The Best is Yet to Come
Part 1 of 5
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 20,448 (Part 1: 3,891)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: The best things in life are worth waiting for, and other later-in-life musings (and surprises).
Disclaimer: It's my tangent, but not my characters.
Notes: I didn't think I would return to this universe (tentatively called "the Ella universe") but there was something about this story, even Ella's growing and maturing, that was sort of calling to me. Plus, at least one person wanted to see a wedding for this particular Bridget and Mark. *grin*
Honest to goodness, I plucked this title from Frank Sinatra's "The Best is Yet to Come"… and just now, while in the shower, it occurred to me that it's also in Van Morrison's "Someone Like You". Talk about serendipity!
It suddenly made sense why people said that rain on one's wedding day was good luck. There was really no way to make oneself feel better about the fact that it was pissing down on what was supposed to be the happiest day in one's life. Hunkering down over a toilet puking one's guts out probably could have, in a similar vein, been considered equally lucky.
She stood upright, thankful she at least had not yet put on her dress. She flushed then went to the sink, splashing her face to get the redness out, then swished out her mouth with rinse.
"Bridget? Everything all right in there?" Her husband-to-be, Mark, on the other side of the door.
"Go away!" she called back playfully. "I don't want you to see me."
"That's going to be a little difficult," he called back, "seeing as I need to shave and shower."
"Dad." Her stepdaughter-to-be, Ella. "Don't you know it's bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day? Go use my bathroom. I'll get your stuff."
She smiled, glancing up to the door of the bathroom just as the girl's bright, cheery face peeked through the widening crack of the door, but Ella's expression fell as she saw the state of dress—or lack thereof, as Bridget was only clad in a robe. "Good grief!" she exclaimed. "Why aren't you all made up yet?"
"Feeling a little nervous," Bridget admitted with a half-hearted grin. "Tossed my cookies just now, as you're wont to say. Or rather, my coffee."
"Oh no," she said, her wide hazel eyes filled with concern, but then she smiled. "I don't blame you being a little nervous, but really, this doesn't change a whole lot about things." Bridget felt instantly at ease at her innocent wisdom; she was right, of course. In the six months since this girl—and more significantly, her father—had come into her life, in the four months since she'd taken up residence under this roof, nothing had been quite the same, and she honestly wouldn't have it any other way.
"Ella!" came Mark's voice again. "Shaving kit, please. I need to shower now."
"Better go," said Ella, her grin turning sheepish. "He won't say so, but he's nervous too." She grabbed his shaving kit, then headed out the door, calling back over her shoulder, "If you want my help, let me know."
She looked at her reflection in the big mirror and felt her stomach lurch again. 'A little nervous', nothing; she had never been so nervous in her entire life.
The queasiness in her stomach did not abate, though she did her best to ignore it as she applied her makeup and fixed her hair with a thin, pearl-encrusted hair band amidst her loose curls, in lieu of a veil. They had opted to do a quiet, private ceremony at the Law Society Hall; with Malcolm Darcy's health much improved since his son's return to the UK, Mark's parents would make a weekend of it in London. With most of the old family friends now gone, it didn't seem sensible to have everything in Grafton Underwood.
As she put the dress on, looked at herself in the full length mirror, instantly wishing she'd been able to drop a few pounds prior to that day. She took in a deep breath, telling herself to forget such nonsense. Mark loved her as she was, and the shape of the dress was an utterly forgiving one: it was made of soft ivory silk, and it had a flattering, gently rounded neckline embellished with pearls, an empire waist and a slightly flaring a-line skirt that went to just above her knees. She smiled. It really was quite the find and she felt absolutely beautiful in it.
"Bridget! Aunt Shazzie is here."
She grinned; she loved how well Shaz and Ella got along, though had been a little worried that Shaz' natural tendency to use the f-word in great abundance would inadvertently influence the girl's vocabulary. Thankfully, to date it had not. "Come on in."
Ella came into the room, dressed in her own outfit for the day; it amazed Bridget how grown up she had started to look the closer she got to her sixteenth birthday, especially with her hair all pulled up and away from her face. Right behind her was Sharon, looking stunning in a green dress and upswept hair. "Look at you, Bridge," said Shaz. "You look fantastic."
"You look fantastic!" Bridget replied.
"But it's your day," said Shaz with a grin, "and you look really great."
"I feel really great," she admitted, "aside from the legion of butterflies dancing about in my stomach."
"Are you all set?"
She nodded; she had her clutch packed and ready to go, and only need step into her shoes. Ella had already declared she would ensure a clear, groom-to-be-free passage on the way out, but for the ride to the hall, she would be accompanying her father. Fully prepared for her duty, she said, "Let me see if the coast is clear," before darting out of the room again.
"I should have made her wear flats," said Bridget with an air of amusement. "She's tall enough as it is."
Shaz laughed. "She was born with all the potential to be a stick insect ice queen… thank God she's been out of the clutches of her mother all this time."
"Even though she'd likely agree," said Bridget with quiet voice and a smile, "watch your volume. That stick insect is still her mother."
"Right-o." Faintly they heard Ella call out the all-clear, so they walked through the house, to the first floor, and towards where Ella stood waiting.
"You look gorgeous," said Ella, beaming.
"Thank you."
"This is, like, the best day ever."
"Go on back to your dad," teased Bridget, "and make sure he doesn't get caught up in an endless ascot loop. I'd hate for his first tardy appearance in our acquaintance to be on our wedding day."
Ella grinned. "See you in a little while."
They climbed into Sharon's car—she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake in not renting something a little more suited to the occasion—and they were on their way.
She was thankful that for an April afternoon it was not showering, which brought her thoughts back to good-luck rainstorms. Did it stand to reason that no rain was bad luck? A fit of irrational trepidation overtook her. This was the most right thing she'd ever done, and the two of them together had already slipped into a life that was both comfortable and yet exciting. There was really no big deal about making it permanent or legal, because she knew heart and soul this was what she wanted for the rest of her life. She knew that the nausea had nothing to do with logic.
It was, unfortunately, also very real.
"Shaz," she said desperately. "Pull over now."
"You are not backing out of this!" said Sharon. "This is the best thing—"
"No," said Bridget, her hand on her stomach. "I'm gonna be sick."
"Oh, shit," she said as she lurched the wheel to the left and to the kerb, threw the gear into park, then reached into the back seat for an empty paper sack and thrust it onto Bridget's lap. She was thankful for her overcoat and for the sturdy construction of the bag, and for not having too much in her stomach to begin with. It kept the dress from being a casualty of sick.
"Shazzie," said Bridget in a feeble voice afterwards. "Please tell me you have a box of mints."
"Bridget," said Sharon, digging into her handbag and finding the mints. "Are you sure you're all right? Jesus, you're white as a ghost."
"Just nerves," said Bridget, taking a deep breath. "I'll be fine. Go on."
"Hang on to that bag," warned Sharon, pulling back out into traffic again, but thankfully they managed to make it to the hall without further interruption.
She was immediately herded off to a room to keep her out of Mark's sight, and found two old friends waiting there to greet her: Jude and Tom. She was so happy to see them she almost began to cry, but was quickly admonished by Tom for doing so; Tom, whose years of domestic bliss in the US had done nothing to diminish his sense of the dramatic.
"Don't you dare cry, Bridgeline," he demanded, taking her face in his hands and brushing his thumbs under her eyes. "You will ruin this astounding makeup job. My God, you look fantastic. Living with Mr Perfect Pants has made you look twenty years younger."
"Very funny," she said, though she smiled all the same. She really hadn't seen Tom or Jude in far, far too long. As she contemplated the past, her eyes went teary again of their own free will.
"I said none of that," commanded Tom.
"No, no, I'm fine," she said. "Just thinking how I wish my mum and dad could be here."
The three of them smiled and exchanged glances. "Oh, Bridge, we know," said Tom. "Just think about how your mum is likely crowing now, boring God stiff with her bragging that you snagged Mark Darcy at last."
At this she couldn't contain a laugh, and embraced Tom again. "I have missed you so much," she said, her voice muffled by his hair. She pulled away to look at him. "Will you walk me out? Give me away?"
"Oh, Bridge," he teased. "I wondered when you might ask. Of course I will."
"And Jude," said Bridget. "I am so glad you could come after all. Is Richard here?"
She shook her head. "He had to stay behind for work, but he wanted me to tell you how he wished he could have come, and how happy he is for you."
The two friends embraced, and were just pulling apart when there was a knock at the door. "Bridget?" It was Ella.
"Stepdaughter," she explained, at which their brows shot up; Tom and Jude had not yet met her. Bridget then said, "Come in."
She stepped in, smiling shyly at Tom and Jude, bearing a small bouquet of white roses that she handed to Bridget. "I just wanted to let you know that Dad's here. He's ready and waiting, and we're gonna start very soon."
She felt her stomach do a little flip; it was nothing approaching the nausea she'd had earlier, which she was very thankful for. "Thanks. By the way, Ella, these are two of my very best friends in the whole world: this is Tom, and this is Jude."
"Nice to meet you," the girl said politely.
"And this is Elaine, Mark's daughter. Ella for short, to avoid confusion with her grandmother."
"Ah," said Jude. "Well, it's nice to meet you too."
"We'll talk later, I'm sure," said Tom, "but right now we have a wedding to go to."
They all walked out; Ella led them to where the wedding was actually being held, in one of the banquet rooms. Ella peeked her head into the room and gave the thumbs up sign, grinning like a maniac.
When the music started up—a violin playing the traditional wedding march—time seemed to go a little fuzzy and elastic; she remembered Ella walking in first, then Jude and Sharon, and then after slipping her hand through Tom's elbow, she took that first step forward into the room. She heard murmurs of approval from the assembled guests as she appeared, had a vague awareness of Jeremy and Giles from the office standing at the front of the room as groomsmen, but the only thing she truly saw with any clarity or definition was Mark himself, looking handsome in a crisp black tuxedo, a perfectly tied ascot, and a beaming smile on his face as he looked at her.
Tom did the honours of symbolically handing her over, kissing her cheek with a small sob he couldn't disguise before Mark took her hand with his own. The vows as legally required were read, and she replied accordingly, hardly able to take her eyes off of her imminent husband.
Ella had been entrusted with the rings, and she was called forward to hand them over in turn. Bridget's band was lovely and light, gleaming platinum to match her solitaire; his was a twin to hers yet was somehow more solid, though still gorgeous and looked so natural on his finger there she felt like she had to pinch herself to believe it was really happening, that he was really marrying her.
All of these thoughts were interrupted by the singular declaration that Mark could kiss his bride, and with that, with his tender look down to her and gentle kiss upon her lips, she snapped out of her trance to the sound of hoots and hollers of delight. She broke away, blushing furiously as she looked to her guests; it was not a large gathering, but it was all of the people she most wanted there.
Mum probably is boring both Dad and God stiff with her bragging, thought Bridget with a smile, and I'm not sure which is more horrifying. She was a little sad at their absence, even though she never really felt that they were too far away.
She felt his hand slide along her waist, heard him whisper in her ear, "Third time's a charm."
It was exactly what she needed to hear at that moment; looking up to him, tears of happiness spilled down onto her cheeks as she laughed. She knew that at one time his first two failed disasters of marriages would have been a very sore spot with him, but now that he had (in his own words) gotten it right, he could make light of it, and had easily and frequently done so since she'd agreed to marry him. They stepped forward to sign the legal documents along with their witnesses before turning and facing their friends and family, her arm on his elbow, feeling like her face was glowing with happiness as she smiled more broadly than she had in years.
A young female voice rang out over the din: "I'm honoured to be the first to introduce you all to Mr and Mrs Darcy."
Bridget glanced over to see Ella grinning back at her; that kid had a set of lungs on her, and this time it had come in quite handy. Mark held out his arm and Ella came near to embrace him… to embrace both of them.
"This day rocks," she said quietly. Bridget couldn't help but chuckle.
"Yes," he said with equal solemnity. "It certainly does."
………
After some posed pictures during which pre-lunch appetizers and drinks were served, they talked to practically everyone in turn. Mark's parents hadn't looked so robust in ages; Mark attributed it to their contentedness with their son's life.
"Bridget!"
She turned to see Una Alconbury, widowed for about a year now, smiling brightly up at her; aside from looking older and a bit greyer, she was the same old Una with the pastel two-piece and effusive personality. She didn't see Una as often as she used to, but they talked occasionally on the phone. Bridget saw her as a surrogate mum of sorts.
"Hello, Una." She held out her arms to embrace the older woman. "So glad you came today."
"Wouldn't have missed this for the world," she said smugly, then turned to hug Mark. "And Mark, you're a real sight for sore eyes. Oh." She clapped her hands together and continued to grin. "Can't tell you how happy this makes me. I knew it all those years ago that you two were perfect for each other. Knew it." Bridget swore that she actually had tears in her eyes. "Just had a feeling, you know?"
Bridget looked up to her new husband and wondered if was thinking the same thing she was: we should have listened to those bloody hens.
After fluttering a few moments more, Una went over to where the seemingly unchanged Penny Husbands-Bosworth was standing and chatting with the officiator of the ceremony. Mark slipped his hand around Bridget's shoulders and spoke quietly in her ear. "Your mum's got the heavens covered and Una, the earth."
It was spooky, almost like he had read her thoughts of earlier, and she looked up at him. Surprise must have been evident on her face.
"I'm only saying what I know you're thinking," he said; "well, that and Tom confided the same to me."
At that she laughed. With the way he smiled at her, she could only think herself the luckiest woman in the world to be so adored for laughing like a fool.
As they continued to mingle and prepare for the wedding lunch proper, Bridget felt a seed of nausea began to grow in her gut. She tried to ignore it, push it down, will it away, but it got worse and worse, until finally she could ignore it no longer without causing a memorable scene at her reception—and not memorable in a good way. "Mark, Penny," she said suddenly, interrupting Mark mid-sentence in conversation with the woman, "excuse me for just a moment. Thanks."
Without waiting for Mark to ask the inevitable probing questions, she bolted off towards the ladies in the hallway. She made it to the loo and to a toilet just as the sickness hit her. She was fortunate to not sully her lovely dress, appreciative that old, drinking-day habits hadn't faded away.
She heard the click of heels on the tiled floor. "Bridge?" It was Sharon. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah," she said, exiting the stall, going to the sink to wash her hands then splash her cheeks with cool water. "Maybe I ate a bad hors d'oeuvre or something."
"Maybe you're just fretting about your honeymoon," she said with a smirk, "and leaving the lovely Ella with evil Auntie Shazzie."
"Oh, yes," said Bridget sarcastically with a wan grin. "I'm tearing myself up inside about something I asked you to do myself."
"Seriously, though," Shaz asked. "How long has this been going on?"
"A few days," she replied. "I'm sure it's nerve-related, and that this is just residual."
"Maybe it's a stomach bug," her friend responded. "Maybe you should get checked out before your trip."
There was at that moment a firm rap on the ladies' room door. "Bridget? Are you in there?" Unsurprisingly it was Mark's voice.
She called back, "Yes, be right out." She held her hand out for a breath mint, which Sharon had anticipated and so put one in her palm. She popped it into her mouth, then strode out of the ladies to find Mark looking very worried.
"What happened?"
"A bit of a nervous stomach," she said. "All's well now."
He did not look convinced. "Ella told me that you were sick before, too. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Nerves," she reiterated, clenching her teeth slightly and feeling momentarily peeved at Ella for ruining the romance of the day for him. "Really, I'm okay."
"Maybe you should see the doctor before we go," Mark said.
"That's exactly what I said!" stated Sharon in a self-righteous tone.
"Really, all this fuss over an anxious bridal state," said Bridget.
The worried lines in his face smoothed out and he smiled. "It's my duty and pleasure to fuss over you," he said lovingly, placing more emphasis on the latter as he slipped his hand over the small of her back to pull her close and kiss her forehead. She thought all was smoothed over until he said firmly, "If it happens again, you're going, and I'll brook no opposition."
………
The indignity of spending what was supposed to be the start of her honeymoon sitting on a coolly impersonal examination table was almost more than she could bear, as if anything the doctor told her could prevent her from carrying on with said honeymoon. Sighing loudly in the hopes that Mark could hear her from the waiting room—likely impossible, but it made her feel better all the same to do it—she tried to think instead of the wedding itself with a glance to her left hand; the sight of the rings all snug together on her finger replaced the pout on her lips with a smile. She also thought fondly of their wedding night, filled with all manner of luxury, romance and pampering until she'd woken up that morning only to have to dash into the loo once again.
Which brought her to why she was here now. She frowned once more.
Her doctor had given her a thorough once-over at Mark's insistence, collected all of the standard bodily fluids, and asked that she be patient for a few until the lab results came back and he had a chance to look them over. She sighed again. They could have already been in the car on the way up to their little all-amenities cottage in the country.
After what felt like hours, the door peeped open and the doctor came back in. She had a very difficult time reading his expression. He had a manila folder in hand, came in without a word, just met her eyes then offered a small, polite smile of the sort doctors offer when they have bad news to impart.
She suddenly became terrified. "What's wrong?" she blurted out.
"Nothing's wrong," he said. "I'm just a little mystified."
She did not at all approve of her health being classified as a mystery. "What is it?"
"The results are back," he said, "and are normal across the board… but there's one result that quite astonishes me, all things considered."
She widened her eyes, anxious to hear the news. "Come out with it already!"
As her doctor told her, his smile turned into a more genuine one.
She shook her head. "That's impossible," she said, her mind reeling.
"Improbable, yes; impossible, no."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes."
She was glad to have already been sitting, for surely she would have dropped to the ground. She stared out crazily at nothing, her thoughts turning over and over.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Obviously this is a big shock to you. Perhaps I should have gotten your husband."
"No," she said weakly, fixing her eyes on him again. "Big shock, yes, but I'd rather tell him myself."
"I'll have someone get him to walk out with you."
The doctor left again. She sat there, thankful she had already dressed herself, because she was not certain she could have done so on her own; she was still too stunned to process what the doctor had told her, and now she had to tell Mark.
The door opened again and she glanced up. He looked concerned as would be expected given that the nurse had just come for him, but when he had a moment to take in her undoubtedly pale and shaken visage, he looked positively stricken.
He came close, sat on the exam table beside her, and reached out his hand to take hers in it. Once firmly in place, he said calmly, "Whatever it is, we can handle it."
She felt her lip trembling. "Mark," she began, her voice papery. "It's… I, uh. I'm somehow… pregnant."