I STOOD ON a mountaintop, the background jutting beyond my shape, little scraggly upward arrows pointing to the heavens. The aroma of flowers permeated the air, but the California sunset illuminating the cirrus clouds added an ethereal energy to the nuptials. About a hundred people were in attendance, spread out around a circular shape, to witness the couple embrace in a beautiful clasp under a rugged, uplifted cross. Lacey had become Mrs. Carson Porter. The panorama effect of the mountaintop vista prevailed as a testament to God’s unbending grace upon the couple who swore to uphold each other for the rest of their lives. I was not the only person to cry.
It was Chelsea who nudged me as Lacey and Carson ran off, she lifting her bouquet into the air, and he lifting his wedding band hand. As the crowd cheered, Chelsea leaned into me and said, “Life has changed so much just in the past four or so months. Just think, only in May were we college kids.”
“I don’t want to say good-bye to that person I was.”
“Em, you haven’t gone anywhere.”
“You sure, Mrs. Chelsea Baycroft? I’m just shocked you ain’t pregnant yet.”
She elbowed me as we followed the groom’s and bride’s parents and immediate family. I turned my head for just a minute, allowing one last peek of Lacey’s serene wedding scene, praying to God that Malibu would remain as gorgeous forevermore.
Chelsea’s ring glimmered in the fading light of sunset streaking the sky, but somehow it was not too much of a distraction. We followed the other bridesmaids down to the limousine that would take us to the reception at the community church where Carson preached. The beauty of the recent wedding filled my mind like an already cherished memory, even though it still should have appeared fresh as a rose. At twenty-two, I had a failing memory.
It was close to eight o’clock when we arrived at the church hidden in the hills overlooking the mighty Pacific Ocean, a little light upon a hill. The hot mountains radiated energy as the crew pulled into the cool parking lot, where the wedding party hurried to the gardens to take pictures. Due to drought, the flowers were sparse or close to dead anyhow, but with the pink sky and love spread open like a buttered biscuit, the photos seemed like slivers of scintillating history.
As I watched Carson and Lacey’s kissing snaps, I took a piece of the lavender taffeta I held between my hands and imagined it as the color of my childhood bedroom, the place I’d found a lot of solitude and release as I grew up, from a sun-kissed tot to a bratty teen to a struggling young woman who practically lived on peanuts and cat litter.
Lacey was beside me quickly after this time of ponder, purple flowers peeking out from her gold hair. “Oh, Em. You just never give yourself a break.” She pulled me into a hug, Carson appearing behind her, so that we were in a virtual three-person embrace. “Did I tell you that you look beautiful?”
“It’s true,” Carson seconded.
“Stop this flattery. This is your night, Lacey. Somewhat your night, too, Cars.”
He rolled his eyes, a gold wedding band shining from his ring finger. “Emma’s always been your stubborn friend, but the one who gives life to every situation. Come on, Em, live a little. That means you better dance.”
“Or else,” Lace said, looking up to her man in picturesque love. “Okay, c’mon.”
She took my hand in hers, her husband to her right, and I to her left.