Brave Enough(47)

I make my way out of my room, along the hallway that’s dripping with bunches of white roses and purple wisteria. It smells like heaven. It feels like heaven.

My father awaits me at the end of the hall, standing at the top of the stairs. His face is expressionless at first, but when his eyes rake me from the top of my veiled head down to my richly beaded, A-line, Sarah Burton gown, he softens. Minimally, but still he softens. When I reach him, he turns to face the stairs and holds out his arm for me.

I don’t want to start an argument, but I hate the thought of walking down that aisle and not telling him how much it means to me.

“Dad . . . I . . . I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” he asks, eyes still trained straight ahead.

“For walking me down the aisle. For giving me away. To Tag. I know you don’t approve, but . . .”

Long seconds elapse before he sighs. I see it more than I hear it. His puffed chest visibly deflates.

“You deserve better. Is it so wrong for me to want the best for my daughter?”

“No,” I admit. “No more than it is for me to want to be happy.”

“I only wanted to keep you protected and cared for.”

“That’s something that you can’t spend the rest of your life worrying about, Dad. I’m grown. This is what daughters do. And their fathers worry about them. But they try to make it work.”

“I’m not most fathers.”

“And I’m not most daughters. I’m an O’Neal. Can’t you just trust that you raised me right and be happy for me? Just this once?”

Finally, he drags his eyes over to mine. Reluctant, but willing. It’s a first step, anyway.

“I’ll try.”

I hate to press my luck, but while I’m at it . . .

“And Tag. Do you think you could take it easy on him? Just give him a chance?”

“Weatherly, I—”

“What if you’re wrong about him, Dad? What if he is the best thing for me? Would you really want to take that from me? To risk ruining it? Everything we both ever wanted for me, for my life?”

He studies me. Closely. Quietly. Almost as though he might find answers or assurance somewhere in my eyes. So I do my best to give him what he’s looking for.

“I’ll try,” he says again, but this time I believe him. Something about the small smile that curves one side of his mouth tells me that he’s finally admitting that this is happening and that maybe, just maybe, he should make the best of it. “At least he knows how to make good wine. Looks like we’re gonna need a helluva lot of it.”

I laugh softly. From William O’Neal, this is the best I’m going to get.

Impulsively, I stretch up on my toes to kiss my father’s expertly shaved cheek. This is the man I remember from my childhood and that little glimpse makes this day all the more perfect. “That’s more like it, Dad.”

As we look into each other’s eyes for a few more seconds, our truce is cemented. I’m marrying Tag because I want to. Because I’m falling more and more in love with him every day. Because I think we can be happy. Maybe not rich, but happy. And that’s worth more to me than millions of dollars, especially now that my charity is taken care of. And my father is walking me down the aisle. This is as close to perfect as I’m likely to get.

The familiar, traditional wedding march begins to play and I hear the shift of clothing as everyone in the room below stands to their feet. I wind my shaking hand around my father’s elbow and he reaches up to place his fingers on top of mine. Together, we begin our descent.

Guests start to come into view as the staircase sweeps toward the formal living room. Most are smiling, all are standing, facing us. I see them, but I don’t see them. My eyes and my mind are waiting breathlessly for one man to appear.

And then he does.

My foot touches the floor, my father and I turn, and there he is. Tag. Standing at the front of the aisle, flanked by his friends on one side and the minister on the other. I’m aware of all these other details, but still, he is all I see.

His raven hair gleams like black ink in the afternoon light and his pale eyes shine like silver moonbeams from the chiseled planes of his face. There’s a smile in them, much like the one that graces his full lips.

His wide shoulders and trim waist are displayed perfectly in a brilliantly cut black suit. The creamy white of his shirt matches my dress as though it were taken from the same swath of silk. His big hands are clasped lightly in front of him and he never takes his eyes off me as I approach. It’s as though we are the only two people in the room. No guests, no musicians, and no air. Just us, in a beautiful vacuum adorned with fresh flowers.