KALEIDOSCOPE  III
By Cynthia Hatch

PART IV

He whom a dream hath possessed
Knoweth no more of doubting.

Shaemans O'Sheel

He loved this view. The city lay before him like an elaborate game board, its pieces arranged roughly in the pattern that had thrilled him in his youth, but subtly altered. In the darkness it was impossible to pick out individual buildings from the overall design. There was only a forest of lights.

He played this game--better than anyone else--had brought his own pieces into play with the daring of a general aligning his troops. Against what? he wondered fleetingly. But the question couldn't hold his attention.

For once his eyes were drawn to the sky above the battleground. Maybe because the stars were so bright tonight, the atmosphere clear. He found the constellations beautiful, though they were vaguely unsettling. No chance of altering their enigmatic plot. Not even much chance of understanding the power that had created it.

But as he watched, it did alter. Amazingly, one of the tiny lights broke from the rest and arced across the sky to disappear. He'd never witnessed that before and couldn't have been more astounded if some precisely plotted detail had suddenly detached itself from a blueprint to slide across the face of the paper. He was still staring at the spot where it had vanished when the door opened behind him.

"Mr. Burch?"

He turned slightly, surprised to find himself in the dimly lit office. "Come on in. Anything?"

"Nothing." The newcomer didn't wait for an invitation. He tossed his overcoat over the back of a leather chair and, sinking wearily into it, unbuttoned his jacket. "Not a thing. Nobody at the DAs office is talking. If this is federal--some kind of deep cover, we have to move carefully. They're going to be very sensitive to anybody asking questions. It could be misinterpreted, you know that."

"It . . . doesn't matter." Burch tore his attention from the window and moved to the table where the west side project sprouted in miniature. Little white cubes among sponge trees. His to manipulate. "Forget it."

"Forget . . . ? You mean stop looking for her?" Manning squinted at him in the light of the single gooseneck lamp. There was no reply.

Burch stood staring down at the square of green flock with its crisply delineated diamond. For a moment he was back again in the dusty lot, watching the ball soar into a summer sky. "Yes. I want you to stop looking."

"May I ask why?"

Dark brows raised slowly. Though he still gazed unblinking at the model. "Because you aren't going to find her."

"It's only been two weeks. I didn't mean to imply it couldn't be done--just that we're going to have to tiptoe if the feds are involved. I can put full-time surveillance on the woman who's staying in her apartment, check the mail, phone calls--"

His employer waved a hand dismissively. "I wasn't doubting you, Manning. There just isn't any point."

"Why? What have you heard?"

"Nothing." Burch's smile was sardonic. To Manning's perceptive eye the derisiveness in it was not aimed at him. "I just . . . know, all right? Can I get you a drink?"

"Not if it's in lieu of payment."

This time the grin was genuine. "It's on the house. You'll get a check before you leave here tonight." He moved to the bar and poured them both a neat scotch, returning to flop down in the matching chair.

Business completed, the atmosphere eased into a more social ambiance. Each of them was the best in his field, and their mutual awareness of that fact had engendered a healthy respect between them.

"Well, if you don't find her, are you still planning to go ahead with the center?"

"Naming it, you mean?"

"I'm no attorney, but I don't think you can go around putting people's names on public buildings without their consent. Of course, I don't know the lady. Do you think she'd be flattered?"

"The truth?"

"Yeah, the truth."

"I think she might be pissed."

Manning laughed, shaking his head. "I know you've got quite a rep with the ladies, Mr. Burch, but if that's a sample of your technique, I don't get it."

"Technique doesn't cut much ice with Cathy. I found that out soon enough. I thought the Catherine Chandler Recreation Center would be a way of thanking her. She's done a lot for me, I owe her. I wanted to clear it with her first, that's all."

"So why give up now?"

"I don't know exactly." He cast a look toward the window and the two fields of speckled light beyond. "Just a feeling. I have a hard time taking no for an answer, Cleon, but if she doesn't want to be found, I guess I have to respect that. Cathy's a very independent woman. She's liable to take my gesture with the center as an attempt to tie her to me in some way."

Manning nodded his commiseration. He didn't ask whether Catherine Chandler would be correct in making that assumption. It wasn't his place to ask, but Burch was in a strange mood. There was a vulnerability to the man that made him feel a little awkward. At the same time it justified the gut feeling he'd had from the beginning--that Elliot Burch was not as easy to sum up as most people thought. Nothing said he had to like the people who hired him, but in this case he discovered that he did.

"Maybe I was trying to do that--keep some kind of connection with her. Hell, I even considered naming it after her father. How could she object to that?"

"She couldn't. That's why it would be--"

"Emotional blackmail?" The sardonic smile was back again. "Yes, I know. Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age. She's gone. I feel that tonight like I never have before, but damn it, Cleon, how do you . . . let go of a dream?"

"If you've got no chance, I say you find yourself another dream."

Burch nodded, and his eyes slid to the model again. "In the meantime, what are we going to call this thing?"

"Can't help you there, Elliot. My wife and I couldn't even agree on what to call our last baby till two days after he was born. Why don't you name it after your own father?"

Burch threw back his head and laughed. "Nice try, my friend," he said, raising his glass in a belated toast, "but that sentimental I'm not."

***

Jerry lay, propped on one elbow, turning the tightly written pages in the manila folder. Who would have thought cases could be this complex in a place like Kingston? Anyone who assumed crime was the exclusive property of NYC underestimated the creativity of the average suburban perp.

Against him, Laura leaned forward to check off another of the papers she was grading. They were both on the floor. Not as soft as the newly purchased couch, but it brought them closer to the fire, and although apartments with fireplaces were common enough, finding one that actually worked had been a coup.

Abruptly, she turned to him, a look of astonishment lighting her expressive face. Before he could ask what it meant she'd grabbed his hand, pressing it up and under her oversized sweater. She held his attention with wide-eyed expectancy, and suddenly there was movement beneath his fingers, faint and strangely purposeful, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

"The baby?" he said, and there was no need to sign the word. She was beaming at him proudly, and he pulled her close, feeling the laughter that vibrated through her soft, young body, laughing himself, bright with the warmth of their secret miracle and the dancing fire, so that the star tumbling through the sky outside went unnoticed.

***

Joe Maxwell didn't see it either. He was standing in front of the desk that had once been Cathy Chandler's, staring at it morosely. There were lots of nights when he was the last to leave the office. Why it should seem particularly empty tonight, he wasn't sure, but it did--eerily and irrevocably empty. A hand, clapped gently on his back, told him he was mistaken.

"Hard to believe she's gone, huh, Joe?"

"Yeah." He smiled sheepishly at the man who kept a fatherly arm across his shoulders. "She's been gone before, and I never thought anything of it. Tonight it just sort of hit me she's not coming back."

"You two made a good team." The arm fell away, and Moreno shook out his overcoat. "We were lucky to have her as long as we did. If I remember correctly, you weren't too optimistic about her staying power. You had reservations about hiring her at all."

"Which goes to show why you're the boss," Joe conceded, regaining some of his usual amiability. "I wouldn't have dreamed she had it in her."

Moreno shrugged into his coat with a philosophic smile. "One thing this job teaches you is that people are full of surprises. You have any idea why she really left?"

"Not a clue." Joe pulled on his own all-weather coat and followed his superior out of the office to the elevator. "We're friends, but there were some lines that you just didn't cross with Cathy. Period."

"I wouldn't worry about it." Moreno hit the down button. "She's a determined young lady. She'll be all right. Probably surface one of these days in some uptown powerhouse."

"I don't think so."

"No? Well, I couldn't see her going the whole nine yards with us. She was good enough, dedicated enough, but she wasn't hungry. It takes that, Joe. It takes ambition--maybe a little insecurity--to fight your way to the top." The doors opened, and they stepped inside. "You hungry, Joe?"

"Yes, sir," came the startled reply. "And ambitious--and at the moment damned insecure."

The older man laughed. "I meant would you like to get something to eat--a couple of beers?"

"Oh, yeah . . . sure." Joe's boyish face colored uncomfortably.

"But it's been duly noted, Maxwell," Moreno assured him with a smile. "Believe me, it's already been duly noted."

***

"You sure you don't need a warmer coat?"

"No, this is fine . . . I have you." She leaned back into his chest, and his arms tightened around her. "It's so clear tonight. Look at all the stars."

"Pretty spectacular," Michael agreed. "Any idea what's what?"

"You mean the constellations? Not really. I never got past the Big Dipper. How about you?"

"Just the names--Sagittarius, Orion, Leo . . . Dopey, Sleepy, Grumpy," 

Jenny laughed. "Well they're romantic anyway--whatever their names are. I'm so glad we took the apartment. Cathy used to keep a rosebush out here. I'd like do something like that when spring comes."

"If she took it with her, at least we know where she didn't go," Michael said, rocking her gently in his embrace.

"What do you mean?"

"There are certain states that won't let you bring in plants--California, for instance, because of insects and diseases that might affect crops. She couldn't be there."

"We're not supposed to worry about where she is," Jenny reminded him.

"You mean to tell me you've really taken that to heart? What happened to those mother hen tendencies you warned me about?"

"They're still intact," Jenny grinned, "but now I have you to worry about. Any objections?"

"Not in the least. And I'm glad you've come to terms with your concerns for Cathy. She impressed me as a woman who could take care of herself."

"True," Jenny hugged her arms around his. "I'm not sure I'd actually done that before. but somehow tonight I just have a feeling that everything's as it should be, it's almost as if--Oh, Michael, did you see that? A shooting star!"

"I saw it. That has to be a good omen. Go ahead--make a wish."

Jenny paused thoughtfully. "I don't really need one, but for Cathy . . . for Cathy--I wish that all her most cherished dreams come true."

"What about your dreams?" Michael asked softly, turning her in his arms. She smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled like the tiny fires overhead.

"I'll leave that up to you." 

***

Darkness.

A darkness so absolute that it might have held anything or nothing at all. Her ears strained to catch the slightest sound, and it was there--an indefinable rustling, elusive and intermittent. Astonishing really, all those figures hidden in the inky blackness and making no more sound than that, as if each held its breath--waiting.

A cool breeze, oddly fresh, stirred from somewhere beyond the void. She knew without being able to see them that the delicate little lilies-of-the-valley must be trembling, as she herself was trembling despite every effort to remain calm.

Swallowing, she tried to concentrate on the one sense that told her what she most needed to know. It was incredibly vivid at this moment--almost overwhelming--but it did nothing to ease the excitement, only intensifying her happiness so that she gripped the invisible little nosegay as if its delicate stems might support her.

"Are you ready?" Jamie whispered at her elbow, and she nodded, though no one could see.

"I'm ready."

She felt the girl move past her, and a moment later the first purposeful sound filled the hall--a fragile hiss, as one tiny candle flame sprang to life ahead and to her left. Seconds later another flared on the right, and almost simultaneously a violin began to play.

In the vast darkness the twin flames were almost lost, illuminating little but the slim white tapers that bore them up and the faces of those that held them. The faces were turned toward her, expectant, bright with emotion, and she took her first tentative step forward. As she did, nearby the first tiny lights, two more ignited.

Other instruments had joined the violin somewhere in the shadows. At the edge of her vision the light was spreading, as those lining the aisle passed their flames to the rows behind them. She could see now that, in fact, the flowers were tremblingin her hands. Soft exclamations and the sound of indrawn breaths rose on either side as the light reached out to embrace her, to flow around her as she advanced slowly beside it.

The first step was the last consciously taken. Now she floated with the rhythm--not of the music--but of the surer cadence pulsing softly within, drawing her forward. Her eyes never left the point ahead, still cloaked in darkness, but as the light traveled before her, more and more faces were revealed, and she knew they belonged to people who cared, that all the guests gathered here were in a very real sense family.

Her heart beat faster. The two rows of flame had almost completed their journey. The shadows at the end of the aisle began to peel gently away. She caught her breath. A first flicker of gold and then his eyes, even from here blue as sapphires, already fixed on hers.

He was dressed in black--the same stunning clothes he'd worn on the night they'd first kissed. They were his tribute to the past, as was her mother's wedding dress, a dress that had graced the beginning of one charmed marriage and now would bring good fortune to a second. From the moment she'd tried it on, before Mary's skilful needle had ensured that it would fit as though designed for her, she had felt a continuity and a sense that somewhere her mother would know that she had found what she most wished for her.

Sniffling sounds were unmistakable now, coming from more than one area of the crowd. If there was anyone here totally composed, it had to be the man who held her rapt attention. He stood at ease, his very stiffness seeming to exude an unconscious command, as natural to him as breathing. Only she knew the tumultuous emotions coursing through him--the joy, the awe-struck anticipation, as at last she reached him and, smiling, slipped her hand into his.

She had no desire--and no ability--to look anywhere but into his extraordinary face. It was astonishingly easy to imagine they were alone. His body so close dominated her awareness. The dozens of other people congregated here might have been mere specters. She drank in every detail of his face--the fine slanting lines that tilted his eyes, the sprinkling of gold below the exquisitely molded cheekbones. His lips were slightly parted, and his eyes sparkled as if the sun shone beneath pristine blue waters.

Father's voice suddenly took the place of the music, and she turned to register his presence in front of them. His eyes flashed a brief look of approval and then he focused beyond them, his manner sure, his voice firm, every inch the patriarch.

"I believe that everyone of us gathered here tonight feels strongly that we celebrate more than the union of two people very dear to us. In the triumph of the love that has brought them to this moment, we can all take hope and joy and inspiration. It is the triumph of dreams over prejudice, of ideals over ignorance, of devotion over self-interest.

"Catherine said to me recently that she felt the commitment she and Vincent share had been sealed long ago, and none of us who have witnessed the events of the last few years could doubt that. They have--each of them--risked condemnation, danger--even their very lives for each other. And while I can't pretend to have enjoyed or fully supported some of these incidents," he said with a self-mocking smile, "I have nevertheless been humbled by the degree of selflessness they represent."

The statement sent a little trill of amusement along the channel of their bond--so strong now, so unmistakable in her awareness, so precious that she wondered how she'd ever functioned without its essential presence in her soul.

"In the ethereal beauty you see before you," he continued, looking at her with unmistakable fondness, "there is a resilience and a perception which have brightened many of the dark places in our world. You all know how dearly I love my son, how valued he is--by all of us. Vincent is in many ways the heart and the spirit of our existence here. I will freely admit that I may not always have seen him as clearly as I might, that some of those dark places I spoke of just now may have clouded my own vision, but even had they not, I would have been hard pressed to imagine a woman worthy to stand here as his bride.

"A father's conceit, I suppose," he added wryly, "but Catherine has made her claim to that role seem not only appropriate, but inevitable, and now she has chosen to cast her lot with us. Vincent's good fortune in talking this remarkable woman as his bride has brought to everyone of us an extraordinary and humbling gift. We count among us now a fierce and loving ally whose strength and intelligence, compassion and bright spirit cannot fail to benefit us all."

Her smile turned tremulous at Father's words. She really didn't want to become a weepy mess in the midst of the most joyful occasion of her life, but the pride in Vincent's gentle, reassuring expression buoyed her up. How wonderful and mysterious life could be--allowing her greatest happiness to give the man she loved his own.

"Today Catherine and Vincent have come here to declare their love for one another, to pledge their commitment to each other. It is up to all of us to respect that commitment, to honor it and to rejoice in their happiness. I could go on about this subject at some length, which I'm sure many of you have guessed, but perhaps Vincent and Catherine would like to say a few words."

The stillness in the room seemed to deepen, as though everyone here was adjusting his attention in anticipation of the unique voice they knew so well. Vincent drew her hand to his heart, speaking, it seemed, only to her.

"When you came into my life, Catherine, I was a prisoner--not of these walls and tunnels, but within myself. Your trust in me, your friendship was the source of the greatest happiness I'd ever known. Your courage, the warmth that reached out even in the darkest times astonished me. In your resolve to grow, to find the best part of yourself, I saw my own limitations, the locked doors in my soul.

"Your love, Catherine, was the key. You opened those doors. You stood by with patience and with faith while I confronted what was hidden there, while I searched for the truth, and you never wavered. You gave me my freedom . . . you gave me my . . . self.

"I pledge that self to you, Catherine," he said, bending closer. "Everything that I am. Everything I can ever hope to be. With every breath I take, I promise to love you, protect you and honor you . . . always."

No one made a sound, the spectators all straining to hear the soft, musical voice, but as it stopped, she could still hear his message. It shone in his eyes. She hadn't planned what she would say here, thinking nerves would only drive it from her memory and knowing that with him beside her she would only have to open her heart and the truth would come out.

Now she smiled up at him, as if no one else existed. "Everything you just said, Vincent . . . all of it--I could say to you. You were my inspiration from the moment our paths crossed. Whenever I doubted, whenever it seemed the new life I'd chosen was too hard, I thought of you. Your strength, your patience, your passion for what was right and true gave me the strength to continue. You taught me to reach for the best in myself, no matter how difficult that was. And all of it brought me closer to you . . . to my love for you. That is the best part of me, Vincent, and there's nothing hard about it. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done, it's as much a part of me as breathing, and it will never stop . . . never. I want to be with you always, and I promise to keep reaching out, to be a better person, so I can give that person to you, because you deserve the best . . . of everything."

Like Father, she felt she could elaborate on this subject forever, but tears of happiness had been threatening to overflow all day now, and she choked them back, clutching his hand.

"I understand there is a ring to be given," Father interjected.

Vincent turned toward Mouse who had been standing behind him, taking in the proceedings with open-mouthed fascination. "The ring, Mouse."

The boy blinked, snapping to attention. "The ring. Got it right here." He patted a pocket in his best suede vest.

"Could you . . . give it to me?" Vincent suggested softly.

"Oh . . . okay, sure." He fumbled a moment and drew out the wide circle of gold, handing it over with extravagant care.

It was the first time she'd seen it, though its origin had been decided by both of them--her mother's wedding band and Margaret's melted down, emerging phoenix-like from the crucible to form a fresh and unique creation that would carry the mystique of old loves, even as it symbolized the new. It had been crafted with elegant simplicity, and she flashed a smile of appreciation at Mouse, who beamed with flustered pride.

"This ring," Vincent said, as he slipped it onto her finger, "is as endless as my love for you. While you wear it, know that my soul surrounds you no less surely, that my heart is inseparable from the least wish of yours, as the two rings have become inseparable. It is a symbol of possession, Catherine--your possession of everything that is mine, everything I can ever hope to offer."

The gold flashed in the candlelight, and she caught the fine etching of twining roses. In its design and heft, the ring had a medieval look appropriate to the tunnels that gave her a gratifying sense of belonging to this world. But there was a far more thrilling sense of belonging in her awareness of its weight on her finger. His version of what it meant as a symbol of possession couldn't keep her from cherishing her own interpretation--that it told the whole world she belonged to him.

"I'll wear it proudly, Vincent." Her voice had grown husky with emotion. "Your joys will be my joys, and your sorrows will be my sorrows, almost . . . no-- exactly . . . as if we were one, and I will love you . . . you only . . . forever." The tears refused to wait another moment, and he pulled her close, his own eyes glistening, leaving Father to take control.

He cleared his throat. "Vincent, Catherine. May you never lose sight--even in the darkest hours--of the vision that has drawn you to this moment. That ideal, locked forever in your hearts, will have the power to transcend whatever trials life may send your way. Trust in it and in each other. It will give you the strength to win the rarest prize of all--a truly happy life.

"As those of us who love you have witnessed your love for each other and your promise to join your lives in trust and devotion, I pronounce that you are husband and wife. And on behalf of the entire community, I offer our congratulations and our blessings." His voice was sinking into a gruffness that betrayed his own tenuous emotional hold. "Now I believe, Vincent, that you should kiss your bride."

He did so with a tender, if brief, deliberateness, and the unprecedented sight seemed to release a pressure valve in the hall. Restraint fell away, and people began to talk and cheer--even applaud. The music had started again, but any possibility of a recessional disappeared as the crowd folded in on them from all sides.

She was still lost in his smile, aware that a tear was making its determined way down her flushed cheek, and then Father stepped forward to embrace Vincent. She couldn't hear what he said, but when he turned his eyes were brimming.

"Dear Catherine. Welcome." He grasped her shoulders, his mouth trembling. "Welcome to our side of the river," he whispered enigmatically, pulling her into a bear hug which she returned, and then Peter was there, looking curiously exotic in a suit and tie.

"I'm so happy for you, Cathy, so happy. I've never seen a more beautiful bride."

"Thank you, Peter. Having you here--it's as if you're you and also the representative of the other people I care about above."

"Even the ones who are no longer with us," he nodded. "They would all be proud of you tonight. I wish you both all the best. No one deserves it more."

She nodded tearfully, glad he hadn't been hurt not to give her away. The idea had crossed her mind--at a moment when the inevitable sadness of her father's absence had intruded--but it seemed suddenly important and right that she should walk down the aisle alone. No one at this point in her life could give her away--even symbolically--but herself.

"Would you like me to take that for you?" Mary indicated the bouquet of mixed flowers--all of them white--that was in danger of being crushed. The soft lines of her face were drawn into such an excess of sentiment, the tears flowing freely, that Catherine was grateful to give her something to do.

"Could you, Mary? Thank you."

The woman started to add something but couldn't manage. Instead, pressing a handkerchief to her face, she took the bouquet and retreated.

Catherine sought the eyes of her groom who was still only a few feet away but so entangled with children that there was little hope of getting closer to him. Pascal stood at his elbow speaking with an earnestness she could only surmise from his expression. The hall was too vibrant with effusive voices for her to catch a word.

Behind Vincent's left shoulder William stood shaking with silent sobs, or perhaps they weren't silent. Who could tell? Willy had won the coveted place in Vincent's arms while several other children pressed close, their excited chatter high-pitched enough to rise above the general din. For a man newly married, soundly harassed on all sides, he appeared as unflappable as ever. His eyes, when they met hers, seemed to say she had his undivided attention, and she laughed happily.

"Mouse did a good job, right?" Among the general good wishes swirling around her, the anxious voice turned her toward him. "Kept Vincent company, didn't get scared. Didn't get cold feet."

"You were a perfect best man, Mouse," she said with barely concealed merriment. "Who told you how to do that?"

"Cullen," he confided. "Cullen got married once. Said his feet got really cold. Said I had to make sure Vincent didn't run away."

"And he didn't," she nodded solemnly "I'm very grateful to you, Mouse."

He beamed, casting a propriety look at her left hand. "You like it, right?"

"It's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen, Mouse. I'll never take it off." 

"Vincent's idea. Vincent's design. But Mouse made it," he added, as if that particular piece of information might have escaped her attention.

"I know you did, Mouse. You're truly an artist." The boys blushing pleasure was obvious. When Vincent had asked him to make the ring, to stand beside him at the ceremony, he had regarded it as the long awaited gift, the one they'd promised after he'd saved their lives, and no amount of talking could convince him that he was, in fact, doing them a favor.

"Can I see it?" Samantha asked breathlessly, her brown eyes shining as Catherine proudly held out her hand. "I want to get married someday too, Catherine, and look beautiful like you and carry flowers."

"If that's what you want, then I'm sure you will, Samantha." Father would be interested to know that particular daydream was still alive and well--even in the tunnels.

"Are you really going to live with us now, Catherine, and never go back?" 

"Yes, I am, Nathan. This is my home now, just like it's yours."

"Will you sleep in our chamber?" At first she didn't recognize the questioner. Her thick hair, drawn back with a pink ribbon, was shining, her face animated in a way she'd never seen before.

"Hi, Gina. I'm glad to see you. No, I don't think so."

"Grownups have their own chambers," Toby said scornfully, and Catherine was pleased when the gibe failed to intimidate the little girl. Gina merely gave him a dismissive, and very feminine look, and went on. "Mary has her own chamber. It's pretty."

"Catherine's going to be with Vincent," Samantha explained, caught up in the more romantic aspects of the living arrangements. "That's what married people do."

"Besides," Nathan pointed out, as the children began to drift away to make room for more well wishers. "She's new here. She might be scared all by herself, and Vincent's got the biggest bed."

Leave it to Nathan to take the practical approach, she grinned to herself as Jamie appeared before her.

"Congratulations, Catherine. You look really great."

"Thank you, Jamie. So do you."

"You think so, really?" Jamie's blonde hair was loose. She wore a lovely old-fashioned gown of embroidered lawn. She looked as delicate as a Victorian painting. "I feel a little funny."

A rush of emotion, his entrancing voice at her ear, and her heart made its familiar plummet to her stomach. "You look lovely, Jamie."

Catherine turned to gaze up at him, her arm going around his waist as his encircled hers. "I was afraid I might never see you again," she laughed.

"It does seem that the object of this celebration is to keep us apart."

"I believe it's been safely established that any attempt to do that would be futile," Father's voice interrupted, and for the first time, she suspected no sarcasm in his hyperbole. "I'm terribly sorry. I had envisioned a dignified march up the aisle. There was meant to be a proper reception line, but this has gotten totally out of hand. I can't think where everyone's manners have gone."

"Overwhelmed by their good intentions," Vincent assured him.

"I don't mind," Catherine added. "I'm glad everyone feels so relaxed, as long as I don't get separated from . . . from my husband again." The strange, new word whirled through her like the flight of some enchanted bird, and she could feel its wings brushing against his heart as well, as he pulled her closer.

"Well, before someone gets crushed in the melee, perhaps we can distract the multitudes. Jamie, would you see that the food's brought in, and I'll suggest to the musicians that they play something suitable for dancing."

"They're already setting it up, Father, but the punch is going to be a salty mess if William keeps blubbering into it like that."

Father's voice rose in its most authoritarian tones, addressing the circle of enthusiastic guests, all waiting to congratulate them. "Please--everyone. Give the . . . happy couple a moment to catch their breaths. The night is young. We'll all have a chance to give them our best wishes in the next few hours. Now, the food is available on the long table, and if we can clear the area over there, we'll begin the dancing."

Everyone melted backward obediently, and in the brief respite, she said, "It's a shame Jamie feels uncomfortable. She's really exquisite."

"Perhaps she'll learn--from the person she admires most--that strength does not require renouncing her femininity."

"Who's that?"

He smiled. "Surely, you've noticed. It's you, Catherine. Jamie sees in you all the self-assurance. The independence, the ability to command respect from men as well as women. That she herself aspires to. She never would have chosen to dress the way she has today if you didn't make it acceptable to her."

"Well, I don't expect to dress like this all the time either," she smiled.

"There was never, Catherine, never a more beautiful bride . . . ever. I'm sure of it."

His soft voice, rich with sincerity, was drawing her in. His golden hair against the black vest seemed to be inviting the gentle intrusion of her fingers. Her lips could almost feel the press of his mouth that tonight was smiling more often than usual. "Would anyone think it was rude, if you kissed me right now?" she whispered.

"As Father's pointed out, manners have fallen by the wayside," he answered reasonably, and bent to fasten his mouth on hers.

"Does that taste yucky?"

She gave a guilty start. Nathan was back, watching them with undisguised interest, and she felt her cheeks redden, but it was Vincent who answered as if it were an appropriate question.

"Why do you ask, Nathan?"

"Cause Toby said lipstick tastes yucky."

"I don't wear lipstick." Vincent pointed out with a gravity guaranteed to delight a five-year-old busybody.

"No--Catherine," Nathan giggled. "Catherine wears lipstick."

"Do you?" Vincent asked, adroitly bouncing the ball into her court.

"Well, I was, but it looks like you're wearing it now." Grinning she rubbed the smudge from his mouth with her thumb.

"Yucky," was Nathan's final word on the issue, as he skipped off to join the other children.

"Actually, I don't use it very often, but this occasion was just a little bit special. I'm glad you're secure in your masculinity, Vincent. Nathan's probably telling the others that you wear makeup."

"What can you expect, Catherine? My father wore dresses."

She giggled, feeling as childishly carefree as Nathan, and snuggled up against him. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Which part?" he murmured, nuzzling at her hair.

"The part about your masculinity. I'm suddenly feeling extremely . . . well . . . warm."

"Perhaps it's because you're so . . . dressed."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it. Do you think you could remind me later on to do something about that?" Her face tilted up with a come-hither smile.

"I'm almost certain it will cross my mind again. Yes, Catherine."

"You look too wonderful to be real. I haven't seen this outfit since the night we got stranded in the dark."

"Perhaps I was reluctant to wear it again. That night was so fraught with dangers."

"That night?" She attempted a reproachful look, but only succeeded in gazing adoringly into the eyes that twinkled--so free of pain--into hers. "Vincent, you've narrowly escaped death a hundred times--and those are only the ones I know about--but you remember the night of our first kiss as 'fraught with dangers'?"

"I was relatively certain I would not survive it," he confirmed. "It was merely a question of whether desire or terror would destroy me first."

"I'm glad you survived." She ran a finger gently across his bottom lip. "Experiences like that are supposed to build character."

"Then I would be wise not to avoid them?"

"Very wise." She caught a glimpse of his tongue against her fingertip and shivered. Years of frustrated longing had nothing on the hunger that had come with its fulfillment. The reality of their love-making had turned a desperate hope for release into the irrefutable promise of ecstasy. Was it out of keeping with her image--a vision of modesty in a cloud of white lace--to feel desire pounding through her like a sledge hammer? She wondered if the bridal magazines addressed this particular question. Ten Ways to Resist Jumping the Groom at Your Catered Reception.

He pulled her close in one of those embraces at which he excelled--innocent enough to appear platonic, potent enough to send her fantasies into high gear. "Catherine," he murmured into her hair. "Your efforts to build my character may have met an obstacle. There are countless buttons on this dress. I suppose it's too much to hope--"

"That there's a zipper? I'm afraid not."

"To have come this far. . . " he sighed, perfectly aware, she was sure, that his breath at her ear was meeting vital restraints.

"Nothing on earth could keep me from terrorizing you tonight. We'll find a way. If worse comes to worse, there's always Mouse and his explosives."

"Mouse is coming nowhere near my . . . our . . . chamber tonight. Nor will anyone else."

"I can hardly wait."

"No," he sighed, and she could feel the truth of it circling merrily through their bond. "But we must treasure this night, Catherine--all of it. There has never been so much joy in this chamber."

"There has never been so much joy in the world," she smiled, wishing all of it could be frozen in time. Fleetingly, she regretted the lack of a camera, a staple of any wedding above. There would be no pictures to commemorate this evening, but then it would be indelibly written in her memory, as she knew it would be for everyone involved.

"You are having entirely too much fun here alone," Brooke accused, popping up beside them like a charming jack-in-the-box. "Everybody's being nice. Everybody's let you have a minute to yourselves, but we're all just dying to pester you both, so come on now--join the party."

"Forgive us, Brooke. I was not aware that 'pestering' was part of the ritual." 

"Well, it is. We all want a chance to hug you and get all weepy and say the same mushy things over and over again. That way you'll really be glad when you finally get to be alone together."

"Does that sound plausible to you, Catherine?" He gave her an arch look as she took his arm.

"It's so crazy it just might work," she grinned, and together they strolled back into the thick of the gathering.

It was rather like being drawn down the barrel of Mouse's tube of colors. People of all shapes and sizes swirled close to offer their sentiments with smiles or with tears. When they retreated, another bright wave took their places, only to scatter off to the amazing bounty of the banquet table or to join the dancers spinning across the floor. She had never felt so surrounded by positive energy.

Bill Duffy was pumping Vincent's hand with marked enthusiasm. "They really know how to throw a party down here, don't they? Congratulations, Vincent. All the best to both of you."

"You two really look right together," Lena smiled tremulously as she hugged her. "I know you're going to be very happy. I just know it."

"Thank you, Lena."

Despite their best efforts, she and Vincent had become separated again, swept apart by the benevolent tide that rushed around them. It didn't stop the tingling sensation. She felt a little light-headed with the effort to take it all in, as if she'd suddenly been plunked down in the middle of a fairy tale where there were no villains and all wishes came true. A look from him across the heads of the celebrants, and it all made sense, all became brilliantly real. But the tingling went on unabated.

"Can I get you something to eat?"

"I don't know if I dare, Rebecca. My stomach's doing flip-flops."

"Well, then food's probably just what you need. William's gone all out, and I promise you, there's not a single dish with pumpkin in it."

"Okay," she laughed, allowing herself to be led to the food table. "I'm not sure I ever realized how many people lived here before."

"It is surprising, isn't it, when you get us all in one place? I don't think anyone's missing, unless you count Narcissa, and she never comes to anything. She did leave a gift though."

"Did she really?" Catherine said, surprised.

"Don't worry--nothing strange. It's actually very nice. I can't imagine where she got it. She was very fond of Vincent when we were little. He was the only one who wasn't frightened of her, but then he seldom seemed afraid of anything."

"Hey, if he was ever gonna be scared, this would be the time."

"Oh, Cullen, stop it." Rebecca chided without much rancor.

"Do I get to kiss the bride?"

"Of course."

He gave her a peek on the cheek. "I'm happy for you. Catherine--for both of you," he said with surprising warmth. "Let me know if there's anything you need, and I'll be happy to oblige--table, chairs, maybe a cradle."

"Go away, Cullen. You're making her blush."

"It's all right." Catherine smiled. "Brides are supposed to blush. I'll keep it in mind, Cullen. Thanks."

It was Fathers proposal of a toast that brought Vincent back to her side again, and she leaned against him, blissfully happy, as one by one special friends stepped forward to raise a glass of punch and make a short declaration. Some were touching and some were funny, and by the time they'd finished she wasn't sure if it was the drink that made her feel tipsy--was there even any alcohol in it?--or the sheer roller coaster of emotions.

"It's all a little overwhelming," she whispered.

He nodded. "I've never seen such an outpouring as this. But then everyone has good reason to rejoice, Catherine--knowing you've chosen to be part of us."

How like him to credit her as the source of the good feeling welling around them. "I think it's because they see someone they love very much looking especially happy."

"No one could possibly know the happiness I feel," he whispered, pulling her gently against him.