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November 1890, Central Florida
His hand wrapped warm and firm around hers, his palm smooth, his fingers tightening ever so slightly as the minister read the familiar words. To have and to hold. In sickness and in health. For richer or for poorer. ’Til death do us part.
All eyes in the sanctuary burned into the back of her head, her parents’ eyes worst of all, and those of his parents.
His palm was damp, just enough to moisten her own and somehow increase the tension she was under. They. They. They were under. They were in this together.
The minister’s smile belied the tension of the day. That in the face of his joy, and the joy of everyone else, lay the truth no one knew, a secret only she, Maire O’Fallen, and her groom, Gerritt Finnegan, were aware of.
They turned to face each other as if on cue, and she looked far into the eyes that’d agreed to do this for her. Brown eyes, unfathomably deep. Eyes resonant with things no one understood, herself included. All these years growing up together, following him around like a besotted puppy, and she didn’t know him any better than anyone else, save perhaps his mother.
A shock of ebony hair fell over his forehead, and she longed to push it away. He was incredibly beautiful for a man. Everyone said so. That, too, came from his mother. Tall and lean with clear, fair skin, to look at him too long took your breath away.
He never flaunted it though. To be vain and conceited went against who Gerritt Finnegan was. Yet he wasn’t soft either, though some thought so. People had long misunderstood him, calling him weak, but, no, he was confident, intrepid, and fearless in the face of opposition.
He slipped his other hand over hers and offered her a smile. She sucked in her breath at the sight. He was lovely, more than she could take, and the words, again, faltered on her tongue.
He squeezed her fingers harder, and she started from her reverie. She repeated the vows, promising to become his wife and to honor him as her husband.
His voice, rich and eloquent, reiterated the phrases, his gaze never leaving hers. Then the minister asked for the rings. Her fingers trembled as she extended her hand, only stilling at his touch and the cold metal sliding along her skin.
“With this ring, I thee wed and wear it as a symbol of our love and commitment.” Her own voice spoke, but from outside. She was a viewer, looking in, remote and detached.
“With this ring, I thee wed and wear it as a symbol of our love and commitment,” he repeated.
His ring stuck on his knuckle, and some in the crowd laughed. She pushed it upward harder. It moved at last into place, and he curled her fingers again in his.
The ripple of piano keys and hum of the organ drowned out further thought. The angelic voice of her brother filled the room. He had the gift, just like their father. Her father had offered to sing, but she knew his heart would be too overcome with emotion. He was reluctant in his fame anyway.
No, Papa, it’s all right, really. Michael can do it, she’d said. Michael would want to do it anyway. Unlike her father, he liked the attention.
His pronunciation of the Gaelic words was impeccable, his Irish burr flawlessly practiced, and his tone beyond reproach. His was the finest voice, finer even than their father, who she loved more than life itself.
The last word edged away, a silken thread in the atmosphere, and for a moment, even the minister was speechless.
What was there to say about such perfection? It must be drank in and enjoyed.
The minister soon recovered, and his Bible resting in his palm, spoke directly to them. “May you both be prepared to give, be able to forgive, and experience more and more joy with each passing day, with each passing year. You may now seal the promises you have made with each other with a kiss.”
A kiss. They had talked about this.
I have to kiss you, you know, he’d said. It’s part of the ceremony.
Her cheeks had grown warm. Kissing him was a dream, one she’d envisaged for many years, yet he spoke of it as if it were unwelcome, something she must endure. Didn’t he know how the thought affected her, how she yearned for it?
We have to make it look real, he’d continued.
Look real? For her it was real. But, at the time of their conversation, she’d simply nodded and not said so. She wouldn’t upset him.
Her mind returned to the present.
He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his head, the whisk of his breath on her cheeks making her giddy, lightheaded, and her legs to shake beneath her. She wrapped a hand over his forearm as a means of steadiness. But the firmness and strength he exuded spread hot along her fingertips and circled through her veins until their mouths touched and he caressed her lips, gently tugging her pliable flesh between his own.
Her mind blanked, the room spinning around her like a child’s top, whirling, revolving, and suddenly dizzy, she stumbled. He caught her, pulling her to him, yet never releasing his grip on her waist or the pressure of their lips.
The kiss should have ended minutes ago, but a spark ignited between them, it deepened instead.
The minister coughed, and they separated at last. Gerritt, his eyes wide, his face flushed, stared down at her as if she were an illusion and would dissolve at any moment.
“Family and friends,” the minister said. “I give you Mr. and Mrs. Gerritt Finnegan.”