The Wedding Waltz
AN: I just have a lot of feels...
Twelve o’clock.
It was time.
With a final check in the full-length mirror, she brushed a hand down her front and took a steadying breath. This was it.
Behind her came a knock on the door. She looked over her reflection’s shoulder as the ornate wood door opened to reveal her father, dressed in his black morning suit with his gray hair combed back.
She turned around, the skirt of her white dress brushing the floor, and smiled. ‘How do I look?’
His eyes filled with tears and his lips thinned as he schooled himself. ‘Beautiful. Just like your mother.’
‘Really?’
His lips trembled. ‘Really.’
Tears filled her own eyes and before she knew it, he’d crossed the room and embraced her. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest. She knew how hard this day was for him, in so many ways.
‘I love you so much,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And though I know no man on earth deserves you, he comes close.’
She smiled and closed her eyes, remembering all the days growing up when her father had hugged her. The good days and bad ones, when she was hurting and when he didn’t even understand why she was upset, when she had come first in her class and earned a scholarship abroad, and all the days in between.
He had always been her rock. And now he was putting that responsibility onto someone else.
‘I love you, too,’ she whispered.
They pulled back and smiled through their tears.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, what did I say about crying before the wedding?’ They both turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. A headset peeked out from his curls and he was furiously scribbling on his ever-present clipboard with a glower on his face. ‘I shall have to send word to delay the ceremony by three minutes to give the makeup artist enough time to fix the damage.’
He glanced up and scrutinized her face before making another note.
‘Make that five minutes.’
He spun on his heel and pressed his finger to the mic, demanding to see the makeup artist immediately. His voice faded as he walked away.
Rolling her eyes at her uncle’s usual brusque manner, Rosie Watson kissed her father’s cheek and stepped back to brush the wrinkles from her gown.
‘Well, let’s not keep him waiting any longer,’ John said gruffly, clearing his throat and putting on his soldier face.
‘The groom or the wedding planner?’ Rosie teased.
John gave her a knowing glare and she grinned cheekily. A flash of sorrow passed over his face at just how much she was like her mother, both in looks and temperament.
Pushing down the memories, John drew his shoulders back.
He was giving his daughter away in less than twenty minutes.
And he would carry on as a soldier would. Because that was the only way he would get through this.
oOo
Rosie looked around the crowded dance hall. The father-daughter dance was scheduled to be next and she hadn’t seen her father in some time.
Uncle Sherlock and Aunt Molly spun by, their waltz form perfect as usual, and noticed her searching gaze. Uncle Sherlock gave her a meaningful stare before flicking his gaze toward the french doors at the far end of the room.
Rosie smiled her thanks. Kissing her husband (husband!) on the cheek, she excused herself and made her way around the edge of the room.
She slipped quietly out onto the patio and shut the doors behind her, blocking out the noise. Standing tall and stoic, her father’s back was to her as he stared out into the inky-black night.
‘Hi Daddy.’
He turned around and smiled. She could see how he was putting on a brave face for her and it made her heart ache.
‘You should be inside with your husband,’ he nodded toward the party and smiled wryly. ‘Let an old man have some quiet from that ruckus noise you call music.’
Rosie walked toward him and gave him a knowing look. ‘I miss her, too.’
He sniffed and looked away.
‘I know you think I don’t, that I was too young. And you may think I’m imagining it from all the stories everyone has told me about her. But in my heart, I know,’ she placed a hand on her chest, ‘I remember her. Sometimes it’s the smell of perfume, sometimes it’s when I’m home. Warm. Safe. That’s her. And I want to grab on to that feeling and never let it go. But I can’t. It’s slipping out of my grasp and I’m falling.’
Her father reached out and wrapped his arms around her. She blinked back tears and rested her chin on his shoulder.
‘She would have been so proud of you.’ He kissed her temple. A huff of laughter escaped him. ‘And she certainly would have scared the life out of your husband.’
Rosie smiled and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They held each other for just a moment longer before John leaned back. He brushed a stray piece of hair from her forehead and tucked it back into the hairpiece. ‘You should probably get back inside.’
Rosie looked over her shoulder at the lights dancing through the frosted door. ‘And you. The father-daughter dance is coming up next. But I should warn you, Uncle Sherlock said he nixed both our song choices just this morning.’
He grimaced. ‘What did he choose instead?’
Suddenly, the soft strains of violin music drifted across the lawn. They both turned to look for the source. From the far edge of the courtyard, half-illuminated in the dim yellow light of the lamppost, Uncle Sherlock was playing his violin. Just for them.
Rosie smiled and looked back at her father, only to find him crying. ‘Dad? What’s wrong?’
He looked up, as if to will himself under control, and exhaled. ‘It’s our waltz. Your mum’s and mine. From our wedding.’
Stunned, Rosie’s eyes filled with tears. The melody was beautiful and seemed to capture her mother as she’d always imagined. ‘We don’t have to-’
Her father smiled down at her despite his tears and held out his hand. ‘It’s perfect.’
