The Beginning of the End
Every story has a beginning and an ending. I've already told you the beginning, and now...now I will tell you the ending.
Or should I say, I will tell you the beginning of the ending?
It's all so confusing, the way life moves in circles.
The beginning of the ending starts back in San Francisco on another sunny day in summer. I stood by the window of my dressing room. I pulled the curtain to the side. I looked out over the dark green lawn of the country club, where all the guests milled about, cocktails in their hands and smiles on their faces.
I saw my parents, my mother dressed in a lovely white skirt suit, my father in his best tuxedo, white gloves on his hands that prevented him from tasting the assortment of h'orderves that circled the party on silver serving trays. He looked but he did not touch, keeping his hands clasped behind his back, biting back his temptation as he bit his lower lip.
I must have gotten the habit from him, because I, too, bit down on my lip, despite the waxy red lipstick that the makeup artist had just so carefully applied.
What can be applied can be reapplied, I thought distantly as I scanned the faces of the guests.
My eyes darted back and forth over their faces, stunned by the amount of strangers that were in attendance at my own wedding.
Who are these people? I wondered.
But even as I thought it, I knew I didn't care. Their faces were sorted out easily beneath my filtered gaze. Strangers and not strangers. Strange and not strange. I was looking for only one face.
She was no stranger, but should I see her here, on this day, amongst my wedding guests, it would most certainly be strange.
She's not coming, I thought. She never was.
I felt suddenly hot in the sunlight. I felt suddenly burdened by the weight of my dress. My heart pounded and I turned away from the window. I walked to the sofa and sat myself down, as carefully as I could, so as not to rupture the seams of the dress, which had only been sewn on minutes before.
I remembered the seamstress' warning not to make any sudden movements, and I wondered what she had expected me to do.
"So, no yoga?" I'd said.
She glanced up at me from where she kneeled by my side, tugging the last bit of string tight—not amused. She cut the string and stood.
"No," she'd said simply. "Now I must go check on the other Missus."
Then she was gone and I was left alone to wait for my father in his diligently pristine white gloves. Yes, I was to sit there and wait for him to escort me down the aisle, escort me toward my partner, my soon-to-be wife, my future, my new beginning.
My heart pounded against the seams, and I wondered why the seamstress hadn't warned against this. I wondered if a dress seam had ever burst from a beating heart. I touched my own forehead. I was sweating—another thing I was not supposed to do.
I stood. I walked to the mirror. I leaned in with a tissue in hand, and I dabbed at my own damp skin, careful not to obscure my painted face. Or was it the other way around? Was the makeup obscuring me? It was hard to tell.
The door swung open. I stood up, expecting my father, suddenly embarrassed at my flustered state.
But it was only Laurent. He held a white rose in his hand. When he saw me he smiled slyly.
"You'll soon have a visitor," he whispered as he leaned against the door.
My heart pounded! Pounded! I took a breath.
"Who?"
Please, let it be her, I thought. Just let it be her.
"A very special person, of course," he said.
"Who?"
"Oh...just your darling."
"Laurent, please be specific. I don't have time for your games."
His smile faded. I had hurt him with my tone, but he tried to brush it off.
"Do you have more than one darling?"
He had meant it to be playful, but I was not in the mood to play. I turned away, sitting again, less carefully this time, in front of the mirror.
"Delphine?" he said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I think my dress is too tight. I can't breathe!"
I pulled at the sides of the dress where it dug into my ribs.
"And I can't stop sweating! If I keep sweating like this I'm going to ruin my makeup, and we paid so much for that damned makeup artist!"
Laurent set the rose down on the table. With his hands on my shoulders he smiled at me through the mirror.
"Don't worry. Everything will be done within the hour. It's just nerves."
"I know," I said, reaching for the rose.
I twirled the thing in my hands, careful to avoid the thorns. I watched the white petals as they fell backwards, pulled by the centrifugal force. And when I stopped spinning the rose, the petals bounced back upright.
Yes, I thought. Things are spinning now. But soon, the spinning will stop. Soon, I will be upright.
"Besides," Laurent said. "I'm having some refreshments sent up. That might help take the edge off."
I twirled the rose again. I watched the petals spread wide, twirling, twirling, circles in circles. I thought I heard the sound of laughter. I thought I saw flashing lights, blurs in my vision, circles in circles, a laugh next to me. I closed my eyes.
She laughed with her face very close to mine. We stumbled down the crooked steps of the Whirl-and-Twirl 2000. She looked up at me, all the lights of the ferris wheel reflected in the lenses of her glasses.
"Do you want to ride it again?"
"Non, non. Once is enough."
"Oh, come on! Once is never enough!"
"Delphine?" Laurent said.
A thorn caught my thumb. My eyes snapped open.
"What?" I said.
"I thought it would be nice for our two lovebirds to have a little toast before the big moment!"
"Laurent, you didn't have to do that. We aren't supposed to see each other before the ceremony."
There was a knock at the door.
"Why not?" Laurent said, letting the waiter into the room.
"I don't know. It's tradition."
"And since when do you care about tradition?"
I glanced again at the white rose, at Laurent's white bow-tie, at my own white dress.
I heard her laughter again, close to my ear. A kiss on the cheek. A rustle of sheets as she propped herself up on her elbows. A lamp behind her. A shy smile on her face. Sounds of traffic passing outside in the late night air.
"What will our wedding look like?"
"Our wedding?"
"Yeah, I mean, you're obviously going to marry me."
"Don't you think you should propose first."
"Nah, I don't have to. I already know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. I imagine our wedding would be, like, super simple. No church. No minister. No strangers."
"Well, if that's all you want, we can go to the courthouse right now."
"No! That's not what I mean. I mean, I want it to be intimate, romantic. Just you and me, and the people we love. And like, none of that white purity bullshit."
"No white?"
"No way."
"What will you wear, then?"
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "I don't know. Maybe red."
"Of course," I said, touching her face. Kissing her mouth.
I set the rose aside and winced at the tiny prick it had left on my thumb.
"It's not me you have to convince," I said. "It's the other one. She says it's more romantic this way."
"Nonsense. What's more romantic than sharing a little private intimacy before the big moment?"
I shrugged my shoulders as the waiter rolled the table into the center of the dressing room. He wore white gloves, just like my father. He set out two champagne flutes, then removed the lid from the ice bucket and set it aside.
Something about the bottle caught my eye. The top of it was not wrapped in gold or silver foil. No, it was rather dark, and squared off, much more like a bottle of wine than a bottle of champagne.
"Enjoy," the waiter said calmly before making his exit.
Laurent walked to the table, reaching for the bottle, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it.
"Something's not right," I said.
"I told you it's just nerves," he said.
"No," I said. "Call the waiter."
"What?" he said, his hand resting on the bottleneck before pulling the thing out.
"That's not champagne," I said, standing suddenly, moving across the room, barely noticing the stretching seams at my side. "Call the waiter!"
"What are you talking about?" Laurent said, a dismissive smile on his face.
I tried to stop him, but even as I reached out, even as the freshly sewn seam stretched to it's breaking point, he didn't stop.
No, he pulled the bottle out, a dark wine bottle with a simple white label; a label that was now soiled because it was never intended to be dunked in a bucket of ice. But even through the blotches I knew what it said. I would recognize that label anywhere. In fact, I think I had recognized it as soon as the waiter had opened the ice bucket.
Laurent twisted the bottle in his hands, lifting it to his face and squinting.
"Well," he said. "What do we have here?"
"It's Cabernet Sauvignon," I said, my heart pounding. "Alpha Omega Cabernet Sauvignon."
"Do you know it?" he asked.
"Oui," I said, turning away from him.
"Well, should I call the waiter?"
"Non," I said. "I need to think."
"You need to think? There's not much time for..."
"Please, just shut up, Laurent."
I walked to the window. I pulled the curtain aside. I looked down over the dark green lawn, but all the guests were gone. Presumably, everyone had moved inside. Everyone had set themselves in the pews, the left side of the aisle for her family, the right side for mine. Everyone was waiting, now. Everyone except…
I saw a woman, just on the the other side of the lawn. I saw her only for a moment, dressed in dark red—of course—her hair tied up onto the top her head. But then she stepped out through the front gate and disappeared behind the ivy-covered wall.
I reached out. I pressed my hand flat against the window pane.
"Cosima…" I whispered.
The door opened and closed behind me.
"Melanie!" Laurent shouted. "There you are! I was beginning to think you'd rejected my invitation!"
I spun around—spinning, spinning.
There she was, just inside the door, her eyes wide when she saw me, her face bright with joy and anticipation, her lips pink, her eyes blue, her hair blonde.
She was my future. She was my fiancé. She was my soon-to-be wife.
She was not Cosima.