Forbidden French

It’s midnight and the grounds of St. John’s are deserted and quiet. The moon looms large in the sky, our only light.

Emmett stands at the end of the dock, turned away from me, staring at the pine trees across the lake. He’s dressed in a black suit, nearly the same color as the calm water stretched out in front of him. Despite the late hour, he’s impeccable as always, not a single strand of hair out of place. He could have just walked off the pages of GQ.

I walk barefoot on the cold grass, having wisely discarded my heels a while back. My hair hangs loose, full of its natural wave. The long white dress I’m wearing once belonged to my mother. I found it while going through a few boxes of her things with my grandmother. I mentioned how much I liked it and, in secret, she took it to get cleaned and mended for me.

The dress is free-flowing, almost ethereal in its style and simplicity. It pairs well with the bouquet I foraged from the school’s garden. They’re roses I would have left for Emmett back in our youth, a little wilted, a little brown at the edges, still lovely.

I have no doubt I present quite a sight in the moonlight. I’m sure if my old St. John’s peers could see me now, they’d say, Told you she was a ghost all along!

The thought makes me smile.

Either Emmett hears the subtle creak of the wooden boards beneath my feet as I step up onto the dock or he senses my presence, because he turns to watch me walk toward him, down our makeshift aisle.

Tomorrow, we’ll dash off to Paris, dress in designer, and stand in front of a crowd of five hundred invited guests, smiling for flashing cameras as we say I do. We’ll fulfill the commitment our families expect of us. Tonight, however, is just for us.

Wedding planning has gone just as I expected it would. There was no hope of us having an intimate affair. Right from the start, my grandmother hired a team of professionals to bring her vision to life. Frédéric was no help either. At every turn, he never failed to add to the madness. More people, more press, more food, more flowers. The pageantry of the day will be on par with a royal wedding, and coverage of it will be splashed across newsstands come Sunday morning. I’ve already seen some snippets. After a two-year engagement, GHV heir is off the market and No luck for you, ladies—Emmett Mercier is officially taken and Have you SEEN the ring?

Emmett and I agreed early on to a compromise. Tonight was his idea.

One night, months ago, he returned from work to find me in the kitchen. I was standing frozen in front of our dining table, the antique wood covered in a mess of papers, swatches, sample booklets, and inspiration boards, all of it spread out in a heap in front of me. My to-do list was a mile long. It seemed like every few minutes my phone would ring with yet another question. What kind of accent flowers do we want to have on the reception tables? Are we doing cream tablecloths or ivory? Vintage white chairs or classic white chairs during the cocktail hour? Would we prefer passed hors d’oeuvres or a grazing table? A string quartet? A DJ?

Emmett walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around my body, and forced me to loosen my grip on a linen sample.

“This is maddening,” I told him. “I don’t want any of this.”

“I don’t either.”

“So then why are we doing it?”

He turned me slowly, bending to meet my eyes. He gave me no answer because he didn’t need to. He knew my feelings about the wedding, and he agreed. While it wasn’t our cup of tea, it was something my grandmother and his papa desperately wanted. And to be fair, I wasn’t against it completely; I was just too overwhelmed in that moment to remember my motives.

Emmett tugged me forward, though at first, I didn’t budge. His smile turned teasing, and eventually I relented, letting him pull me flat against him. I inhaled the scent of his cologne on his sweater and he bent to kiss my hair.

“Why don’t we return to where it all began and elope before the wedding? Just you and me.”

And so here we are cast in moonlight as Emmett slips my ring out of his pocket. While he holds it out just in front of my left ring finger, he looks into my eyes and tells me his promises of enduring love, of caring for me in sickness and in health, of forsaking all others and standing resolutely by my side until death do us part.

Then he moves the heavy oval diamond up and over my knuckle; it’s a perfect fit.

By contrast, my vows are near whispers. I don’t trust my voice to keep from shaking with emotion, but Emmett keeps ahold of my hands, squeezing them with reassurance.

When I’m done, I slip his gold band onto his finger, and then he cups my face and tilts it up as he kisses me with every ounce of love he has.

In Paris, we’ll kiss again up on the altar while our guests cheer us on excitedly, but out here, the moon and the lake and the pine trees are our only witnesses.

We’re married.

“It’s time for a dance,” he tells me.

On the end of the dock, Emmett leads me in our first dance as he softly hums the romantic tune of La Vie En Rose. We slowly sway together, my roses resting at our feet. He translated the lyrics of the song to me once while we lay in bed together. He told me I am his rose, he said being with me gives his life a pink hue, just like in the song.

We barely move, chest to chest, as his humming softly quiets. Then his mouth presses against my cheek, and he whispers, “You’re my life now, Lainey, mon cœur qui bat.”