Page 26 of The Holiday

"Ooh, I don't want to mess you up," Marigold says, stepping back from her. "You look like a vision.”

There’s an audible uptick in activity from the front of the church, and Heather’s eyes widen. “Wait. How do I get out there without everyone seeing me so that I can walk down the aisle?” It’s a logistic that hasn’t even occurred to her until now, and they are tucked away behind the altar.

“Side door,” Marigold says, pointing to the east side of the church. “Once everyone is seated, we’ll slip out that door and around the church, where you’ll enter from the front. Who is walking you down the aisle?”

A hard lump forms in Heather’s throat. For her first two weddings, her father had walked her down the aisle, his eyes proud, but growing more wary with each wedding. By the time he died, Heather was certain he thought of her as a joke, but the last thing her father had said to her as she sat next to him at the hospital, holding his hand amidst all the tubes and wires, was “You’re a lucky girl to have so much love in your life.”

And Heather likes to think that this is true: she’s had a few husbands, sure, but each one of them has brought an abundance of love, laughter, and joy to her life, and she feels like Dave could do the same…if he doesn’t change his mind.

“I’m just going to—“ Marigold is packing up her beauty supplies into a quilted makeup bag when there’s a knock at the door. Both women turn to see who’s standing there.

“Excuse me, ladies.”

It’s Dave. Heather jumps back in surprise, putting her arms across her body and squinting her eyes shut tightly like this will somehow make her invisible.

“No! No! No!” she shouts, shaking her head. “Dave, you can’t see me! It’s bad luck.”

Dave turns his back to her, and when she opens her eyes, he’s standing there, staring out at the empty hallway.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

Marigold zips her bag loudly and tucks it under one arm. “I’ll just step out,” she says, slipping past Dave. “Text me if you need anything else,” she whispers to Heather. “You look gorgeous.”

Dave keeps his back to Heather, but glances at Marigold as she walks away, giving her a close-mouthed smile and a nod.

“Heather.” Dave puts a hand int the pocket of his suit. “I need to talk to you.”

“I think this is bad luck,” she says. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be anywhere near each other before the wedding.”

“Honey, we’re both old enough to put aside superstition, don’t you think?”

Heather exhales loudly and reaches for the satin robe she’d been wearing before changing into her wedding dress. Just for good measure, she wraps it around herself like a backwards cape, the green satin covering most of the front of her dress.

“I guess,” she says. “But I’d still prefer it if you didn’t look at me.”

“I won’t,” Dave says mildly. “But listen. I had a visit from Ruby. And I understand that, while I know her intentions were good, my darling Celia might have inadvertently given you the message that she somehow disapproves of our union.”

Heather is quiet. She isn’t sure what to say that won’t sound slanderous towards Dave’s daughter, but she takes issue with the word “inadvertently.”

“I want you to know,” Dave goes on, “that adult children—though fully grown—don’t always act that way. And when it comes to their parents, maybe they never do. Celia understands that her mother is gone and that I loved Lila deeply, even still, but that I have the right to go on and find happiness for myself. We all have the right to love and be loved, don’t we?”

Heather stands there, holding the robe over her wedding dress and staring at the broad shoulders and back of the man she loves. She nods, though he can’t hear her.

“And as far as any sort of financial considerations, I really don’t think it’s any of her business,” Dave says. His warm, deep voice fills the room as jazz plays in the church. People’s hushed voices and light laughter are audible in the high-ceilinged chapel. “You and I have talked about our lives, our money, our properties, and our future, and I’m comfortable that we’re both coming into this marriage with what we have, and that our intentions are to not…is it bad luck to say this just minutes before our wedding?” Dave chuckles. “Okay, I’ll say it anyway: our intentions are never to dissolve our union. At least mine aren’t. And I trust that yours aren’t, either.”

Heather is blinking her eyes rapidly and staring up at the bright light coming through the window in hopes that it will stun her tear ducts and keep her eyes dry. There’s no way she’s going to run Marigold’s expert makeup and walk down the aisle of the church looking like a red-eyed, puffy frog.

“Of course my intentions are pure, Dave. I love you with all my heart. I want to be Mrs. Hutchens, and I want to make you happy for the rest of our lives.”

Dave laughs softly. “Or the rest of mine.”

“Stop,” Heather says. The tears really might fall if she’s not careful. “No jokes right now, okay?”

Dave turns slightly at the sound of a sniffle in her voice. "Can I just look you in the eye, Heather?" he asks softly. "I don't believe in bad luck when I've found such a good woman, and I want nothing more than for you to look me in the eye and know my intentions before we meet at the altar."

"Okay," Heather says. "You can turn around."

Dave twists around from the waist up first, glancing at her with one eye as if to be sure, and then turns his whole body around so that he's facing her. Heather lets the green robe fall.

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