Her mother handed her the bouquet of white orchids. “It’s time.”
“Let me fix your tie.”
Connor endured his mother’s fussing with the knot, excitement warring with disbelief inside him. He and Shanti were getting married today. Shanti was going to be his wife. Howthe fuckhad he gotten so lucky?
“There. You look so handsome.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Connor had decided to stick with a tux—black on black—rather than wearing Bengali clothes.
“All right, son. Are you ready?” his father asked.
“I’m more than ready.” Connor entered the party tent with his parents, the plain interior transformed overnight by bouquets of red and white roses that decorated the aisles, the wedding platform, the corners of the silk canopy, and even the walls. A chamber orchestra sat off to one side, string music filling the space.
“This is lovely,” his mother whispered.
Dr. Choudhary, a friend of Devesh’s from Cornell, was officiating and stood on the raised platform, a low altar in front of him, fire burning in a brazier at its center, plush seats set along the back for the parents.
Connor walked down the aisle with his mother and father, friendly faces turning his way, everyone smiling. He and his parents climbed the stairs to the platform, where they shook hands with Dr. Choudhary, the three of them speaking quietly together. Yes, it seemed an auspicious day for a wedding. Yes, Connor was excited. Yes, it was fun to have a cross-cultural celebration.
The song finished, and the chamber orchestra started a piece by Bach—the music Shanti had chosen for her entrance.
Barely able to breathe, Connor waited.
The flaps were drawn back, and there she stood.
Connor’s heart gave a hard thud, his pulse drowning out the music.
Princess.
It was the only word his brain could manage.
Shanti walked between her parents, looking like a vision of heaven, the sight of her making his knees weak. She wore a white lace sari, a veil hanging down her back, the skin of her hips and belly peeking through lace. She glimmered with gold and jewels at her forehead, her throat, her ears, her wrists.
A vision.
She walked gracefully up the stairs and came to stand before him, her gaze locked with his, the longing and joy in her amber eyes a mirror for his own emotion.
“You are so beautiful.” He took her hand, kissed it.
She smiled. “You look hot.”
Dr. Choudhary began to speak, but Connor barely heard a word he said, the world around them fading, Shanti the only thing in his universe. When it was time, his parents handed him a garland of white and red flowers, which he draped around her neck—a symbolic way of welcoming her to their family. Her parents did the same, but he had to bend down so Shanti could get the garland over his head.
More words, Dr. Choudhary’s voice flowing around him like water.
Then Connor took her hand in his, ready to lead her around the fire seven times, while Dr. Choudhary recited seven blessings.
“May you be blessed with abundance and comfort.”
“May you be strong and help one another in all ways.”
“May you be blessed with prosperity and peace.”
“May you be always happy.”
“May you be blessed with a joyful family life.”
“May you live in love and harmony, fulfilling your promises to each other.”