Page 90 of Bronson

The way the elderly dance that night, you’d think thirty years had been erased from their biological clocks. Alcohol is a strict no-no at home, but tonight, all rules are off.

They talk and dance and drink and laugh. They tell bawdy stories of their youth.

The Bachmans are the most gracious hosts, helping everyone into cars as they leave.

Then, the Bachman-only celebration begins.

The wedding with my family from our home had been a legal binding ceremony. We had signed the marriage license and were now officially husband and wife in the eyes of the state of New York.

And my last name was Bachman.

But I wasn’t yet initiated into the Bachman clan.

First, Bronson and I had to perform the rite of passage into a Bachman marriage.

It’s the final piece in the ceremony. The last threshold to cross.

My heart pounds in my chest. All eyes are on me. I stand before the altar, alone, surrounded by Bachmans. The lights are cut. The night is silent.

You could hear a pin drop.

My stomach falls into my red-bottomed shoes.

I clasp my hands before me, wringing them together, waiting.

For what, I have no idea.

Then, in the dark, the light of a single candle burns.

It moves toward me.

Bronson is holding a white pillar candle in one hand, a red Bachman’s box in the other.

He reaches me. The candlelight dances across his handsome face. His eyes are soft with emotion.

He opens the box.

In it sits a necklace with a charm; small diamonds forming the shape of a tiny sword.

A memory flashes in my mind. Me, complimenting Mary on her necklace, the very same one that Bronson now holds. She had said thank you, giving me a wink.

Her small gesture suddenly made sense.

She must have known this day would come.

Bronson speaks, his gaze fixed on mine. “All Bachman women wear this necklace. It is a symbol of our creed, the way we live our lives, the eternal care of a man for a woman. For as long as the stars have lit the sky, men have cared for and loved the woman they have pledged their lives to. And women have loved and obeyed those men, accepting them as the headship of their family. Choosing to give the gift of their submission to these men—men who would lay down their lives for the ones they love. The sword is our symbol—the length we are willing to go to, the sacrifice we would willingly make.”

Bronson hands Carter the candle and the box. Bronson holds the necklace.

He steps around me. His body brushes up against my back. He brings the chain around my neck. The little sword rests on my chest. His fingers are at the back of my neck, clasping the delicate necklace into place. His hands rest on my shoulders. “Paige, I freely give you this symbol, and pledge my very life to you. Do you accept?”

“I do.”

My fingers go to the charm. It’s cool to my touch. I want to thank him but the words lodge in my throat. He’s before me now, and I chose to speak my heart through my kiss. My lips meet his and I kiss him deeply, all feeling and senses melting into the intimate gesture.

When my eyes open, I find each Bachman holding an unlit candle. Bronson turns to Carter, taking back his candle and lighting Carter’s. Carter lights Sasha’s, and the gesture continues down the line until there are dozens of twinkling lights dotting the rooftop.

A voice rises from the altar. The man I earlier assumed to be a preacher has shed his robes. He now stands before us in a dark suit. He must be a Bachman. He has a candle in his own hand, holding it high as he speaks. “Fire, also as timeless as the Earth, symbolizes the Bachman family’s pledge to one another. To guide, care for, and protect one another above all others. Bachmans, do you accept the union of Paige and Bronson?”