The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,77

good you look, it’s just that I didn’t expect to see you this way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughed. “Come on,” she said, tugging on my hand. “I want to see everything you did up close.”

I had to admit, the view was magnificent. Set amid the oaks and cypress trees, the thin fabric of the tent glowed in the floodlights like a living force. The white chairs had been placed in curved rows like an orchestra, mirroring the curve of the garden just beyond. They were angled around a focal point, and the trellis gleamed with light and colored foliage. And everywhere we gazed, there were flowers.

Jane began to move slowly down the aisle. I knew that in her mind’s eye, she was seeing the crowd and imagining Anna, what she would see from her designated vantage point near the trellis. When she turned to look at me, her expression was dazzled and uncomprehending.

“I never believed it could look like this.”

I cleared my throat. “They did a good job, didn’t they.”

She shook her head solemnly. “No,” she said. “They didn’t. You did.”

When we reached the head of the aisle, Jane released my hand and approached the trellis. I stayed in place, watching her as she ran her hands over the carvings and fingered the strand of lights. Her gaze drifted to the garden.

“It looks exactly the way it used to,” she marveled.

As she circled the trellis, I stared at the dress she wore, noticing how it clung to the curves I knew so well. What was it about her that still took my breath away? The person she was? Our life together? Despite the years that had passed since I’d first seen her, the effect she had on me had only grown stronger.

We entered the rose garden and circled the outermost concentric heart; in time, the lights from the tent behind us grew dimmer. The fountain burbled like a mountain brook. Jane said nothing; instead, she simply absorbed the surroundings, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure I was close. On the far side, only the roof of the tent was evident. Jane stopped and scanned the rosebushes, then finally selected a red bud and broke it free. She plucked the thorns before approaching me and tucked it into my lapel. After adjusting it until she was satisfied, she patted my chest gently and looked up.

“You look more finished with a boutonniere,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Did I mention how handsome you look all dressed up?”

“I think you used the word . . . great. But feel free to say it as often as you like.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Thank you for what you did here. Anna’s going to be absolutely amazed.”

“You’re welcome.”

Leaning in close, she murmured, “And thank you for tonight, too. That was . . . quite a little game I came home to.”

In the past, I would have seized the opportunity to press her about it and reassure myself that I’d done well, but instead I reached for her hand.

“There’s something else I want you to see,” I said simply.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a carriage led by a team of white horses out in the barn,” she teased.

I shook my head. “Not quite. But if you think that might be a good idea, I could try to arrange something.”

She laughed. As she moved closer, the heat of her body was tantalizing. Her eyes were mischievous. “So what else did you want to show me?”

“Another surprise,” I offered.

“I don’t know if my heart’s going to be able to take it.”

“Come on,” I said, “this way.”

I drew her out of the garden and down a gravel path, toward the house. Above us, the stars were blinking in a cloudless sky, and the moon reflected in the river beyond the house. Branches dripped with Spanish moss, scraggly limbs stretched in all directions like ghostly fingers. The air carried the familiar scent of pine and salt, an odor unique to the low country. In the silence, I felt Jane’s thumb moving against my own.

She seemed to feel no need to rush. We walked slowly, taking in the sounds of the evening: the crickets and cicadas, leaves rustling in the trees, the gravel crunching underfoot.

She stared toward the house. Silhouetted against the trees, it was a timeless image, the white columns along the porch lending the home an almost opulent air. The tin roof had darkened in color over the years and seemed to vanish into the evening