Something New

Olivia kneeled at the altar, her feet tucked under her gown, with eyes closed and head bowed, her gloved hands resting in her lap, --the left cupped inside the right as if preparing for communion. The afternoon sun angled straw-colored rays through the giant stained-glass window, creating a halo on the worn cranberry carpet before her. Small wooden fans on the ceiling of the cathedral whirled ever so slowly counterclockwise providing a slight but welcomed breeze on what turned out to be an unseasonably warm April for Michigan. She could smell the orchids that decorated the rows of oak pews behind her; filled with people less than an hour ago, they were empty now, except for a few programs left behind.

She had heard people clamoring, shifting in their seats impatiently waiting for an event that was long overdue, while she paced anxiously in the rectory. Unable to face them, she asked the Minister to announce a “delay” and instruct the guests to help themselves to refreshments in the church's Hall.

She had waited decades for this day, coming close once, eighteen years ago, but “wasn’t ready” and broke it off. “If I knew then what I know now…” she thought shaking her head but refused to muse about the “shoulda, coulda, woulda’s.” She couldn’t have anticipated still being single a decade and a half later, or that when she thought she had finally gotten it right, this would happen.

“Am I being punished?” she asked aloud.

“No,” a somber voice from the rear answered back, causing her to leap up, twirling unsteadily to the left and nearly losing her balance.

Olivia had no misgivings about her station in life. While she visually eluded her age by ten years, at forty-three she was “no spring chicken” as the expression goes, considering herself her “Something Old.” Though she had no children and this was to be her first marriage, she did not wear white. Not the sweetheart neckline or princess plume, nor taffeta or tulle typical of younger brides, Olivia opted for a cream Chantilly lace over champagne silk loosely-defined vintage-style gown, with a square neck and three-quarter length sleeves tied at its empire waist with a satin sash. Iridescent sequins were sewn in on the underside of the lace, glimmering subtly in the sunlight.

Her hair --which had been the subject of much debate, not wanting to look too much like the boardroom professional she was by wearing it up, but also wanting to avoid the delusion of a middle-aged Barbie by wearing it down--was parted on the left, brushed forward then swept up into a bun that crowned her head, fastened in place with two Swarovski crystal and pearl combs from her grandmother. Olivia’s “Something Borrowed” also secured a piece of lace that fell forward from the crown, landing at the bridge of her nose. She had never felt so beautiful and ugly at the same time.

“How long was I down there?” she thought, noticing her legs felt uncomfortably dull but tingled painfully as blood returned to them. Regrouping, she looked up to see Charles rushing towards her, arms outstretched, ready to catch her before she could fall.

“Don’t!” her voice echoed through the church, and he paused in his tracks halfway down the aisle. Staring at his feet, she noting he was the first, --the only person, -- to walk on the silk runner that had been lain out for the ceremony; the guests had been ushered in and out of the pews at the sides.

“You don’t get to be the Villain and the Hero,” she continued in a normal tone, though heavy with disgust as she fought back the tears creeping up in her throat.

“I know,” he returned, in a melodic baritone that could only come from a man his size. The combination of it and his large arms had lulled her to sleep after many long nights home from work --her home, not theirs. They never lived together, even after becoming engaged; a hard and fast rule of hers, though he asked often.

Her gaze traveled back up. Trying not to come undone, she held her breath. With eyes full of contempt, she stared at him, but the anger subsided as she noticed he was in his tux. Her "Something Blue," he wore sapphire that appeared nearly black if not for its contrast to his striking dark hair, mustache, and goatee. Accented with the champagne cummerbund, handkerchief, and bowtie she picked out, and a crisp white shirt with pearl buttons. He sparkled. She could smell his cologne.

He was younger, eight years to be exact, a fact that almost kept Olivia from accepting his invitation to dinner when he had come to her office with his colleagues, but something in his smile put her at ease, so she abandoned her usual reasoning and said yes. Calling him her mid-life crisis, a birthday present to herself, she didn’t anticipate much more coming of this than a good time, but he stuck. Three years later, here they were, or, here they were supposed to be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, now moving toward her again. “I know you’re embarrassed and hurt, but I…”

“Embarrassed and hurt?!” her voice boomed. No longer trying to restrain herself, she added, “I'm destroyed!” her eyes flooded with tears. “On my wedding day, in front of all of my family and friends, you would do this to me…”

“See, that’s the problem Olivia,” his words drew out wistfully. “It’s always about you! We’re always at your house; you pick the restaurants; you proposed to me! Guess you didn’t think I’d get that right either…”

“Then why did you say yes?” her voice cracking barely above a whisper.

“Because I knew how much getting married meant to you. I just didn’t know it would mean losing me.”

They stood there in silence. She looked at him now ashamed. Taking it all in, Olivia realized this was the first time she saw him entirely for who he was not just for how he fit into her life. But now it was too late. Or was it? She hoped not. She closed her eyes and prayed for a second chance to make things right, and thought to herself, “Maybe it’s time for me to try something new...”