It’s a much different scene two hours later when Mom pulls up in the huge sedan, hair freshly done and, from the looks of her pudgy toenails in the salon’s giveaway purple flip-flops, a mani-pedi in her recent history as well.
“Are you… crying?” I ask as she storms into the living room to find me polishing a pair of white shoes I found in the back of her closet.
“I just… it’s been…” she stammers, blubbering and resisting the temptation to hug me and pour mascara down the front of her old wedding dress. “I’ve forgotten what it looked like, Haley. You look so beautiful! It fits perfectly.”
“Now it does,” I croak, neck sore from hunching over her antiquated sewing machine all afternoon. “Did you forget you’re about two inches taller than me – and several more inches bustier!”
She fusses and tugs until the dress is just right, then urges me to lean – not sit – against the kitchen wall until she can find something suitable to wear.
She does so in record time, emerging in a crisp, subdued linen suit.
It’s off white and flatters her warm, sensitive face and flowing red hair.
“Come on, come on,” she urges, helping me down the stairs in the snug, form-fitting dress.
I try to squeeze in the passenger seat, but it’s pretty clear after try number four that it ain’t happening.
I eventually just spread myself out across the backseat and squeeze Mom’s shoes against the door after she slams it shut.
She takes to the street on two wheels, but even at her speedy pace I can see the twinkling lights of downtown Snowflake as its quaint and picturesque little gingerbread house looking stores begin closing in advance of Christmas Eve.
Their lights twinkle, their shop windows beckon as the owners lock the front doors and wish each other “Merry Christmas” before heading home.
Once more, I’m convinced we’ve made the right decision after all.
The Snowflake Senior Center has been transformed.
Glowing white Christmas lights are now entwined around the visitor drop off arch, twinkling in the night as I step from the car – with Mom’s help, of course.
The once empty parking lot is now full, and as the lobby doors hiss open to announce my approach, I can hear the strains of wedding music playing on a nearby organ.
I resist the temptation to cry, eager to see how Chuck is holding up.
Grandpa Logan sits in a wingback chair in the lobby, eyes closed amid the happy flurry of a hundred or so guests sitting patiently a few feet away in the common room.
Mom and I walk over, looking at each other uncertainly, until Grandpa Logan winks and, with much effort – and help from both of us on either side – takes to his walker.
“You look beautiful, Haley,” he says, voice thick with emotion, eyes moist with tears.
He teeters above the walker, his veiny hands gripping the metal edges tightly.
Even now, I wonder if he’ll be able to walk me down the aisle as we’d planned over lunch earlier that afternoon.
“Thank you, Grandpa Logan; you look very dapper as well.”
And does he ever, cloaked in a borrowed tux two sizes too big, but clean-shaven and his wild gray mane slicked back with what looks like a tube and a half of hair gel.
“So,” he winks at Mom. “Does she have them?”
“Have what, Cliff?”
“All four of the necessary elements for a long and happy marriage.”
“Oh God!” Mom and I say at the same time.
In all the hubbub, we’ve totally forgotten.
In the end, it’s Grandpa Logan who calms us down, and not the other way around.
“I believe the wedding bands Chuck picked up today are new, right?” he chuckles, putting our minds at ease. “And lord knows I’m old! Now that gown, if I recall correctly, is your mother’s, right dear? So you’ve got your something borrowed. But heaven’s alive, I don’t see anything blue...”
And, with trembling hands and stick thin arms, Grandpa Logan holds out a thin, silver chain at the end of which rests a tiny sapphire pendant.
Mom and I gasp at the same time.
“It was Chuck’s grandmother’s,” Grandpa Joe explains as I lift my veil and Mom clasps it around my formerly bare throat. “I wanted to bury her with it, but she insisted I save it for just such an occasion. It looks beautiful on you, dear.”
It feels cool yet warm against my skin, and I think once more how small our family is, yet how loyal and loving as well.
To think we might have gone through with our old wedding plans, elaborate and expensive as they were, and missed such magical moments with Grandpa Logan.
Mom inches behind us as I wind my arm through Grandpa’s and wait for him to inch toward the white French doors that lead into the spacious common room.
Inside I see two rows of chairs on either side of a hastily-made aisle.
Scattered occupants fill the rows, with plenty of seats leftover.
I look for familiar faces – Mom’s friends, my friends, Chuck’s friends – and see none.
Mom watches me and, over Grandpa Logan’s shoulder whispers, “Honey, at the last minute, and on Christmas Eve no less, what can you expect?”
I shake it off and look closely at the gray hair, bald heads, even blue hair of what look to be the Snowflake Senior Center’s finest residents.
“Don’t worry, Haley,” croaks Grandpa Logan with a watery-eyed wink. “None of my friends were too busy to show up. Now, keeping them awake, that’s another story…”
Just then a rail thin organist launches into an off-key rendition of the bridal march that couldn’t sound sweeter if Jim Brickman was playing it himself.
Some of the residents stand, most assisted by the nursing staff who seem more than happy about spending Christmas Eve at a wedding instead of dishing up sauerkraut and dinner rolls in the dining room like usual.
As the song continues, through first one verse then two, then three and four, I inch patiently along at Grandpa Logan’s side.
I can tell he’s struggling, but persistent; he wouldn’t stop and sit now if bodyguards manhandled him into one of the folding chairs on either side of the aisle.
Along the way I take in the Christmas trees in the front of the room, sparkling merrily, the giant silver ornaments dangling from the ceiling on thick gold thread and, of course, the back of Chuck’s trim physique in his newly-rented tux.
Make that, his newly rented powder blue tux.
“The country club has this annual Christmas Eve ball,” Mom whispers from behind, breath minty fresh on the nape of my neck. “Apparently it’s formal so all the black tuxes were taken by this afternoon. Still, doesn’t Chuck look dreamy?”
I have to admit, he does.
Even more so when, at last, Grandpa Logan and I reach the “altar,” or pretty much the space between the two towering Christmas trees where Chuck stands silently with a middle-aged man in black.
“Psstt,” Grandpa Logan whispers to Chuck’s back.
And then Chuck turns, sees him, sees me, and breaks into a smile brighter than 10,000 Christmas bulbs strung together.
He reaches instantly for my hand as I clasp his, his palms warm and moist.
Or, wait… are those mine?
None of it matters as Chuck leans over me and, with his free hand, hugs Grandpa Logan so tightly I’m afraid we’ll have to spend our honeymoon in intensive care!
He hugs Mom, too.
That is, before Mom gently leads Grandpa Logan to a seat a few steps away, where he lands with a contented sigh.
I don’t think he’ll be doing too much walking anytime soon.
At least until the New Year!
The ceremony is brief.
The man in black is no priest, but a justice of the peace whose parents happen to live in the Snowflake Senior Center!
“I know this is well past their dinnertime,” he tells us in confidence before the ceremony begins, “so I hope you don’t mind if I give you the abbreviated versi
on!”
After the day we’ve both had, Chuck and I nod happily; we’d probably do this over the internet by now if we could!
Ten minutes later it’s official; Chuck slips a simple gold band – “Lucky Value Mart was still open,” he whispers as he slides it over one knuckle – over my trembling finger.
I return the favor and the justice of the Peace says, “I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Logan.”
As we kiss, chastely because, please, look at the audience, Chuck sighs and says, “Thanks for suggesting this, Haley. I owe you one!”
He notices his grandmother’s pendant on the way to the “reception,” which is being held in the dining hall and features whatever the local caterer, Simply Snowflake, could whip up on two hours notice; we could care less.
The residents figure it’s better than creamed hash and ginger ale and Chuck and I are too ecstatic to worry much about filling our bellies.
“Grandpa Logan gave it to me for ‘something blue’,” I confess as Chuck handles the pendant gingerly, as if perhaps it has a life of its own.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, almost as if viewing it for the first time. “I’ve only seen it in pictures before, on Grandpa Logan’s dresser. You must mean a lot to him to part with this, Haley.”
As we watch Mom bring a heaping plate of pate and brie to his table, I lean into Chuck and whisper, “I hope one day we can show him how much he means to us.”
Chuck stretches out his arms, his big, robin’s egg blue arms and says, “I think we just did, Mrs. Logan!”
“Come on,” I say, dragging him to the table where Mom and Grandpa Logan are sitting. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starved, Mr. Logan!”
“Congratulations,” says Mom as Chuck grabs us each a plate from the sumptuous smelling buffet.
She pours us each a glass of champagne, even Grandpa Logan, even though it’s not on his list of “approved beverages.”
He waits until Chuck is back to offer a toast: “To the nicest couple I know. I hope you’re as happy as your grandmother and I were, Chuck. And Haley, I’m glad to call you a Logan!”
Mom winks at Grandpa and slides over an off white envelope.
“Here’s your present,” she says, winking. “It’s the best Cliff and I could do on such short notice.”
“Uh, how about the wedding was our present, Mrs. Madigan?”
“Uh, how about you call me ‘Mom’ from now on, Chuck?” Mom laughs. “And the wedding is only part of it. Every couple needs at least one wedding present.”
I open the envelope to reveal the brochure for the Snowflake Sophisticate, a hot new resort in the heart of downtown Snowflake.
The picture on the brochure shows floor to ceiling windows, a loft-type second floor and wooded grounds with an indoor swimming pool and racquetball court.
“I don’t get it,” I stammer.
“Cliff and I here pooled our funds and got you an all-expenses paid week at the Sophisticate, including their annual New Year’s Eve ball!”
“What?” Chuck chuckles. “But we loved sleeping on your futon couch, Mom!”
We laugh and Grandpa Logan looks proud to have played his part.
Chuck and I share a look and sigh.
“Here’s our present to you guys,” Chuck says, bowtie dangling from either side of his broad, athletic neck. “We were able to exit the lease on our condo in Miami early and, ever since we got into town last week, we’ve been quietly scouting places. As of January 3rd, we’ll be moving to Snowflake full time!”
Scattered applause greets the announcement, but Mom immediately leans in to ask, “But what about your graphics design company, Chuck? You can’t give that up.”
“He’s not, Mom,” I say, patting the sleeve of her off-white suit jacket. “Chuck can work from anywhere, and most of his staff is freelance anyway; they can work from home, too. Trust us, it wasn’t a decision we made lightly. But, with Grandpa Logan here and you being his primary caregiver, we just didn’t feel it was right to flit back to Miami after Christmas and wash our hands of family anymore. We want to be here, Mom; we want to help.”
Mom smiles and nods, then whispers to me, “But what about you, Haley? You were just starting to enjoy the Miami lifestyle, with all your volunteer work and making new friends. What are you going to do here in little Snowflake, South Carolina?”
I smirk and lean toward Mom as Chuck gets busy cutting Grandpa Logan’s prime rib.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that, Mom. Now that we’re downsizing and Chuck will be focused on growing the business, I was thinking maybe you and I should do something, you know… together.”
“Us? Together? Like what, Haley?”
“Like what?” I say, spreading my arms to take in the majesty of what Mom and I have been able to whip up in less than 12 hours; heck, in less than eight hours! “Like… wedding planning, Mom! Duh!”
At last Mom’s soft brown eyes fill with tears as she rushes to embrace me, the crush of her massive arms welcoming me back home, once and for all.
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. For more FREE romantic holiday stories just like this one, visit him at Seasons of Snowflake, https://www.seasonsofsnowflake.com.
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