Wedding:
Creamy lace and marigold were the colours of Emily Byrd Starr's wedding. Incendiary orange splashed otherwise delicately white sheen. Emily's small ivory hands smoothed the crevices of her dress. She twisted Teddy's simple gold engagement ring unfettered on her finger. A smile played on her lips. She gazed across the gulf knowing that a mere turn of the heel would spirit her back to the Disappointed House: where guests were gathering and the age old Flash had finally wrung her dreams of milky stars and sky castles into reality. A step across the field would take her back to a house no longer Disappointed and to Teddy. It had only been late spring, she thought, when he had asked. His face was still ruddy from their heated discussion, his proposal was mouthed in husky tones, his breath lay tantalizingly close to her cheek. She had felt every pulse of him. She had leaned in and taken the hand that had so often clutched a pen to etch her onto paper. He had slipped a band on her finger and had been unable to keep is eyes from her lips.
After all of this Emily had months to plan and, more so, had months of dreamsprees. Dreams were so easy now. They flowed like a broken dam from their sleepy worlds to her heart, her mind, and her pen. If Emily's life had been a book (and she often thought that it was), this would be the end of her tale: the prompting of immortal bliss sealed with that long, infinite kiss as the reader turned the final page. Now, she stood at the threshold of her fairytale. She thought of brooding princes with grim jaws and lean hands who promised regal castles, turrets, gold banners and errands of valour and daring --if only for a chance to raise their heroine's hand to their lips.
"Dreaming, Emily?" Teddy insinuated, the sound of his familiar footfall behind her breaking her reverie.
Emily turned, a blush staining her cheeks.
"You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see me before the wedding."
But, Emily and the boy who had called to her across the miles knew that such conventions were beyond them. So entwined were they in thought and mind and heart that no sovereignty or convention could hold them.
"You don't really believe that." Teddy said playfully.
Emily shook her head.
"Good. Because I paid for all of this dream-come-true."
"Pardon?"
"You know", he said slyly, "From some gap-toothed peddlar."
Emily laughed.
"I earned it", Teddy continued, " I pocketed coins for a long time and traded them for a lapful of stars."
Domestic:
Emily stretched out on hearth of her own dear home, her cozy rug beneath her, faded sunlight through the window caught dust and wistful shadows as they settled on the mantle and floorboards of a house no longer disappointed.
Teddy watched her from the doorway, head to his side, bent on discovering the secrets that slipped through her fingers and onto her paper. Brushed, faded pictures were spread before her, as were yellow photographs, drabbles of writing and fresh ink spotted sheets --some from age-old Jimmy books--the evolution of her cursive.
"Where is it?" He asked knowingly. Emily, startled, whisked over a pile of fluttering papers and dribbles of Teddy's art: a waterfall of their history.
"If it's the what I think it is, Teddy, well then you know I burned it. And sometimes," she said ruefully, "I'm afraid I'll never get it back." She threw Teddy a teasing look, " But that is none of your business, Frederick Kent!" a kissable dimple dented the curve of her mouth. Teddy dropped to his knees and began picking up the scattered pieces of a life-in-writing, in imagination, in art. Teddy paused to look up at her. Well-schooled in his favourite subject, heread something like defeat in his beloved's violet eyes.
"You burned it."Teddy began,"That I knew. But Emily Kent isn't the kind of author who keeps everything just on paper!" he stroked her ivory neck, "It's behind that temple of yours, in the recesses of your imaginative little head. It's prying to get out."
Emily smiled and took his arm, steadied herself and jumped to her feet. Following suit, Teddy was placed level to her chin, her pixie face upturned to him.
"You'll get it back," he told her, unable to keep his eyes from searching her lips.
"I don't need it anymore."
"Writing?" joshed Teddy
"That story! I already have my dream-come-true. Why would I need to buy it?"
Teddy pressed his cheek to her hair. He sighed, "Someone had to buy your happiness. All happiness comes with a price."
"My book, "Emily nodded, "And Dean."
"You can bring them back, Emily, your book people and the past. Make them live again. Maybe let them taste a little of our happiness. The best books are those that you know", he brushed her lips, "That's worth any price. Pepper their lives with your italics" he mimicked old Mr. Carpenter, "and hazy purple dusks and magic!"
"Sell them dreams that may come true? That will come true?" Emily chewed her lip, "I have other work" she decided.
Teddy took her hand: "That was our story, Emily. That night with Perry. Do you remember?"
Emily closed her eyes. She would always remember: the haunted night with the strange, fleeting shadows and the Wind Woman dancing on the water rippling saucy little waves; The light of their makeshift fire sluicing the boards of the old barn where they had sought refuge; The peal of their laughter banishing the whispers of the rustling leaves. Emily had dreamt of wonderment. She had dreamt of happiness she could bundle and put in her pocket. Of romance, she had dreamt, fragrant and elusive. And, she had dreamt of a boy with curly black hair whose slender brown hands captured moonlight in charcoal and their happy childhood in the stroke of a brush. She and Perry and Teddy had been drunk on hope and stories. And the memories played before her now like an unending song.