Page 131 of Charlotte

Preacher Sutton stood with his Bible open while the lake shone behind him and the boards beneath their feet creaked softly in the water’s movement. Delly stood at Lottie’s side, trying not to cry. Jeb stood beside Cecil, broad and solemn and looking very much as though any man who objected to the arrangement would answer to him personally.

Cecil faced Lottie in the place where their story had begun.

The dock. The water. The memory of fallen books, hidden hands, and a man who had stepped back from a woman and forward for a ruined page.

Preacher Sutton smiled. “Are you ready?”

Cecil looked at Lottie.

“With all the fear I still have,” he said quietly. “Yes.”

That was the bravest answer he could have given.

When the vows came, he spoke his full name.

“Cecil Peterson.”

No flinch. No shame. Lottie felt Delly’s hand tighten around hers before letting go. Cecil reached for Lottie with his right hand.

The wrapped fingers were awkward. Stiff. Careful.

She placed her hand in his as if it were the finest place in all Washington Territory for a bride’s hand to rest.

His eyes shone.

Preacher Sutton’s voice carried over the water, over the watching town, over the little sounds of weeping from the Busy Bees. He spoke of covenant, of mercy, of two lives joined before God not because either life was unmarked, but because grace had room enough for every scar.

Then he pronounced them husband and wife.

For one breath, Cecil only looked at her.

“Now,” Lottie whispered.

He did not need to be told twice. Cecil drew her to him with his right hand still holding hers and his left arm coming firm around her waist. His mouth came down on hers in the full bright daylight, before God, the lake, the town, and every meddling woman who had helped bring them to this dock.

There was nothing careful about the first moment.

It was the ache of every almost-kiss, every stopped breath, every time he had looked at her mouth and chosen fear instead, finally given somewhere holy to go. It was a promise of forever.

Lottie rose into him, her free hand sliding up his chest to his shoulder, then into the dark hair at the nape of his neck because she had waited far too long to be polite about it.

A cheer went up from the beach. Cecil laughed against her mouth, and then kissed her again, softer this time, but not shyly. Never shyly again.

When he lifted his head, his forehead rested against hers.

“Mrs. Peterson,” he whispered.

Lottie smiled through tears. “Mr. Peterson.”

Behind them, Mrs. Beck sobbed into Mrs. Schulte’s shoulder while Mrs. Hanford declared dock weddings were irregular but not without biblical precedent if one considered fishermen.

Delly hugged Lottie so fiercely the bonnet nearly fell off her head. Jeb shook Cecil’s hand, then pulled him into a rough embrace, slapping him on the back.

At last, Cecil picked up the basket Delly made with his left hand.

“Is there pie?” he asked.

Lottie laughed, and the sound felt like sunlight returning to a room.