“There! It’s up!” I quickly punch in the passcode. Several folders appear. I select the one marked Wedding Day.
I gasp as the first pictures fill the screen.
Henry stretches his warm body out on top of me while keeping the bulk of his weight resting on his elbows. He presses his lips against my bare shoulder. “All right, let’s see how good Joel really is.”
I pause long enough to turn and steal a lingering kiss from his lips and try to ignore his growing erection against the crack of my ass. We’ve been on this yacht for six days, and he’s had me in every position and countless surfaces and seems nowhere near sated.
But right now, I’m determined to relive the most perfect weekend of my life through a screen.
When Joel promised to capture all the moments, he wasn’t exaggerating. There are six hundred perfect moments in this wedding folder, from my first sip of coffee, bare-faced, my hair in a clip, to our last moments at the lodge, as Henry helped me into the pickup truck. We spent our wedding night at the old house with the hearth burning and champagne chilled, our bodies rarely apart.
“Mama looked good, didn’t she?” She was vehemently opposed to the idea of a black mother-of-the-bride gown. “Is this a wedding or a funeral, Abigail?” she’d declared. But when I sent her a designer satin dress to try on, she quickly changed her tune, allowing Celeste to make a few tweaks for sizing.
With her hair and makeup done at the Wolf Cove spa, she looked glamorous—a word I have never used to describe Mama. I noticed her stealing plenty of long, lingering looks at herself in the mirror. I guess the deadly sin of vanity wasn’t a concern that day, and I’m glad for it.
Joel caught an especially perfect picture of us together, Mama teary-eyed as she helped zip up my dress—which she begrudgingly admitted was the prettiest wedding dress she’d ever seen and perfect for me. He also captured a candid shot of her smiling up at Henry during the reception. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the look of fondness was genuine.
Daddy was nothing short of dashing. I’ve seen him in his Sunday best plenty of times, but his Sunday best is not a custom-made tux courtesy of Henry’s personal tailor—who Henry flew to Greenbank for measurements.
I think it’s safe to say they will never forget their trip to Alaska and for all the right reasons. Mama was uncharacteristically composed when I sat them down the day after the wedding to divulge the whole truth about Violet. Shocked, but not cursing the ground that Henry walks on. And when I told them Violet was moving in with us, she nodded with satisfaction, declaring Henry might make a respectable father yet.
At least a third of the pictures are of our bridal party, and I can’t fault Joel for that. Even Mama made a comment about their fine looks—including a debonair bridesman Ronan with a champagne tie to match the dresses. Preston wouldn’t stop flirting with Aunt May, who was left flustered but not bothered in the least.
“Oh my God! I forgot about this.” I laugh at one particular photo captured before the ceremony, down at the waterfront where Ronan and I used to sit watching the ducks and the sunset. I’m on one side of Ronan, while Margo is on the other, her body pressed against his, her hand conveniently hiding behind him. His face is etched in shock, while Margo wears a lascivious grin. “Do you know what she did to him there?”
“I have a pretty good idea.” But Henry’s voice is laced with humor. “I told her to be on her best behavior, for Violet’s sake.”
Joel was low-key obsessed with Violet, taking dozens of candid shots of her—alone, with me, with Henry. “She looks so grown up.”
Henry’s heavy sigh fills my ear. “I wish I’d met her when she was little.”
I break to kiss his cheek. “But you know her now. That’s what matters.” And all because she had the guts to take a train and barge into our lives.
Henry rests his hand over mine, stalling my scroll as we work through the ceremony shots. There’s a picture of Daddy walking me down to where Henry and Reverend Enderbey stood, my vibrant red hair styled in old-world glamor waves, my dress trailing gracefully behind me. Daddy and I wear matching tears. The camera doesn’t show how tightly he’s gripping me, it doesn’t repeat the words he had just finished saying—that I’ll always be his little Abigail, no matter what. And yet it somehow portrayed the emotion of that moment all the same. A lump swells in my throat as those same feelings rush back to me now.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. Joel is good,” Henry murmurs, nuzzling his nose against my ear. “I didn’t think it was possible for him to capture how stunning you were that day, but he did. We’re getting this one blown up for the wall.”