Neanderthal Marries Human (Knitting in the City #1.5)(63)
Author: Penny Reid

“You know,” Dan started, shook his head, “I’ve known this guy a long time. Some of you might not know this, but we shared a bed for a while….” He allowed a dramatic pause, then continued. “It was a crib, and we were two.”

A burst of accommodating laughter filled the room, and Quinn grumbled something beside me. He was scowling, but he was also smiling.

“Even then he was bossy. He was always quiet, and I believe my mother once nicknamed him Sully the Sullen.”

More laughter. I reached over and held Quinn’s hand; he squeezed mine in his.

“But, I gotta admit, Quinn Sullivan is also the best and bravest man I know. And that’s why, when he told me that he and Janie were getting hitched, I was so happy for him. Because she is the best and bravest woman I know…and I know a lot of women.”

Another rumble of laughter. My eyes flickered over to Kat, and I found that her gaze was on her food. I tucked that away for later analysis.

“So raise your glass to Janie and her husband Quinn. May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light. May good luck pursue you each morning and night. To Janie and Quinn!”

“To Janie and Quinn,” the room echoed, and everyone drank.

Quinn and Dan shared a glare and a smile as Dan passed the microphone to Elizabeth. She stood as he took his seat.

She grinned at me then turned to face the room. “I’ll also try to keep my speech short, because I, too, am looking forward to the open bar.” This drew chuckles and a few exclamations of “hear, hear!”

“Anyone who knows Janie knows that she is the wisest person in the room. And it’s not just because she knows more about viruses than an immunologist or the mating practices of sea horses than a marine biologist, or that she can tell you the square root of any number without batting an eyelash. Janie is the wisest person in any room because she loves without condition.”

A few awwws filtered through the crowd, and Elizabeth winked at me.

“As a recipient of Janie’s unconditional love, I can tell you that it’s a beautiful thing. If you think she looks beautiful today, just wait until you see the beauty of her heart.”

I blinked away the stinging behind my eyes and felt Quinn reached his hand around my shoulders as he brought me to him and placed a kiss on my forehead.

“And Quinn Sullivan, you should all know, is by far the smartest person in the room, and here is why.” She paused, and her gaze moved to Quinn’s. “He is the smartest person in any room because he married Janie.”

More awwws were followed by a round of applause. Elizabeth waited for the clapping to die down before she lifted her glass. “Here’s to the wisest and the smartest individuals in the room. To Janie and Quinn.”

“To Janie and Quinn!” came the echo as glasses were raised.

I shared a brief gaze and smile with Elizabeth, and she blew me a kiss, mouthing the words I love you as she sat.

I thought the toasts were over, so I turned to Quinn to remark on how nice they’d been. To my surprise, Quinn stood, taking his glass with him, and he pulled me up beside him. He reached for and accepted the microphone.

Then, looking out at the crowd, he cleared his throat. “We want to thank my mom and Janie’s good friend Marie for putting this thing together. They did a really nice job, and it’s been…it’s been fun. So, Janie and I want to say thank you.”

He paused to allow the crowd a moment to acknowledge their efforts before he continued.

“I wanted to make a toast to my wife. I don’t really care about the open bar, but I don’t talk much, so this’ll be short. Raise your glasses.” Quinn looked to me. “To Janie Sullivan, my friend….”

He paused, his eyes moved over my features and lingered on the gigantic smile splitting my face in two, then said, “I know you by heart. To Janie.”

“To Janie!” the crowd repeated, lifting their glasses then drinking accompanied by a few awwwws and mumblings of appreciation.

Quinn sipped his champagne then, his blue eyes both mischievous and reverent, he leaned forward and kissed me.

***

The plane took off for our mystery honeymoon destination. We curled together in our seats, holding each other, tired yet replete.

My eyelids became heavy with a happy sleepiness, and I let my mind wander.

I didn’t think about snake venom or dorsal fin collapse; nor was I thinking of robots, the origins of idioms, ISO international date standards, or china cabinet and teacup analogies.

I was thinking about the wedding, but not just the beautiful ceremony, the amazing reception, the food, or the flowers, or the touching moments between me and my friends or me and my new family.

I was thinking about all of it—the entire day.

It felt like the wedding had followed a script, one that had been written a long time ago.

It said that I needed something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. So, I’d worn the old Sullivan family Claddagh ring, a new hand-knit lace wedding shawl, a borrowed haute couture wedding dress, and blue suede shoes.

The script dictated that I dress in something dazzling of my choice, and that Quinn look dashing as well; that the first time we saw each other be just minutes before we spoke our vows; that we be overcome with the sight of each other and the rightness of the moment.

It required that I walk down the aisle and be given away, given to my husband and that he be given to me, that all our friends and family watch this occur, and by watching give their blessing to our marriage. The fact that I and I alone had been the one to give myself away didn’t diminish the meaning behind the sentiment. If anything, it felt more sacred.

The script called for a romantic first dance between us, a calm, silly moment within the sea of expectations and well wishes. It also said Quinn must dance with his mother, for her to share that moment with her son and for her family to understand that their relationship had healed. Of course, we went off script when I danced with Desmond instead of my father, but one could argue that a little improv was necessary to keep things from becoming too predictable.

It told us that toasts were necessary, that a cake needed to be cut, a bouquet to be thrown, and that everyone gathered should pass on their well wishes and love to us, and show us how cherished we were.

This script that we followed was entitled Tradition.

I think I finally understood what Bridgett, the wise knitter from London, had been trying to tell me all those months ago about rites of passage and the value of enduring tradition.

We didn’t need the flowers and decorations, the gorgeous ballroom venue, the party favors, or the general splendor. If I peeled away the layers of accoutrements and fluff, we could have staged this script in a barn or in a field and, as long as traditions had been adhered to, the outcome and feelings would have been the same.

Leaving for our honeymoon and starting our happily-ever-after was next on the script.

And I couldn’t wait.

The End