Chapter 18 - The Garden Wedding
We didn't get married at the St. Regis.
On the third Saturday in May, under a canopy of blooming white wisteria and pink climbing roses in the backyard gardens of the Bennett Mansion, we held a wedding for only forty people—the people who truly loved us.
There were no tabloid reporters, no Wall Street sharks, and no ice sculptures. There were long wooden farm tables draped in white linen under the apple trees, string lights woven through the branches, and the same jazz trio from a little club in Brooklyn that Emily and I loved.
I stood beneath the garden arch in a classic black tuxedo, my heart hammering against my ribs infinitely harder than it had during any multi-billion-dollar merger. Beside me stood Ryan as my best man, grinning from ear to ear, and in the front row sat my mother—without her cane—sitting right beside Richard and Martha Miller, holding hands like old friends.
When the acoustic guitar began playing a gentle, finger-picked melody, the French doors of the conservatory opened.
First came Mia.
She took her job as flower girl with military seriousness, though instead of a white dress, she had insisted on wearing a brand-new, custom silk version of her signature bright red skirt paired with a white lace top. Every three steps, she stopped, reached into her basket, and threw an entire two-fisted handful of rose petals directly at the face of whichever security guard was sitting on the aisle, giggling wildly before shouting, "Here comes Mommy and Grandma!"
And then Emily stepped out into the sunlight, walking slowly down the grass runner arm-in-arm with my mother, Eleanor Bennett, who had proudly insisted on giving her away.
My breath left my lungs completely.
Emily wore an off-the-shoulder ivory lace gown that flowed around her like morning mist, her dark hair swept half-up with fresh white jasmine woven into the curls. She didn't wear a veil—nothing hiding her face, nothing between us. When her gold-flecked hazel eyes locked onto mine from across the garden, tears immediately stung the backs of my eyes.
When they reached the arch, my mother kissed Emily’s cheek and placed Emily’s warm hand into mine. "Take care of my daughter, Logan," my mother whispered fiercely before taking her seat.
"Always," I breathed.
When it came time for the vows, we didn't read from cards. I held both of Emily’s hands, my thumbs stroking her knuckles just as I had that rainy night in Brooklyn.
"Eight months ago," I said, my voice thick with emotion in the quiet garden, "I lived in a fortress made of money and walls, and I didn't even know I was dying inside it. Then you and Mia opened a door and showed me what courage actually looks like. You fought for my family when you had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Emily, I vow to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to fight alone again. Everything I am, and everything I have, belongs to you and our daughter."
Emily’s tears spilled over her lashes as she smiled up at me, squeezing my hands tight. "For a long time, Logan, I thought the world only had two kinds of people: those who hurt you, and those who look away while it happens," she whispered, her voice clear and steady. "Then a little girl took your hand, and you knelt down on the floor so she wouldn't be afraid. You didn't just save us from the dark—you built us a sky. I loved you when you dried dishes in my kitchen, and I’ll love you until my very last breath."
Before the officiant could even finish saying "You may kiss the bride," Mia ran right between our legs, grabbed my tuxedo pant leg and Emily’s lace skirt, and yelled, "Kiss her, Daddy! And then we get the big cake!"
May you like
The entire garden erupted into laughter and applause as I swept Emily into my arms and kissed my wife under the falling wisteria petals, with our three-year-old daughter hugging both of our knees at the exact same time.
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