The Night We Met. Tara Quinn Taylor

as badly as He needs Sisters. Mothers are the core of family life, and family is the core of God’s work. Both callings serve Him equally—a mother in a more intimate setting and a Sister in a broader way.”

      It was as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

      “My calling is to serve God, but to do it in a different capacity than I first envisioned?”

      “I believe so. Yes.”

      I was elated, relieved—and then stopped short.

      “What if he’s been married before?”

      “He’s a widower?”

      “Divorced.”

      Sister Michael Damien didn’t say a word. And a few minutes later, when I stood to go, her concerned gaze followed me down the walk.

      

      The day I got married, Jane Asher broke her engagement to singer Paul McCartney on live television.

      Nate and I had a small wedding at the home of his friend and boss, resort owner Walt Blackwell, and as I was changing into my short, simple white dress that evening, Walt’s oldest daughter, Mary, told me about Asher and McCartney. I was pretty sure she was hoping I’d follow Jane’s example, minus the television crew. Walt and his family didn’t seem all that happy about me as Nate’s bride.

      “Nate and your brother just arrived,” Mary said, taking the sponge rollers out of my hair. The squishy little tubes were the only curlers my short strands could fit around, and I’d had them in all afternoon. I hadn’t seen Nate since he’d picked me up from the airport and dropped me at the Blackwell home.

      A door opened off the hall outside the guest suite where I’d spent most of the day with the myriad people Nate had hired to help me get ready for my wedding.

      “Be happy for me, Walt.” All my senses came alive at the sound of Nate’s voice in the hall. Since the moment I’d met him, I’d craved his presence.

      “She’s nineteen, son.”

      “Soon to be twenty.” The voices came closer as the men passed our door.

      Mary’s hand stilled, holding a strand of my hair straight up.

      “A child,” Walt said.

      “She’s already finished college and certified to teach.”

      “I just hate to see you go through what you did when Karen left.” Walt’s voice was kind, fatherly and growing fainter.

      “Trust me, Walt, Eliza isn’t like Karen.”

      “She’s a kid with nothing looking to you for security.”

      “She comes from a working-class family, but I wouldn’t say they’ve got nothing. Besides, she had her life settled, had more security than most of us will ever have, before I came along.”

      “And offered her a better way of life.”

      “I love her.” Nate’s voice grew in intensity, making it easily heard, and I tried not to cry.

      “Are you sure you aren’t just itching to get her in the sack and marriage is the only way to do that?”

      The voices faded before I could hear Nate’s reply.

      “My father thinks we’re downstairs already.”

      My eyes met Mary’s in the mirror. Hers were filled with pity. Mine with tears.

      Twenty minutes later, as I entered the beautifully decorated living room on my brother’s arm, I saw that Arnold had flown in for the wedding. My high school friend, his sister Patricia, was with him. I’d had no idea she was coming and seeing her there with the dozen or so other people sitting in rented chairs made me start to cry again. I remembered the silly high school game we’d played, writing notes back and forth as though we were the characters in Brontë’s novel. We’d both loved that book and it gave us a private, and I think creative, way to express our feelings. I’d always been Jane—because I was the one who’d go against the crowd. She’d been different characters, the tragic Helen, who’d died of consumption. Or the lovely Blanche Ingram. Or even the first Mrs. Rochester.

      Looking at her now, I couldn’t remember a time I’d been so emotionally on edge.

      And then I saw Nate standing beside the minister, flanked by gorgeous white lilies, and as our eyes met, the rest of the room—the rest of the world—faded away. If I was crazy for doing this, I prayed the craziness would last forever.

      

      After a champagne toast, a few photos and a bite of cake, Nate and I left our small celebration to drive up to a cabin Walt owned in the mountains not far from Boulder. We would be there until Monday.

      “The bathroom’s down that hall,” Nate said, my small suitcase in one hand and his duffel in the other. I stood just inside the door of the dimly lit main room, still wearing my white dress, watching as he disappeared behind another door at the far end—and returned without either bag.

      I’d known we were going to be sleeping together, of course. We were husband and wife now. But in recent days I hadn’t let myself think about what that actually meant—or picture it really happening.

      For the first time I could remember in my life, I wasn’t prepared.

      I thought briefly about claiming my monthly cycle as an excuse—but immediately dismissed the idea. I couldn’t start my life with Nate on a lie.