I ran for those stairs with the excitement of a five-year-old, dropping (in an instant) all pretense of being a suitably refined wedding guest, one accustomed to spending September afternoons casually sipping champagne in Charleston’s elegant gardens.
Pam wants you upstairs, she had whispered.
And just like that I was beside the bride, up there on the second story porch, leaning over the railing, taking in the scene below. The proper guests seemed to float across the flagstone, these friends, this family, here to share the joy of this Pamela and Stewart marriage.
I’m afraid Stew-baby might have a heart attack when he sees you, I said, and she giggled a sweet, genuine, happy laugh. Then click click click went the camera and I hugged her again, offering a silent little prayer for love and joy and happy ever after.
Vows made, rings exchanged, kisses kissed, we all set about the businesses of sealing this union with a bonafide celebration. And celebrate we did. Small groups gathered on this end of the porch and that, around the the dining room table (you must try those small tomato sandwich rings, oh my), before the football game(s) in that perfectly tucked away family room. Here, there, everywhere, new connections were made in the wake of How do you know Stewart? or Oh, you’re one of the Georgia girls. We carried on like long lost friends, I swear. Then someone offered the rather grand suggestion that we have a Wedding Reunion just so we could all get together again.
Isn’t that a fabulous idea?
Later, as night settled over Charleston and wrapped this wedding party in a cozy evening light, Gus appeared. He’s out there on the brick wall, come to wish them well, she said.
And I ran for the porch and my first glimpse of Gus, one of the couple, the beloved Guinea hens who have taken up residence here in this beautiful garden.
It was perfection, my dear sweet friend.
Perfect in every way.