As husband and wife.
Or wife and wife, or husband and husband.
Early this morning we made the trek to the Regional Justice Center in downtown Las Vegas, and they issued us a shiny Nevada license. Once we’re married here in the resort chapel, the officials will file the license and in a few weeks we’ll get a copy.
It’ll be legal in a few minutes.
I’ll finally be Mrs. McCormick in the eyes of the law.
A leisurely walk through the convention center section of the resort reveals the chapel, tucked away behind bright white doors, a little oasis of peace in the go-go-go atmosphere of the casino and malls.
The chapel is simple and stately, with pews that look like we could fit as many as fifty guests. Dark, polished oak contrasts with bright white trim and a soaring ceiling, support beams cutting through visually, the altar like the bow of a boat, the windows facing the elaborate gardens in the courtyard.
Tasteful flower arrangements dot the end of each pew and cover the altar, which isn’t religious. It’s ornamental, meant to be a symbol, a holding place for the wedding party.
The color scheme is generic yet complementary, sedate and yet welcoming.
It’s simple.
It’s quiet.
And there are no tauntaun cats acting as flower girl.
We have the license. Declan’s arranged for an officiate. Andrew and Amanda have agreed to be witnesses.
At 3:13 p.m., too many days after our original wedding date, we assemble, rings and hearts and all, and get ready to make what is true in our souls a legal record as well.
“Are you sure this is fine?” Declan asks for the third time, giving me pause. He generally asks a question once and takes the answer at face value.
“I said ‘yes’ twice. Why do you keep asking?”
“Because you look like you’re about to throw up, cry, and punch someone at the same time.”
“That’s just my Resting Bitch Face look.”
His eyes soften, compassion radiating out to me. “Shannon.” The way he says my name makes me melt. “You don’t have a Resting Bitch Face face.”
I try.
“You just look like you’re nauseated.”
I try again.
“You look like a Vermeer painting.”
I give up.
“You don’t look so calm, cool, collected, and like you have the pulse of a corpse yourself, mister.”
“I knew I picked you for your complimentary nature.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I’m right, though—he is nervous. What’s going on? As I start to ask, Amanda and Andrew arrive. Andrew’s wearing a lovely Armani suit without a tie, and Amanda’s dressed in Dior with high heels that carry the signature Louboutin red sole.
Las Vegas loves when people are in the red.
“Ready?” Amanda asks, giving me an extra-long hug.
“More than ready. You’re sure Mom and Dad don’t know?”
“Your mom was offered the opportunity to emcee a male strip-a-thon at the trade show convention for the adult sex toys.”
“What?”
“Which happens to be right now.” Amanda waggles her eyebrows. “I made a few calls.”
“What kind of people do you know that you can call to accomplish that?” I ask.
Andrew frowns and looks at Amanda. “Yeah. What kind of people do you know?”
“You’re the one who paid me to mystery shop the O spa,” she says, patting his cheek.
He sighs heavily, turns to me, gives me a hug that smells like limes and cardamom and soap, and a big, dazzling smile. Andrew looks around the room and declares, “Not a shred of tartan in sight!” then grabs Declan for a manly hug.
We all laugh.
Nervously.
James appears, a bit winded, his eyes settling on Amanda as he walks across the room, regal in his fine, dark wool suit, his hair a shock of grey against the collar.
“I have Marie firmly in hand,” he assures her.
“What did you do?” Declan’s voice is filled with a delicious mirth.
“I tried to offer her a position as the emcee for a ‘battle’ between two different male dance revues,” James explains.
Strippers, I mouth to Amanda, who giggles.
“But she said she and Jason are renewing their wedding vows.”
Declan, me and Amanda stare at him, mute.
“What? Where?” I peep.
“They didn’t say. She told me they want to be alone, and they’d be back later today.”
Any worries about not inviting Mom just went out the window. A wellspring of emotion rises in me, because it was one thing when I wanted to choose whether she attended.
It’s quite another to have that choice removed.
Amanda and I share raised eyebrows. “She’s up to something,” we whisper to each other.
James looks at Amanda with concern. “Your mother is in her room with Spritzy, resting. She said something about a flare?”
Amanda’s expression changes, matching James’. “I’ll check on her later.” She pulls back slightly, processing James’ tight worry. “Thanks.”
He nods and looks at Declan.
“May I have a word?” James asks, pulling him aside. Dec’s been nervous, touching something in his inside breast pocket, little sighs and toe taps unusual for him. Maybe it’s nerves, but there’s something else. The two huddle, heads together, one dark, one the color of ashes in a fireplace. In twenty years, Declan will be more ash than coal. In twenty years, I’ll be thicker and greying, with skin that wrinkles and fine lines from smiling so much that my love folds in on itself. So will Declan, his face marked by time spent being thoroughly, utterly, madly adored.