Weddings, weddings everywhere!

This one, though, is personal.

This is for my baby girl, who is getting married tomorrow. She's going to stay with me tonight and we'll stay up late talking and traveling down memory lane. I'll get out photo albums so I can remind her of ballet costumes she hated, of how often she fell asleep at the table rather than give in to our "one bite of everything" dinner rule, and of those days when she was a teenage pain in my ass. We will share a bottle of wine and I'm sure we'll both cry and tomorrow, I'll stand in front of her and the man she loves and ask them to say "I do." And then we'll all cry some more.

Hug your babies. They grow up in the blink of an eye.

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He looked up before he stepped out of the house. He saw her, sitting with her back against the thick trunk of the tree, just visible through the heavy foliage of leaves already painted in the colors of autumn, chin resting on folded hands atop bent knees. He let the door fall shut quietly behind him and crossed the yard.

Two steps up the boards that formed a ladder on the outside of the tree and his head popped above the floor.

"Can I come in?"

Chin still on her hands, Christine looked at her father and smiled. "Did you bring a juice box?"

In answer, he lifted a dark green bottle, his grin as wide as hers. "Champagne. I thought it was a bit more appropriate." He took her laughter as an invitation and climbed inside, folding himself into a seat beside her in space that seemed a lot smaller now than it was occupied by two adults. His jean-clad knee brushed against the smooth skin of her calf, left bare by a pair of denim shorts.

Having already opened the bottle before going in search of her, the cork popped out easily. He removed a straw from the pocket of his t-shirt and passed it over. "I was told to remind you not to mess up your lipstick."

She took both offerings from his fingers. "Let me guess - Madison?"

"Petra," Booth corrected, his face bemused. "And she used her teacher voice so you should probably listen to her."

Christine snickered. "Or what, she'll take away my bathroom privileges?" Regardless, she held the straw in place within the neck of the bottle and sipped carefully. Sitting in the sun-dappled shade, she made an incongruous picture loosely buttoned into one of his old shirts, fringe from the frayed cut-offs dangling across her thighs, with her face carefully and expertly made up, her hair done in an elaborate twist of braids and curls.

She offered the bottle and straw to her father wordlessly. When he declined with a shake of his head, she dropped her knees and folded her legs in a copy of his pose.

Booth watched her carefully. A random beam of light picked up strands of fire in her hair. She was beautiful, and so much like her mother his heart ached. "You okay?" His voice was soft.

She mouthed the word "yea," but no sound escaped over the constriction that suddenly closed off her throat. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared through the canopy of leaves that surrounded them, to the rear of the home where she'd spent her childhood. He was silent while she gathered her composure. "Just . . . remembering," she managed finally.

"It's a good day for it." The words rumbled up from his chest as he, too, felt the tug of heightened emotion. The sparkle of diamonds at the nape of her neck caught his eye; he reached out with one fingertip and gently touched the glittering dolphin tucked into her hair. "I remember when your grandfather gave this to your mother. It was her something new."

Smile wistful, her hand lifted to graze the ornament, too. "And now it's my something old."

Booth's eyes lost focus as he thought about that day in Brennan's office. "He made her cry."

Christine's mouth fell open in playful surprise. "And he lived to tell about it?"

"Just barely."

She chuckled at his grumble and then sighed. "I miss him."

"I do, too," her father admitted grudgingly. "Old bastard."

Christine bumped his shoulder with hers in a gentle scold before she took another sip of champagne. Setting the bottle aside, she looped her arms around her knees and looked around. "I always loved this fort."

"I remember building this thing." Booth placed both hands palms down on the weathered floorboards and leaned back slightly as his gaze swept up and over the interior. "You were four when I finished it."

Christine fiddled quietly with the straw and listened with pleasure to a story she already knew by heart.

"It was just before Zach was born," he continued. "Your mom was, whew . . ." He blew out a breath and reached one arm out as far as he could stretch in front of his stomach. " . . . Huge." He glanced at Christine quickly. "Don't tell her I said that." She looked up then, with a roll of her eyes and a smile. "Anyway, she insisted I had to get this finished before the new baby got here." He chuckled at the memory. "She'd stand at the door down there, trying to keep you inside the house and out of the yard because there were boards and nails and tools everywhere, and she'd yell up at me if she thought I was doing something wrong . . . and she always thought I was doing something wrong." There was amusement in his voice as he relived the moment. "But," he patted the wood beneath his hand, "I got it done, just in time." His eyes glinted mischievously as he glanced at his daughter. "And a couple of months later, we found you and Michael up here, both of you naked as the day you were born."

"Oh, God." Laughing, Christine dropped her head to her knees. "I wish you would stop telling that story!"

"You know," he grinned as he tagged her with an out-thrown elbow, "it's probably your fault he's gay. You scared him."

"Dad!" Giggling, face red, she slapped at his arm. "I'm going to tell him you said that."

Booth's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think he knows he's gay.""

"Stop it!" The pretend outrage faded quickly; one eyebrow quirked up in a gesture she'd learned from him. "At least Michael and I are the only people who've been naked up here," she said pointedly. "It's probably the one place you and Mom didn't . . . Dad!" She shrieked with surprise when Booth's gaze slid away. "Not my treehouse!"

"I'll take a sip of that champagne now." He reached for the bottle.

"My poor treehouse!" Christine pouted theatrically and rubbed circles in the wooden floor beside her knees. "You were defiled!"

Silently, Booth offered her the drink, his expression full of mock apology. She grabbed it from him, laughing.

"Oh!" Another memory rose suddenly. "Remember when Kennedy and I were going to sleep up here and Parker came out and basically told us the story of Pet Sematary? We didn't last twenty minutes after dark before we ran screaming back inside."

"I remember that."

"You made Parker build a tent for us in the living room," she continued, her smile wide as the scene unfurled in her mind, "and then told him he had to sleep downstairs with us."

"Well, he broke it," Booth grunted. "He could fix it."

"Did I tell you I heard from her?" She nodded when he shook his head. "Yea, she found me on Facebook. She's a pilot in the navy."

"Good for her." They shared another drink, then he leaned forward and peered through the open timbers of the walls. At the base of the tree a small square patch of grass stood out, surrounded by a low fence of white metal arches. "I don't even remember what's down there anymore."

"A cat, three frogs, I don't know how many fish, a hamster, two canaries and the turtle." Christine recited the list without hesitation; she shrugged self-consciously when her father blinked in surprise. "Andrew asked."

"Oh." He grinned and shook his head. "You know, that graveyard is why we'll never be able to sell this house. People will think we were holding animal sacrifices or something."

"Poor Dad." She patted his knee in exaggerated sympathy. "I gave you such a hard time, didn't I? If it wasn't my menagerie, it was all those sleepovers." She pulled an apologetic face. "A house full of girls almost every weekend . . ."

"Eh, it was fine." His shoulders lifted as he returned her smile. "It was fun. I liked knowing where you were."

His handsome face blurred behind a sudden rush of tears as the moment became poignant. "I just never wanted to be anywhere but home." Her voice fractured and broke. "I know how lucky I am, Dad," she sniffed. "I had an extraordinary childhood, thanks to you and Mom. You were the best parents any kid could have."

Seconds passed before Booth had the ability to speak. Muscles worked in his throat as he struggled for his own composure. "We were the lucky ones, baby," he rasped finally, his eyes on hers as a threshold was approached and crossed. "We got to watch the three of you grow up."

One glittering drop escaped as Christine blinked; he reached out and captured it with his thumb before it could trail down her cheek and mar her makeup.

"Andrew is a good man."

Christine nodded as she drew a whimpering breath.

"Say the word, though," Booth continued, with a glint of humor and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder that lightened the moment. "He's outta here."

Laughter bubbled over automatically. "I think I'll keep him," she dimpled.

With the tip of a finger, he gently traced a dark curl that lay against her cheek. "So . . . you want to get married today?"

A wet, happy smile stretched across her face. "I do."

He tried to draw breath into a chest that suddenly felt three sizes too small. His little girl, the one he'd taught to ride a bike and drive a car and shoot a gun, changed in front of his eyes to this woman who sat beside him, strong and beautiful and ready to begin a life separate from his. He nodded, and finally managed to breathe past the invisible bands that closed around his lungs. "Come on," he offered in a whisper. "I'll walk you across the yard." His smile was bittersweet. "I could use the practice."

For another minute, neither of them moved. Christine's chin wobbled as her eyes filled again. "I love you, Daddy."

One big hand wrapped around the back of her neck as he drew her close. Eyes closed, his cheek rested against her forehead.

He didn't speak.

He didn't have to. She heard him, just fine.

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(The story of the dolphin comb is Chapter 11: Something New in The Story in the Tale.)

Thanks for reading.