The latter part of May carries a risk of thunderstorms along the Welsh coastline. This month has, in fact, been unusually wet and cold. Fortunately, today graces us with a hint of warmth. A strong sun beams down from a dazzling cobalt sky, clear but for a few billowy gray clouds glued to the horizon. Even the wind has died down. The Bristol Channel sparkles as if dressed for a party.
Wrapped in a voluminous wool shawl, I’m enjoying the view. Two years earlier, on this very spot, I sat with a gun pressed to the side of my head. Today is quite the improvement.
Nearly three months have passed since I killed the man I hated and feared more than anyone else in the world. Those last moments still replay on a loop in my brain but less frequently every day. I regret many actions and many deaths but not that one. I am grateful I managed to do what my enemy believed until his last breath I would never be able to do.
That same day, I also got off a shot that would probably smash quite a few records if it were ever made public. It never will be. When Simon, Brian, Charlie, and Lisette came back down the hill to pick me up—an ordinary, middle-aged woman standing at the curb with an odd-shaped bag over one shoulder—they couldn’t stop talking. Until Lisette shushed them all by stating the obvious.
“I don’t know what you’re all going on about. She was never going to miss. She’s my daughter.”
I enveloped her in a hug. The gesture surprised us both; I dropped my arms. Nothing comes easy, I thought. Not a life or death calculation nor a relationship with one’s mother.
“Your faked faint was exquisitely timed,” I told her.
My mother laughed, which got the rest of them going. How we must have looked, five foreigners laughing on a street corner. Passersby smiled, imagining our vacation was going well. They had no idea.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I don’t flinch, though. I know that hand.
“What are you doing out here, Suzie? Don’t you need to get ready?”
“I’m dressed,” I reassure my husband, opening my shawl to show him the Aegean blue silk sheath I’m wearing. “Just have to change shoes.” I point to my Wellies with a laugh.
Brian comes around to sit beside me and takes my hand. “I hope you’re not nervous.”
“With current and former spies swarming the place? Brian, I’ve never felt safer.”
“That’s not what I mean, Suzanne. Are you having mother of the bride jitters?”
I turn to my handsome husband. He’s dressed in a pearl gray suit. It brings out the silver in his hair, which is more pronounced, I realize. Time marches on. We’re getting older.
“But we’re alive,” Brian says aloud, as if he could read my mind. “And our son is getting married today.”
Michael caught us by surprise when he asked if he and Kate might marry here.
“So soon, Michael?” I asked. “And here?”
“We don’t see the point in waiting. Life is for the living, right? Don’t worry about pulling it together. Kate’s mum is made for this kind of planning. As for having a separate ceremony here, it seems fitting. It’s where we came together as a family. I love it here.”
He looks directly into my eyes, a purposeful young man. I see in his handsome face the generations that went before and those yet to come.
“Think of it as coming full circle, Mum. Or maybe it’s closure. Either way; take your pick. Kate approves.”
Kate approves. I've accepted the idea that my almost daughter-in-law understands a great deal about the family she’s joining. I don’t know where she stores that knowledge, or where my son does. I’m still struggling with reconciling my past with my present and my future. As a concession to today, I’ve stuffed all of it into a mental box labeled “unpleasantries.” I will visit it again; of that I have no doubt.
Full circle. Closure. Either one.
We’ve invited perhaps twenty-five people, including Brian’s sister Juliette and nephew Jules, whose brood numbers five. Simon will also be present, as will Grayson Tenant, Charlie Campbell, and Annie Westcott, along with their respective spouses. Kate and Michael’s closest friends make up the balance. We’ve brought everyone up by bus.
Later in the day, we’ll all return to London. There’s a larger church service and reception this evening. Black and white, very sophisticated. Everyone seems perfectly fine with the arrangements. These days, two ceremonies are all the rage for those who can manage the logistics, not to mention the finances. We’ve decided we will manage.
“Is everything all right?” Maggie Edgerton calls to us from the top of the stone steps. The young designer who created my outfit has also created Maggie’s dress, a subtle shade of sapphire that perfectly suits her shapely figure and still-red hair. On her head is a small head piece, a fancy, as the British like to call them. She’s wearing sensible heels; we’ll be on damp grass when Michael and Kate take their vows out of doors. Once again, I throw out my thanks to whatever forces brought us this sublime weather.
“We’re fine. Just coming up.”
My mother appears at Maggie’s side. Her white-blonde hair is cut short, flattering her remarkably unlined face. She wears a vivid shade of royal blue. There’s nothing subtle about the color choice or about her dress. The fitted crepe dress has a deeply asymmetrical neckline. The material gathers at one hip and falls in gentle folds. I’ve never seen a woman over twenty-five in heels as high as the ones she wears. Like Maggie, she has added a fancy. Hers is exceptionally ornate and adds another two inches to her height. Somehow, she pulls it off.
“She looks as if she’s about to set sail,” Brian whispers. I choke back my laughter.
“Suzanne, what on earth are you doing?” my mother yells. “Come up here and change your shoes. The guests are starting to arrive.” Lisette speaks like the mother of a young child rather than a middle-aged woman who is about to see her own grown son wed. She’s the mother I never had. The mother I now have.
I stand and face the bay. In just half an hour, we will gather at the bottom of the ancient steps that lead up the steep hill to the stone cottage, the sea at our backs. The wedding party will descend: Kate’s cousin Amy as maid of honor, Widgy escorting his mother, and my son, who not six months ago lay near death. Then the glorious bride, dressed in a pale blue confection of silk organza and seed pearls, will appear on the arm of her father. These people will be part of my family going forward. The very idea swells my heart.
We’ll do it all again in London, but this ceremony is the one I will hold close to my heart. I will mark every detail and note every moment of joy. The bad memories, when they escape from their temporary prison, will at least have competition.
I take Brian’s hand and move to the stairs. “Let’s go marry our son, shall we?”
~ End ~