michel Samuelle. I have a favor to ask . . ."
* * * * *
The second call was as brief as possible. He could hardly stand to talk to his contact, but if Nikita wanted Walter and Birkoff at the wedding, it was necessary to follow channels, for the time being at least. When it was over, he had what he wanted. He poured the hot water over the coffee grounds, cursing softly as half of it splashed over the counter tiles and dripped down the cabinet. He regarded his hand with contempt.
"That's okay. You know I like it strong." She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. Damp tendrils of her hair fell forward over his shoulder. He lifted one and rubbed it between his fingers, inhaling the fresh scent of damask roses.
"It was on sale. Do you like it?"
"Very much."
She disentangled her hair from his fingers and moved toward the toaster. He poured coffee into two mugs and brought it to the table.
"I need to see Genevieve today," she called over her shoulder. "About making a few arrangements for Monday. . . . . toast?" She held out a plate with several buttered slices. He took one and began to spread raspberry preserves on it.
"Fine. Why don't we take the bike into the village? It's a beautiful day for a ride."
She thought for a moment, then nodded. "All right. I guess if I buy anything too big to carry, we can always pick it up tomorrow."
"Another horse, perhaps?" he joked.
She swatted at him with the list she had been making. "If you remember, I wasn't the one who bought the first one! . . . That does remind me, though, I need to buy silver polish for the stirrups. They're almost black."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
He drove with apparent abandon, but Nikita could feel the minute course corrections that belied that assumption. He might lose control when riding . . . she grinned at the memory of him in bed last night . . . but when it came to anything with an engine, there was no question about who was in charge.
The wind whipped her hair about her face, and she buried her nose in his jacket, relishing the smell and feel of the soft leather. Usually they wore helmets, but the weather was so glorious that they had made an exception this once. She knew he needed the sense of freedom that riding the bike gave him, especially without the usual headgear. As a precaution, he had tied his hair back on top with a rubber band. But, shoulder-length curls still flowed freely in the windstream. She had laced her fingers together across his middle, so she could feel every shift in his balance as the bike went around the curves. He danced the same way. In sync with her -- wherever they were. She hugged him tighter. He covered her hands with his own and squeezed briefly. The bike roared around the final curve into the village. He braked to a stop in front of the toy shop. She hopped off first and held the door to the shop open while he set the kickstand and dismounted.
Genevieve had heard the jangling of the bell. She advanced on the two of them with outstretched arms.
"Mes enfants, I am so happy to see you today! Come, let me greet you properly." And she planted the traditional kisses. To her surprise and delight, Michael reciprocated this time, even hugging her briefly. At that encouragement, she gave his cheek an extra pat and beamed up at him.
"What good news do you have for me, eh?" She wagged a finger at them. "I can see it in your eyes. So don't try to fool me! Come, have some coffee while you tell me. . . . Emil! Viens-toi!"
Emil poked his head in the back door of the shop. "Bienvenue, Michel . . . Nikita." He came forward and began to pour the coffee.
"Just look at your hands, old man!" Genevieve cried. "Go wash them, or we will have clods of dirt in the coffee!"
He looked down and shrugged. "It's just from the garden. A little clean dirt never hurt anyone. Besides, how could anyone tell, in your coffee?" He turned to Nikita. "Do you like tomatoes, cherie? I have so many in the greenhouse that they are beginning to break the vines. Let me give you some when you go home."
"We'd love some, thank you."
"Enough about your tomatoes! They have some news for us, Emil." The older couple regarded them placidly. Nikita and Michael looked at one another. She broke first, as usual.
"Are you free on Monday afternoon?" she asked.
Genevieve winked at Emil, then pursed her lips. "Well, let me see. Emil, do we have any urgent appointment Monday afternoon?" He thought for a moment, then replied seriously. "No, cherie, we have no plans at all on Monday." He grinned at Nikita and Michael. "You have something in mind, perhaps, which requires our presence?"
This time Michael answered. "Two o'clock. Bienvielle. L'eglise de Saint Pierre." We need two witnesses."
"Michel," teased Genevieve, "If words were gold, you would be a pauper."
"We need more than witnesses," Nikita added. "We need family. Will you come?"
"We would break down the doors to the church if you tried to keep us away, wouldn't we, Emil?" "Mais, bien sur," he seconded.
"It will be a very simple ceremony," said Nikita. "We both want it that way, don't we Michael?"
She looked to him for confirmation. To her surprise, he seemed hesitant. "Are you certain that's what you want? I mean, if you would prefer something a bit more . . . elaborate, I would understand."
"No." That one quiet word from her seemed to release something in him -- a knot of tension or fear -- that he hadn't even realized existed. He held out his hand and she took it, smoothing it between hers.
* * * * *
Genevieve grumbled. "Well, simplicity is all well and good, chouette, but one must at least have something appropriate to wear for the occasion. And flowers. And a cake . . ."
"Old woman," Emil interrupted, "Did you not hear what she said? Whose wedding is this? Yours or theirs?"
Nikita grinned. "It's all right, Emil. I suppose I could force myself to buy a new outfit."
"Good! And as for the flowers, Emil can arrange a selection from our garden. And I'll bake a cake - a very 'simple' one , I promise. Dark chocolate, I think."
Now it was Michael's turn to grin. Genevieve certainly knew how to get past Nikita's objections.
* * * * *
Two hours later, Nikita and Genevieve returned from a shopping marathon. They had bought outfits for the two of them and a new suit for Emil. Genevieve had assured her that he would find it useful, not only for the wedding but for the increasingly frequent funerals they were obliged to attend. One of the less pleasant aspects of living to a ripe old age.
"But what about Michel?" she had asked.
For some reason, Nikita had seemed amused. "Don't worry, Madame. He already has a black suit."
While they were gone, Michael had concluded the arrangements he had begun earlier - with the assistance of Emil. The older man would be the courier. Monsieur Boudreaux would supply the goods. By Monday morning.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It rained all weekend. Warm spring rain that soaked the fields and ran in rivulets between the rows of sprouting wheat. Rain that released the fragrance of the fresh herbs growing in Nikita's garden - dill and sage and lavender and mint. She kept the windows open, upstairs and down, and the door to the front porch. A cool, misty breeze blew through every room. Inside, they slept, and woke, and slept again. Dreaming together in one another's arms, soaking up peace as the earth soaked up the rain.
Sunday night, they woke at the same time, ravenous. The rain had stopped. They carried the makings of a late supper out on the porch. Bread and feta cheese, olives and the fresh-picked tomatoes Emil had sent home with them. Nikita nibbled an olive absently, watching Michael's throat work as he took long swallows of cold beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and caught her looking at him.
"What?" he asked as he tore off a chunk of bread.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
He thought for a while. "Good." He smiled as he realized it was true. Something deep inside him had unknotted. Some reservoir had been refilled. He said again, just to hear the words. "I feel good."
She smiled back. "Me too. It's like I've finally caught up on my sleep."
He knew what she meant. Years of stress, of tightly-controlled emotion, of exhaustion delayed or denied by diligent necessity, had taken a toll on both of them. In addition, secrets long-buried had weighed him down, until he had had no reserves left. In the relative security of the past few months, he had finally begun to let his guard down. He could see, from this vantage point, that Dr. Molbert was right. It was inevitable that those secrets should begin to leak out of him. Perhaps it was time to let it all go. He ruminated on the consequences as he took another swallow. Cool, slightly bitter, it quenched a deep thirst. So did she. She bit into a tomato, and juice spurted all over her T-shirt.
"Oops! That one got away from me!" she laughed, leaning forward and letting the remaining juice drip down her chin. He reached out his hand and wiped it off. She felt the heat of his gaze. The unspoken invitation. She rose and began to gather up the remains of their meal. He followed her into the house. It was nearly dawn before they slept again.
* * * * *
Something tickled. On the tip of her nose. She twitched. On her neck. She jerked and swatted at the annoyance. For a moment, it stopped. Then moved to her ear. Enough! She opened her eyes. He was just about to kiss her.
"Good morning," he whispered, then finished what he had started.
"Mmph." His lips tasted of mint. "What time is it?"
"Nine-thirty."
"What's the weather like?"
"A bit cool, but sunny. Regards."
He rolled to one side, and she saw the blue sky through the open window. The sheers drifted in the slight breeze, and a scent of clover wafted into the bedroom. She sniffed appreciatively. Perfect weather for a wedding.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For today."
He teased, "Nikita, I'll never live up to your expectations as a husband if you think I can control the weather!"
"I wasn't talking about the weather, Michael." She smiled up at him, then cupped his cheek in her palm. He leaned into the warmth of her touch, happy because she was.
* * * * *
In the middle of breakfast, she gave a yelp.
"What's the matter?"
"Rings! We forgot rings!"
He took another bite of his croissant. "Don't worry. I didn't forget."
She bristled. "Do you mean to tell me you bought the rings WITHOUT me? Just what in the hell were you thinking, Michael? What if I don't LIKE them? Where are they? Let me see them."
He regarded her blandly. "I don't have them. I asked Emil to pick them up for me this morning."
She replied snidely. "How considerate. Did he help you choose them too?"
He refused to engage. "I think I'll take a shower. Would you care to join me?" His apparent dismissal of the subject infuriated her. "If I were you, Michael, I'd make it a cold shower. Because it's going to be a LONG time until . . . ."
He stopped her sputtering with a kiss. Warm and sweet. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. I should have consulted you."
She thawed just a bit. After all, at least he had remembered to buy the rings, which was more than she had done! She decided to let the matter rest - for now. Besides, it WAS chilly today, and she couldn't think of a more pleasant way to warm up than in the shower with Michael. No need to cut off her nose to spite her face.
He could feel the change in her as she softened against him. Pulling her closer, he whispered in her ear. "Perhaps a bubble bath instead"
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"What time is it?" Monsieur Boudreaux stood in the open doorway, still in his robe, with a cup of coffee in his hand.
Emil looked at his watch. "Almost nine-thirty. I hope you have the package ready. Genevieve will give me a hard time if I'm not back by noon."
His old friend grinned. "You're in luck, mon ami. I'm a man of my word. Come in for a moment and I'll get it. Would you have time for a cup of coffee?"
"Well, perhaps I can spare a few moments. Do you have any brioche?"
"But of course. I know how you enjoy them, so I sent Marie to the bakery early this morning."
Monsieur Boudreaux led Emil into the kitchen. "Asseyez - sit down - and I'll get what you came for. The coffee's in the pot. Pour me another cup, will you?"
He returned a moment later with a tiny velvet box. He thrust it toward Emil. "Here. Have a look."
Emil put down his coffee cup and took the box. He slowly lifted the lid. When he saw what was inside, he whistled softly. He looked up at Boudreaux. "I have never seen anything quite like them. May I hazard a guess as to their provenance?"
Monsieur Boudreaux replied, "You may hazard all the guesses you wish, my old friend, but I regret that I am unable to confirm or deny your theories. It is not my place."
"Think nothing of it. If he wants me to know, he'll tell me himself."
The other man nodded. "Just so. Here, have a brioche."
Emil took the largest one and bit into the sweet, buttery roll with relish. "Um, tres bon," he agreed, taking another sip of his coffee to wash it down. A few minutes later, he wiped his hands and stood up. Pocketing the box, he embraced Boudreaux. "Merci, mon ami, for your assistance. I will give your regards to the bride and groom."
* * * * *
"What time is it?" Walter looked up from the field router he was disassembling.
"Almost nine-thirty." Birkoff stood before him, dressed in what he had been assured by the rental agency was the latest thing in formal attire. The older man's eyes widened.
"Do I look all right?" he asked hesitantly. The expression on Walter's face was already eroding his confidence.
"Uh, yeah, sure, kid. You look terrific!" Walter smiled broadly and clapped him on the back. "Turn around, let me view the whole enchilada."
He moved in a slow circle, arms outstretched. Walter nodded seriously. "Yep. You look fine. Just fine." (Lord love a duck! They knew a sucker when they saw one walk in! I wonder how much they charged him for this rig.)
Reassured, Birkoff turned his attention to Walter. "Hey, you'd better get a move on yourself. I don't want Nikita to get mad at us for being late."
Walter chuckled. "Or Michael."
Birkoff giggled nervously. Then, in a soft monotone, complete with French accent - "If you don't arrive on time, I'll kill you."
Walter grinned wickedly. "I dare you to say that to his face." Birkoff paled visibly, then retorted,
"And just what, may I ask, are you planning to wear? No, let me guess. You have a formal bandanna and T-shirt."
"As a matter of fact, I do! It won't take me long to clean up. I'll meet you at Egress in 20 minutes. Here, take this." He reached under the counter and pulled out a small brightly-wrapped package.
Birkoff lowered his voice. "What is it? You didn't . . . ?" He looked around Walter's workspace suspiciously, as if taking inventory.
"Never you mind. Just put it in your pocket."
* * * * *
Half an hour later, the two of them were on the road to Bienville. Walter was driving. His eyes twinkled with humor. He was aware of Birkoff watching him. Every few minutes, the kid would sneak a look at him as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His appraisal was quite accurate. Birkoff WAS amazed at the transformation. (The old guy looks snazzy! Not that I'd ever tell him that. His head's big enough as it is.) Walter was wearing a black leather jacket over a collarless white shirt with diamond stud for a the neck button. In his ears were matching diamond studs. And, damned if he DIDN'T sport a "formal" bandanna in black silk with silver embroidered fleur-de-lis!
"Did you call Father Philippe?" asked Birkoff after another half hour.
"Sure did. He's expecting us for lunch at noon. It sure was nice of him to invite us."
"Yeah, it was." Birkoff was silent for a few more minutes, then added dreamily. "I liked it there. It was kind of - quiet."
Walter glanced over at him, then back at the road. He didn't want the kid to see the moisture in his eyes. "Aw, you'd never be happy there, Birkoff. After a few days you'd miss the excitement. If I remember correctly, you've never lasted long in the sensory dep tank. Now THERE was quiet for you!"
"I guess you're right." Walter cringed inwardly at the hopelessness he heard in the kid's voice.
"Maybe. Maybe not," he conceded, against his better judgment. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to give it a try sometime. Maybe we can arrange a week off - come for a real visit. Would you like that?"
Birkoff gazed at him with adoration. "Yeah, I really, really would," he murmured. Walter squirmed. (And just how am I going to arrange that?)
* * * * *
Another hour and they were on the rise overlooking Bienville. It was a clear day, and the green rolling hills were covered in a multitude of wildflowers. The tiny village looked pristine from this distance. The steeple of the church was the tallest structure around, and the stone glittered in the sun. They drove slowly down the country road, with the car windows down. The only sound was the crunch of the tires on the crushed granite surface.
Walter pulled the car up beside the rectory. They got out and knocked on the front door. Walter straightened Birkoff's purple tie and smoothed his own jacket. Just as he finished, the door opened and Father Philippe welcomed them in with a broad smile and open arms.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Genevieve Beaullieu stared at her reflection in the armoire mirror. For just a moment, she caught a glimpse of her younger, slimmer self, as she might have appeared on her own wedding day. She smiled at that image. A dimple appeared at one corner of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled - still a brilliant blue. Her new lipstick gave a pretty fair imitation of the natural blush of 50 years ago. Thank goodness for that new sealing compound the young vendeuse had demonstrated. She just hated it when the lipstick crept up the cracks in her upper lip! She peered more closely, then nodded, satisfied that the dam was holding. Backing away, she examined her figure. The new suit was very smart - a bright blue the same color as her eyes. It covered a multitude of - well, not sins, but certainly little peccadillos. "Too many sweets, Genevieve," she murmured regretfully."
"For one as sweet as you? Never!" Emil came into view behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. "You are still beautiful, cherie."
Her eyes widened as she felt something hard poking her from behind. He winked at her in the mirror as one hand reached around to cup her breast. "It's only 11:00. They won't be here for another hour."
She slapped his hand away. "I'm not about to mess up my hair and makeup, you old goat! Go take a bath - a COLD one!"
He grumbled his assent, but pinched her bottom in revenge as he turned away. She almost regretted refusing his invitation. But, one had to draw the line somewhere! She gave a small sigh, then deliberately turned her thoughts to the young couple.
What a pair they made. It would never be a dull partnership, thank God! She smiled at the memory of that first day they came to the shop. Nikita had entered first - a leggy blonde with huge eyes that took in everything at a glance. She had exclaimed with delight, then drifted from toy to toy, touching each one with a kind of reverence. Her companion had stood to one side, tracking her every move with a single-minded intensity, seemingly oblivious to Genevieve's frank stare. She had always been a people watcher, and there had been something intriguing about the two of them. Something that had stirred her maternal instincts. That was why she had offered to show him the horse. She had never intended to sell it. But . . . she had no regrets. None at all.
She heard the splash of water in the tub, then Emil's voice. "Aiee, yi yi!" She grinned. That should redistribute his blood flow - back to his brain, where it belonged right now. She gave her suit jacket one more tug, then left the bedroom. There were a few final touches she wanted to make to the cake. It was sitting on the dining room table, and she congratulated herself on how well it had turned out. As promised, it was dark chocolate. Inside. The frosting, however, was another matter. Her own grandmother's recipe - crystallized sugar. It even had a name - "Sans Egal" - "Without Equal." She prepared to add her own personal touch to the cake - tiny bouquets of "rosebuds" crafted from fresh raspberries nestled in sprigs of mint. As she admired her handiwork, there was a knock on the door. She glanced at the mantel clock - noon already! She lowered a large soup pot over the cake. After all, it was to be one of her little surprises for them. She wiped her hands on a damp towel, then went to greet the bride and groom.
"Come in, mes enfants," she cried. "Let me look at you!" They entered the parlor and turned slowly for her inspection. She examined them from head to foot. They presented quite a contrast. Michael was meticulously groomed, elegant in a black Armani suit with a single-breasted jacket that fell almost to his knees. Underneath the jacket, a simple black silk T-shirt with a rounded neck displayed the sturdy column of his neck and shoulder-length hair to full advantage. She especially admired the tight black pants which hugged his muscular calves. The shoes, however - well, comfort was important too, she supposed. At least they were black. Black leather gloves completed his ensemble. In one hand he dangled a pair of black sunglasses. Armani too, if she was not mistaken. It was a unique look -- one that suited him. Suddenly, she recalled Nikita's remark about Michael already having a black suit. He did indeed.
The bride's attire was another matter entirely. Her hair hung in damp tangles around her face and down her back. It looked as though she had ridden over here with her head stuck out the car window like a dog. Her nose was red and peeling from sunburn, of all things. She was wearing a white T-shirt with the words "Depeche Mode" emblazoned across it, and faded jeans with holes in the knees. (Mon Dieu, but she presents quite a challenge!)
Nikita shifted nervously under her steely gaze. "I was hoping you would help me . . . you know?" She held out the garment bag she had been holding. Genevieve melted at her pleading look and gave her a hug.
"But of course, chouette. I would have been offended if you had not asked my help! Now come, let the transformation begin." She turned to Michael. "Emil will join you shortly." She pointed to the pot on the table. "And don't you dare peek at that, tu comprends?" He smiled faintly and nodded.
"Bon. Allons, cherie." She shoved Nikita toward the stairs.
Michael went over to the dining room table. He removed his gloves and lay one hand on upturned bottom of the soup pot. The metal was cool to the touch. He caught a faint whiff of chocolate. His thoughts began to drift. "What did I just tell you?" called a voice from the top of the stairs. He jerked his hand back, then went to stand in front of the picture window. He was still standing there a quarter of an hour later when Emil came down the stairs. The older man called his name softly, then touched him on the shoulder. Startled, he whirled quickly, one palm outthrust. He pulled back just in time. The killing blow stopped a fraction of an inch from Emil's throat. Emil's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Michael sucked in a trembling breath and shut his eyes as his hand dropped to his side. He sagged back against the window ledge.
Emil extended his arm, laying his hand once again on Michael's shoulder. He could feel a slight vibration thrumming under his touch. Like a cat purring. A large black cat.
"Ca va, Michel?" he asked.
The other man nodded silently, then took another deep breath. The purring diminished. Emil patted him gently. "Come. Have a drink." He moved to the brandy cupboard and brought the cherry bounce and a couple of small glasses over to the dining room table.
"Nikita has already sampled this - while you were ill. But I don't believe you have had any yet." In a deliberately casual tone, he told Michael the history of the liqueur. "A la vie," he prompted, handing Michael one of the glasses. They toasted and drank. Emil poured another round. "Sit down, mon ami. I suspect it will be a while yet before they rejoin us."
Michael sank down in one of the parlor chairs. Just in time. It looked to Emil like his legs were about to give way. Come to think of it, his own legs didn't feel very steady.
"Do you have them?"
"Mais oui. Here." He reached in his vest pocket and pulled out the velvet box. Michael set down the empty glass and took the box from him. His features were tightly controlled.
"Did Monsieur Boudreaux show them to you?"
"Yes."
Michael gave him a piercing look.
"Did he tell you anything about them?"
"No. I asked, but he said it was not his place to do so. I agree."
The younger man nodded again, then put the box, unopened, into his jacket pocket.
"Don't you want to check them - make sure they're what you expected?"
"That won't be necessary," he replied.
"Au contraire, mon ami. Something tells me it is absolutely necessary. After all, you're going to be looking at them for the next forty or fifty years, God willing. You might as well get the shock over with right now, while it's just you and me. You know I'll be discreet."
Michael considered the offer, then removed the box from his pocket and turned it slowly over in both hands. As Emil watched, that familiar shuttered gaze came over his face. He glanced to the side, staring into the distance. Emil poured them a third glass of cherry bounce, sat back, and waited.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Upstairs, Nikita sat at Genevieve's dressing table with her eyes closed, utterly relaxed under Genevieve's practiced touch. The older woman was brushing out her hair.
"When Monique was small, I would sit her right here, on a pillow, twice each day. In the morning, I braided her hair. And at night I brushed it 100 strokes. It was so long she could sit on it. It used to be strawberry blond, but it darkened as she grew older."
"What color is it now?"
"Auburn - in fact, it is almost the color of Michel's, although with a bit more gray. It is difficult to believe she will be 49 in September. She and Pierre celebrated their silver anniversary last November." Genevieve stopped brushing and looked at Nikita in the mirror. "I pray that you and Michel will have many happy years together, chouette. You deserve it." She bent down and kissed the top of Nikita's head, then continued the soothing brush strokes. At last, she was satisfied that all the tangles were gone. "What style would you prefer, cherie? A couronne, perhaps? A chignon?"
"What is a couronne?"
"A braided crown. Comme ça." She demonstrated.
Nikita shook her head. "I think the chignon, Madame. Like yours."
Genevieve beamed. "That would be my preference also." She gathered the golden strands together, winding them low on Nikita's neck, and pinned them loosely in place. "Now, I have a little surprise for you. Something very old. Something borrowed. And something blue - to match your eyes." She opened a shallow drawer in the center of the dressing table and pulled out a box filled with tissue paper - and a delicate silver net.
"This has been worn by many brides in my family. It goes over the chignon- like so." She carefully spread the silver webbing. It was dotted with tiny bits of glitter. "What are these - sequins?" Nikita asked.
"Diamonds, cherie. They are the remnants of a rather large blue diamond mined en Afrique over 100 years ago, by my great-great oncle. Due to an unfortunate circumstance, the stone was ruined in the cutting process. Only these fragments escaped the disaster. His wife had the idea of preserving them as you see. Alone, they are worthless - but together, they are beautiful, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes, they are." Nikita turned to the side, admiring the glittering net. She hugged Genevieve around the waist. "Thank you, Madame. I will always treasure this memory."
The older woman stroked her hair. "My pleasure, Nikita. Now, I think you had better put on your makeup, eh? It is getting late."
"I don't know," she replied teasingly, "Do you think I really need makeup?"
Genevieve laughed. "Well, if Michel doesn't mind seeing you shed your skin like a garden snake, I don't suppose you do." She rubbed her index finger over the peeling skin on Nikita's nose. "However, if you think he might prefer a wife with SMOOTH skin, I have just the thing."
She rummaged around in her dresser drawer and came up with a silver tube. "This is called 'L'Occitaine.' I order it from a shop called 'La Provence.' It is made from beurre de karite - the sap of an African tree. It nourishes the new skin and disguises imperfections. Here, try a little." She squeezed a dollop into Nikita's palm. It had a light fragrance - entirely unfamiliar, but vaguely floral. It felt wonderful. Nikita dabbed it on her nose and massaged it in. Sure enough, her sun-damaged skin took on a healthy, soft glow.
"This is a miracle, Madame!"
Genevieve smiled. "It's a good thing for you I'm a miracle worker, chouette!"
At last they were ready for the piece de resistance. Genevieve unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the dress they had chosen together a few days before. It was the palest of blues - almost silver - a simple, sleeveless silk sheath with a rounded neckline. It slid over Nikita's head and draped straight down to her ankles. It needed no ornament. In the bottom of the bag was a box containing the matching shoes. Open-toed, with a sling-back heel, they were covered in the same blue silk. Once she had slipped them on, Genevieve took her by the hands and backed her slowly toward the armoire mirror. "Now, close your eyes and turn around, cherie. All right, you can open them now."
Nikita blinked twice, then stared at her reflection in utter silence.
"Well?"
"Now I know why you 'guided' me toward this particular dress, Madame."
"Yes, I must confess when I saw it, I thought immediately of the net. It was too perfect a coincidence to ignore."
"It's beautiful."
"YOU are beautiful, chere. I have never seen a bride as beautiful as you, and I have seen my share, believe me."
A deep rose stained Nikita's cheeks. She ducked her head, suddenly shy. Coming to stand behind her, Genevieve put her hands to either side of Nikita's neck, forcing her to confront the image in the mirror.
"Mais non, cherie! Look at yourself! You may always be beautiful, but never again in quite the same way as this moment. Relish it. Remember it forever. As I have."
Nikita stared at the two figures in the mirror. Tears blurred and blended the images, erasing the years between them. They were Woman.
Slowly, she turned. "I'm ready now," she said.
Genevieve gave a silent nod - acknowledging the secret bond they shared.
Together they walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Into the future.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The door to the parlor was closed. Genevieve stepped forward and rapped softly. "Emil?"
"Un moment, chere." His tone was polite but brooked no argument. The two women exchanged glances.
"Take your time. We're ready whenever you are," Nikita called out, taking Genevieve by the arm and leading her away from the door. To her relief, the older woman came willingly. They had only gone a few steps when the door opened. Emil closed it swiftly behind him and stepped forward to kiss Nikita's hand.
"Exquisite, cherie. Michel is sure to be dazzled."
"I wouldn't count on that," she replied with a smile. "He's pretty dazzle-proof."
"Not where you are concerned," Emil insisted. "I do not think you fully recognize the power you have over him."
"C'est vrai," seconded Genevieve. "I know a man in love when I see one, and believe me, he is under your spell. I recognized it from the first."
"Is he all right?" Nikita finally dared to ask, nodding toward the closed door.
There was a slight hesitation, then Emil replied "Of course. He just needed a moment to himself. Typical wedding jitters. We shared a glass of cherry bounce."
"Only one glass?" Genevieve frowned.
"Well, perhaps two - or three."
"As I thought," she grumbled. "I only hope he isn't so 'relaxed' that he falls asleep before saying the vows! Now come, help me carry the cake and the flowers to the car." She turned to Nikita.
"You stay here, chouette. And take my advice. If he doesn't come out of there in the next five minutes, go in and get him. Too much time to brood - that's his problem!"
She gestured once more to Emil, and the two of them slowly carried the cake into the kitchen. Nikita could still hear Genevieve giving him instructions as they went out the back door with it. "Be careful! If you drop it, old man, I vow that you will not taste another of my apple tartes until the next Spring festival!"
"Threats will only make me more nervous," he whined. "Do you WANT me to drop it?"
Their voices faded as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. The parlor door opened at almost the same time. Michael stood there, pale and still, devouring her with his eyes. She took the first step, but he closed the distance between them. She could see traces of moisture still glittering on his eyelashes. She palmed his cheek and smiled at him. He covered her hand with his own, then lifted it to his lips. His feather-light kiss made her shiver.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "I know I don't deserve you, but I can't help wanting you."
"I want you too, Michael. "I need you too. That's all that matters any more."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he squeezed her hand so tightly it was all she could do not to wince. Instead, she returned the pressure and drew him toward the door.
"Let's go."
* * * * *
Emil and Genevieve were waiting for them beside the car. Emil opened the door to the back, and Genevieve hovered anxiously as Nikita sat down and carefully arranged her dress.
"Et Monsieur?" Emil opened the opposite door for Michael. Then, "Madame?" to Genevieve, assisting her into the front seat. She dimpled becomingly at the special attention. He was playing the part of chauffeur to the hilt.
No sooner had they left the village than Michael's hand crept over to Nikita's. She laced her fingers through his and settled back to enjoy the ride. Gradually, she felt him relax. She glanced over and saw that his eyes were closed. His breathing was deep and slow. (How romantic! He's fallen asleep on the way to his wedding!) She shook her head in wry amusement.
"Psst! Genevieve," she whispered. "Regards-lui." The older woman turned around and saw Michael. She gasped in outrage and elbowed Emil. "You're responsible for this, old man!" She hissed. "So you'd better be able to wake him up when we get there!"
"I had to do it!" He defended himself in a stage whisper. "Besides, have you ever known me to miscalculate the dosage? Don't worry - he'll be fine after his little nap."
At that, she subsided. It was true - Emil was something of an expert on the liqueur. He had even been called in by the midwife as a consultant on several deliveries, when she had been in doubt about how much to give the laboring mother.
* * * * *
By the time they rounded the last curve and looked down on Bienville, Michael was stirring. Nikita felt his hand twitch several times. She stroked it with her thumb, and he turned his face to her and opened his eyes. He blinked slowly several times, bringing her into focus. She loved the way his long lashes fanned his cheeks when he did that. She smiled.
"Are we there yet?" His voice was a bit husky from sleep. Or was it from ...? She looked down, and he blushed furiously. Sure enough, his hand wasn't the only thing that had been twitching.
"Almost." She adjusted his jacket, hiding the evidence. He jerked upright and pushed her hand away. She chuckled.
Emil nudged Genevieve. "I told you so."
For once, she let him have the last word.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"More brandy?"
"No thanks, Padre. We don't want to fall asleep in the middle of the ceremony, do we Birkoff?"
Birkoff's eyes popped open. "Yes." (Wonder what the question was - oh well, it's always better to answer in the affirmative.)
Walter was glaring at him. (Oops - maybe not this time.)
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I SAID, we don't want to FALL ASLEEP, do we?"
"Oh, no. We sure don't."
Father Philippe laughed at the young man's discomfiture. It was obvious he wasn't used to brandy.
"It's perfectly all right, Mr. Birkoff. Go ahead and finish your little nap while we old men solve the problems of the world."
"Speak for yourself, Padre. I've had my fill of solving the world's problems. Today we're on downtime, and I mean to make the most of it."
Birkoff repressed a yelp. The brandy must have affected Walter more than he realized, for him to even hint at their real occupations. Fortunately, the priest let the matter drop with a simple "Bonne idee."
The meal had been delicious. He hadn't had much home-cooked food, and he usually preferred burgers to steak anyway. He had been wary at first, of the unfamiliar tastes and textures of the various dishes. But, Walter had threatened him on the way here. "At least take a couple of bites of whatever is on your plate, or I'll personally see to it that Operations finds out about your sneaking off to play video games on Level 6!" So, with Walter's eagle eye on him every minute, he had forced himself to sample every course. And, to his surprise, he had really liked most of what he ate. Especially the dessert. He licked his lips, hoping for one more taste of the chocolate mousse. No luck. (Maybe . . . ) He sneaked a look over at the table. Darn. That waiter guy had already taken away the dishes.
"Would you like another dessert instead, Seymour?"
He jumped. Had the priest read his mind?
"Uh, sure, Father."
The priest rose. "I'll get it for you. Don't worry, it's no trouble at all."
As soon as he left the room, Walter was all over him. "That's right, Birkoff! Let the old man wait on you! You're scoring points right and left, kid!"
"Well, you TOLD me to eat whatever he gave me!"
Before Walter could counterattack, the door opened and Father Philippe entered, carrying a tray with three desserts. He smiled serenely. "I must confess, this is my favorite part of every meal. I brought one for each of us." He passed the tray around, then took the remaining dessert and dipped his spoon into the rich pudding. "Umm," he groaned as though in ecstasy. "Well, what are you waiting for, mes amis? Mangez, mangez!"
Birkoff glared at Walter in triumph as he took a big bite, then licked the back of his spoon with a long, slow stroke. Father Philippe saluted him with his spoon. "Touché, Monsieur Birkoff." Then his eyes met Walter's, and the two older men chuckled conspiratorially.
* * * * *
By the time they finished this second dessert, it was nearly 1:15. They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was one of the altar servers.
"Father, it's almost time. Do you want us to light the candles?"
Father Philippe jumped up and excused himself, saying "Please forgive me, mes amis. I did not realize how late it was, and I must prepare for the service. Perhaps you would do me the favor of waiting in the garden to greet our guests?"
"Of course, Father," replied Walter. "Is there anything else we can do to help?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Madame Beaullieu is bringing a cake and flowers. I had asked André to set the table for us, but he had to leave early today. His son is playing in a soccer tournament at school, and André is one of the coaches. I see that he has left everything in the kitchen. If you could arrange it . . ."
"Say no more, Padre," replied Walter. "Consider it done."
"Merci, merci beaucoup." And he rushed off to change into his vestments.
Ten minutes later the table was covered with a lace cloth and napkins, rose crystal champagne glasses, and the household's antique china dessert service. Just in time, too. As Walter and Birkoff stepped out into the garden, they saw the Rover rounding the corner. Birkoff ran ahead to the gate, waving wildly. Walter shook his head at the younger man's innocent excitement. He knew Birkoff had never been to a wedding. And might never attend another.
The car doors opened, and Emil and Michael emerged. Michael helped Genevieve out of the front seat while Emil escorted Nikita. Birkoff's eyes nearly popped out at the sight of Nikita.
"You look . . . you look . . ." he stammered.
"Good enough to eat, Sugar," finished Walter for him.
She beamed at them both, then extended her hand to Walter. "Just a taste," she teased, as he bent down and brushed her fingers lightly. As he straightened, he was aware of Michael's direct gaze. It was a silent challenge. He was slightly taken aback, then relaxed as he realized Michael was not even aware of what he was projecting. Well, he could fix that pronto. He gently released Nikita's hand and faced Michael with a knowing grin - his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Michael looked puzzled. Walter could tell the moment he realized what he had been doing. His face flushed a dusky red and he broke eye contact. Walter held out his arms wide and gestured with his fingers. "Come on, kid, give this old man a hug, just to show you don't have any hard feelings."
Michael smiled then and stepped forward, wrapping both arms around Walter's shoulders. "You're lookin' good," Walter whispered in his ear. "I'm glad."
Meanwhile, Nikita was kissing Birkoff on the cheek. His fair skin glowed scarlet with embarrassment. But he didn't back away, she noticed.
"Oh, excuse me!" she exclaimed. "Walter, Birkoff, I don't believe you've met Emil and Genevieve Beaullieu. Genevieve, Emil, allow me to introduce two of our dearest friends." The French couple had been reticent, but they came forward eagerly to shake hands with these new acquaintances. Soon, all four of them were chattering amiably, while Nikita and Michael stood to one side, observing this interface between their past and future lives.
"Say," Walter interrupted, "Father Philippe said you brought some stuff. We've got the place all set up. Do you need help bringing it in?"
"Oui! Merci!" exclaimed Genevieve. "Vite, vite, Emil! It is almost time!"
Emil opened the rear door of the Rover and lifted out several baskets of flowers. "Lead on," he said to Walter, handing him the flowers. "I'll bring the cake."
"What can I carry?" called out Birkoff. Genevieve handed him a large spray of gladiolas. She carried a plain white box, as well as a fat candle with a silver bow tied around its base. "Come with me to the church," she commanded. "I'll show you where to put these." He followed her meekly.
Nikita smiled at Michael. "Well, my sweet baboo, It looks like we've been abandoned. What should we do now?" She stepped closer. His nostrils flared at the scent of her perfume. She brushed that same recalcitrant curl behind his ear. At her touch, he was suddenly as hard as the gems he carried in his pocket. Thank God for the length of his jacket. She felt it too. He could tell by the way she licked her lips and leaned toward him. He gave a low moan.
"Coming?" There was a hint of laughter in the voice behind him. He closed his eyes, fighting for control before he dared turn around.
"Almost," he murmured, his eyes glittering at his tormenter.
Walter gestured dramatically toward the church.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Walter opened the door of the church and they entered the vestibule. Genevieve was waiting there, still with the white box in her hands. She opened it and withdrew a bouquet of white roses intermingled with wildflowers - a jumble of pink and yellow, with trailing white jasmine wound around a pale blue ribbon.
"Oh Madame! It's beautiful." Nikita held it to her face and breathed in the fragrance. "Here, Michael, doesn't it smell wonderful?" She waved it gently under his nose. Jasmine. As always, the memory of his mother accompanied it. He closed his eyes. He could almost see her face -- almost hear . . . . He became aware of Nikita's hand on his cheek. Of the sound of her voice.
"Michael."
He opened his eyes. She was looking at him. She knew.
"They're here."
He didn't need to ask whom she meant. They WERE here - all of them. The unseen witnesses. The uninvited guests. The beloved dead. Her family. His own. He knew what Nikita wanted him to do. So, for the first time, he didn't try to shut them out. He joined her in welcoming them to this celebration of life.
"Yes."
Her smile was a beacon, leading him home.
* * * * *
"Well, if there's nothing else, we'll wait for you inside," said Genevieve. She and Walter entered the sanctuary and joined the others who sat already waiting in the front pews.
The processional music began. They saw Father Philippe standing in front of the altar. He smiled and beckoned. They linked arms and walked down the aisle - together as they were meant to be from the beginning. From the moment he had stepped in the door of that white room.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Mes chers amis, nous sommes ici aujourd'hui pour joindre cet homme et cette femme . . . "
Father Philippe's voice faded to a pleasant drone as they stood there, hand in hand before him, but with eyes only for one another. This ceremony was merely a public affirmation of their true marriage - a marriage of mind and heart which had already taken place.
"Nikita, voulez-vous marier Michel, l'aimer, et l'honorer, . . . jusqu'a la mort vous separait?"
"I will."
"Et Michel, voulez-vous marier Nikita, l'aimer, et l'honorer . . . jusqu'a la mort vous separait?
"Je le veux."
"Les cernes, s'il vous plait. - The rings, please."
For the first time since the ceremony began, Michael's hand left Nikita's. From his pocket he pulled two rings and placed them on the tiny pillow held out by the altar server. Nikita gasped in recognition. These were Josephine's rings! She would never forget the first time she had seen them, as they tumbled out from that velvet sack onto the table in the loft. Gold filigree, intricately worked --the man's ring adorned by a single emerald, the woman's by a sapphire. She felt the heat of Michael's gaze. His eyes shifted from her to the rings and back again, and she could see in his stark features that his wedding gift to her lay on that pillow -- not the rings themselves, but what they symbolized -- the key to his past. The secrets of his soul.
Father Philippe made the sign of the cross, blessing the rings. He handed the first one to Michael. Nikita held out her hand. Michael slipped it on her finger and recited the traditional phrase unprompted. "Avec cette cerne, je te marie, et avec mon corps je t'adore - with this ring, I thee wed, and with my body I thee worship."
She smiled to herself. She could certainly vouch for that last part!
Then it was her turn. She took the ring from Father Philippe and placed it on Michael's finger, repeating the words he had just spoken. It was a bit snug, and she had to give it a slight twist to fit it over his knuckle, even as she recited, " . . . and with my body . . . " She heard him suck in a breath, and when she looked up, afraid she had hurt him, she saw that his pupils were dilated. He licked his lips and swallowed thickly. She grinned impishly, giving the ring yet another push. He colored deeply, then turned in self-defense to face the priest.
Father Philippe appeared oblivious to the undercurrents passing between the two of them. He was reciting the concluding words of the ceremony -- making the obligatory announcement, "If anyone here present should know of any impediment to this marriage, let them speak now . . ."
Walter whispered to Birkoff. "It's a good thing Operations and Madeline weren't invited, eh kid?"
Birkoff snorted out loud, causing the entire wedding party to glare at him. He hung his head in embarrassment, but Walter slapped him on the back and said aloud to the assembly, "Sorry, folks, he got something caught in his throat. Nothing to worry about. He'll be fine in a minute."
A few minutes later, it was over. The words had been said. The vows had been made. The wedding candle had been lit and the blessing had been given.
"You may kiss the bride," said Father Philippe at the last.
They stood there like two mannequins.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he prompted.
They slowly turned to face one another. One look at Michael and Nikita knew exactly why he was afraid to touch her. But there was no avoiding it now. She grabbed his face with both hands and gave him a big juicy kiss full on the lips. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel him throbbing fiercely against her. Suddenly, he wrenched his lips from hers and, grabbing her by the hand, began a headlong dash down the aisle. "Michael - slow down!" She hissed. Unfortunately, her dress was acting as a hobble, preventing her from keeping up with his long strides. He halted just long enough to pick her up. The delighted witnesses trailed after them, hooting and pointing at the couple who rounded the corner of the church and disappeared from view.
"Oh, mon Dieu, aidez-moi, Genevieve!" cried Emil, nearly collapsing with laughter. "Il ne peut pas attendre! - He can't wait!" "C'est trop drole - too funny, n'est ce pas?"
Genevieve pretended outrage at first, even going so far as to hit him with her purse. But soon even she couldn't hold back. "Oh, oh, Emil! I think I just wet myself, cher!" She sank down on a bench and pressed her legs together, holding her stomach as she gasped for air.
Birkoff looked confused. "Where did they go?" he asked. Walter just shook his head and grinned. Father Philippe replied, "They had urgent business, my son. I am sure they will join us when it has been concluded. Now, why don't we all have a glass of champagne in honor of the happy couple." And he led the small party over to the rectory.
