Everybody here has a gig, sometimes two or three. They are craftsman, artists, master chefs, farriers, healers or visionaries. But what was I? I couldn’t even claim typist, though I did it most of the day.
One day my friend, Christina, master of the gig, told me I could a natural for assisting with elopements.
“It’s easy,” she reassured me. “You just queue up and play the songs the couple has chosen on a portable speaker.”
The part that alarmed my son was about me queuing up the songs and holding the speakers.
“Mom, you can’t even work the TV remote,” he said.
That was true, but I was all about love, beginnings and sunsets. After all, how hard could it be?
On the big day, the late afternoon sun flitted about here and there, a few shell seekers roamed the tide, rinsing their treasures in a bucket. The bride was enchanting, with curly black hair and eyes so deep you could throw a stone in them. She too, flitted around, fluffing her dress, her long nails clicking together from nervousness.
The groom, a widower, was tall, lean and steadfast as the lighthouse behind him. His smile was the sun, especially when he looked at his daughter. Chloe, was seven years old and turning cartwheels on the beach. I told her we were going on a sacred mission to gather the most beautiful seashells for the ceremony. Together we foraged, finding shiny broken pieces, small slivers of sea glass and a handful of perfection.
She held her collection in the lap of her chambray dress and twirled. We made a circle in the sand, large enough for her father and future mom to stand in. She held her favorite one up to the sky.
“That’s a mermaid’s purse,” I whispered. “They are a bit of magic.”
The officiant arrived swathed in sea-foam veils and lace, a bit like Stevie Nicks — part ethereal, part gypsy. I mentally went through my checklist: music, sparkling juice, champagne, a working speaker.
Chloe held my hand, her headband askew from doing twirls. Her father walked down the path to the beach, a smile almost too big for his face, crisply dressed in a dark suit. I faded in The Piano Guys just in time for his arrival. The sea, behind him was a sheet of glass, calm and reassuring. Steady.
And then the bride came, not steady, her dress trailing behind her, her uncontrollable curls lifting in the breeze. She carried a tangle of Queen Anne’s lace as her bouquet. I squeezed Chloe’s hand. The couple read their stories about the unlikeliness of their finding each other — about heartbreak, false starts, misguided intentions and the inevitability of love. Theirs was a messy love, a broken one with an undeniable destiny.
As the sun slipped from the sky, a lone boat rocked in the distance. The officiant nodded — it was time for the vows. The couple stepped into the circle. I queued up the background music, a soft lullaby of keys, that sounded like the sea itself. The light was fading. The water was still, as if expecting something. A faint clementine moon hung in the sky. A long beaked bird dove and rose as the tide came in.
The groom’s words were strong and clear as he slid the ring on his bride’s finger. Before speaking, she turned, got down on her knees and opened her arms. Chloe flew into them. The three of them hugged, then laughed.
That was my cue that it was time for their first dance. I turned up Natalie Cole’s, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
We were all crying and dancing as the officiant declared them a family. I thought about my own hardscrabble family, with its particular bruises and messy love. Is there any other kind?
That evening I had been hired as a music assistant, but I was also a witness to the evolution of love. I’m reassured by brokenness, because often it’s the crack in the sidewalk that produces the brightest weed. And what’s wrong with a weed? It’s hearty and messy and it endures forever — like love.
Robyn Goodwin lives in Vineyard Haven.
