Author's Notes:
This story is a continuation of "Two's a Crowd." It's helpful, but not necessary to read that story first.
My sincere thanks to my beta, Diane B. Her reviews were incredibly timely and her wonderful suggestions only made this story better. Any errors that remain are mine alone. I've done my best to adopt British conventions, if not spellings. However, we Yanks sometimes get it wrong and, if I've done so, my apologies to our friends across the pond.
The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement on any legal rights is intended.
The story is rated PG-13 for adult themes.
Superstition has it that rain on your wedding day brings luck to your marriage.
I certainly hoped it was true as guests and participants alike huddled under umbrellas as they sprinted into the church to escape the late afternoon Portwenn shower. From the car window, I saw Roger Fenn with Maureen and their twins in a double pram with plastic rain cover, Joe Penhale resplendent in his dress uniform, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs whom I knew had been married longer than anyone in Portwenn, and so many others. All headed to witness Martin and me getting married. Finally.
At least this time, neither Martin nor I would be a no-show. Both of us were in the car, both of us would walk into the church, both of us would walk down the aisle and say our vows – assuming neither of us chickened out at the last minute.
Out of some odd sense of propriety, I'd decided we should spend our wedding eve apart. So, because weeks ago I'd given up my cottage, I'd stayed the night with Joan and awakened to the sound of squawking chickens. I must admit it was with a sense of intense relief that I watched Martin's car pull up to the farm precisely an hour before the wedding.
Now, we were finally at the church, dressed in our finery. Stepping carefully out of Martin's car, I looked down with dismay at my pale pink shoes that I'd carefully chosen to match my petal pink suit and which now were about to get extremely muddy.
"Here you go." Martin put his macintosh around my shoulders and held a large umbrella over my head. I tucked my small bouquet of fresh cut white roses close to my chest and together we quickly covered the short distance to the vestibule.
I could hear the organ music from inside as we approached. Mrs. Tishell, bless her, had agreed to play for us again. Although she still carried a torch for Martin, his return to Portwenn, Tommy's birth, or both seemed to have mellowed her a bit, at least when it came to her interactions with me. The tune she played was familiar, but I was no Roger Fenn when it came to music and I couldn't quite place the melody.
Inside, Martin deposited our wet things in a corner as I tried to brush the brown spots from my shoes, frowning as my efforts only succeeded in making them look worse.
Bert Large stopped by on his way into the church and stared down at me rubbing my shoes. "You're not gettin' the cold feet this time are you, Louisa?" he asked.
I looked up with a start. "Of course not, I was just—"
"What about you, Doc? Going to go through with it this time, are ya?"
Given the embarrassing disaster that was our first attempt at marriage, the question was fair. Still, I was curious as to how Martin would answer.
"Yes, Bert. We are going through with it, as you say."
"Good to hear." He nodded and made his way into the church.
"Leave them, Louisa." Martin said after watching me fuss for a minute. "No one's going to be looking at your shoes."
With a sigh of frustration, I gave up. "I suppose you're right. In a few minutes, we'll be married, dirty shoes and whatnot." When Martin didn't immediately reply, I looked up at him. "You do still want to get married, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"No cold feet, as Bert would say."
Martin shook his head and gave me an unusually warm smile. "None whatsoever. You?"
"No," I said. And then hoped that God wouldn't strike me dead for lying. That was a superstition I didn't need. Oh, I did love Martin and I did very much want to be his wife. But to say that no doubts had crossed my mind . . . I hoped there was a superstition that said a few uncertainties on your wedding day contributed to a stronger marriage.
I peeked into the narthex and was immediately overwhelmed with the sight and smell of flowers. Bouquets of every size and color lined the pews and altar – seemingly an army of roses and lilies and gardenias and carnations and . . . many more blooms I recognized but couldn't name. And the aroma of the lilies especially was overpowering and wonderfully beautiful. While it was breathtaking, I knew that I hadn't ordered anything nearly this elaborate.
"Do you like it?" Martin's voice came from behind me, his arm gently squeezing my waist.
"It's . . ." Words escaped me. "Oh, Martin, it's . . . thank you." I turned around and kissed him on the lips, wondering if it was unlucky to kiss the groom before being granted permission from the vicar.
Roger Fenn came rushing up. "Well, I'm glad to see you're actually here this time," he said even as his broad smile gave away his true feelings. "As the best man, I'm responsible for you at least," he added, pointing to Martin. "Wouldn't want to be remiss in my duties, now would I?"
I'd decided to dispense with having Roger stand in for my father. I was the mother of Martin's child; I no longer needed anyone to "give me away." So, Martin had asked Roger to stand up for him.
And I'd chosen . . . I looked around. Where was she? Where was Joan and, more importantly, where was Tommy? She was supposed to bring him in the outfit I'd chosen for this special day. It wasn't like her to be late – especially not for her nephew's wedding.
Martin and Roger were chatting about something meaningless. I poked my head outside – there was still plenty of rain but no sign of Joan. I was now starting to worry.
"Martin!" I interrupted him in mid-sentence. "Where's Joan? She's not here."
He stared at me as if I were bodmin. "I'm sure she'll be along soon, Louisa. The wedding doesn't start for another fifteen minutes."
"But she's not here! And Tommy's not here." For some reason, it seemed important that they were both here now, right now.
"It's all right, Louisa." Roger was now giving me a strange look. "She's probably just running a little late. No doubt they'll be here any minute."
"I'm sure they're on their way," Martin added.
"What makes you so sure? Anything could have happened." I looked at Martin, worry now turning to panic. "Martin, we're talking about our son. He's missing." The flowers, the guests, my shoes, the wedding and everything else other than Joan and Tommy's whereabouts suddenly seemed unimportant.
"Louisa." Martin's hand was on my arm and he was giving me what I knew to be his clinical gaze. "Calm down. I'll just ring Joan—"
Right. I allowed myself a breath. He could call Joan and make sure everything was all right. But if she was in the car, she'd have to talk while driving . . .
Mrs. Tishell started playing another hymn as Martin pulled the mobile out of his pocket. He'd talk to Joan, tell her that we were waiting for her. Inside the church, the guests were chatting contentedly. The flowers shone. Martin's wedding band was securely in the pocket of my suit. The vicar was sober. Everything was going to be perfect.
Martin punched in the number for Joan's mobile. Something was messing up the hymn – it was a noise in the distance.
Martin frowned at the mobile. No one had answered.
I could now make out the competing sound. It was a siren. The familiar wail that one heard all the time as the ambulance or police car passed you on the road, secure in the knowledge that it was someone else in trouble.
The wailing persisted, getting closer and louder and more desperate. I turned toward the sound.
Now it sounded like . . .
Tommy! I opened my eyes. Across the room in the cot, Tommy was crying. I glanced at the clock – 3:43 in the morning. Oh god, I'd last fed him around eleven. He was hungry.
I pushed aside the sheets dragged myself out of bed. An hour to feed, burp and change the baby meant that I wouldn't get back to sleep until nearly five. I now routinely rose at 5:30 to get done everything I needed to do, which meant that I'd get no more sleep before heading off to school.
And, I realized with a sigh, there was no wedding. Tommy was safe and sound in my room. And, I was certain, Joan was asleep in her home. And Martin was undoubtedly in the bedroom above his surgery – also sleeping soundly while I awakened in the middle of the night to feed our son.
There was no "us," no family and no white picket fence. There was Tommy and me and, across the harbor, Martin. Which, I supposed, was better than Martin in London.
It had all been a dream, a cruel and lousy dream.
And yet, marrying Martin still filled my dreams.
