Everything nourishes what is strong

already.

-Pride and Prejudice I'd choose the guy next time.

What a vow to make. But, oh, how right it had seemed then in theory. How admirable I thought it was in principle. How very wrong the reality turned out to be.

Funny how the pa.s.sage of time lets you see your youthful decisions with more clarity. Hindsight being 20/20, and all that. Especially when, as a grown-up, you find yourself surrounded by angsty teens. All day long. And, at times, even in the midst of the dreaded prom season.

One late-April morning, a few weeks after my Easter shopping excursion with Jane and about a month before the big wedding/union in Toronto, I was in the school library filling out order forms for the latest Hot Teen-Reads. I'd be d.a.m.ned if Meadowview High didn't keep the most current award-winning authors on the shelves right alongside the young-adult cla.s.sics, so I had a stack of requests in front of me and I was silently working my way through them.

Two senior girls sat at a small, round table a few yards to my left. They were not working-silently or otherwise. They were comparing notes on their prom, which was coming up that weekend.

After some chatter on the subject of dresses, the one I knew to be Simona said to her friend Karyn, "Jenni told me that Mike told her brother that he asked Liz to prom after he heard that Scott asked you."

Karyn inhaled sharply and said in a voice too loud for the library, "That's so not true! He's just saying that to screw with me. To start a rumor or something." She glanced wildly around her, saw me staring at them and lowered the volume (but not enough so I couldn't still hear her). "He's a loser," she whispered.

Simona crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. "That's not what you thought when you hooked up with him at Jenni's party."

"That was weeks ago, and anyway-" Karyn inhaled again. "Oh, my G.o.d, shhh! There he is."

Simona tried to swivel around in her chair in a nonchalant manner, but she couldn't pull it off. She was as obvious in her actions as Karyn and, it turned out, as lacking in subtlety as the lanky, dark-haired boy I recognized to be Mike. A boy who loitered near the teen magazine rack, skimming the t.i.tles and shooting glances at the girls-at Karyn in particular-in between his every breath.

There was something in the intensity of his gaze that made me think, Ah, so Mike really does like her. Even though he'd asked someone else to prom, Karyn was the one he wanted.

Had it been that way between Sam and me? Had our game of teen attraction-repulsion been so apparent that any adult observing us, even fleetingly, could've guessed where we were headed?

Yes, Jane replied shortly.

I sighed. As I said, 20/20 hindsight.

A somewhat similar sense of improved vision happened for me in regards to weddings. I'd attended a number of them in my lifetime, a few especially memorable. However, up until I drove with Andrei to Mark and Seth's Canadian union, the piece de resistance had been the June afternoon Di and Alex joined their lives together. Forever. Or so we'd all hoped back then.

I went to that big event with Dominic and, although Reverend Jacobs officially presided, it was Jane who actually narrated the ceremony.

Those gowns are deplorable, Jane told me with indignation, as if they were a personal affront. I have rarely been witness to an occasion where the natural female form was marred so profoundly by lack of taste.

I appraised Di's wedding gown, such that it was, as she sauntered down the aisle to the sounds of "Here Comes the Bride," the alternative-rock version. The light orange sheen of the clinging silk was pretty but, admittedly, an unusual choice given the occasion. Her pointy-nosed maid of honor wore a dark pink wraparound, which made the color scheme of the four-person wedding party a bit discordant. As for the cut of the dresses-well, let's just say Di's stance on wedding attire could most politely be defined as "minimalist."

Alex, however, stared at Di with a half-lidded gaze of sheer l.u.s.t, so I guess he'd been a fan of the dress, even if most of the congregation (and especially Jane) found it appalling.

"Dearly beloved," the reverend mumbled, "we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Diana Lynn Barnett and Alexander Sinjin Evans-"

Sinjin? Jane repeated with surprise. How odd a choice for a Colonial man.

I stared from my pew up at my sister's almost-husband. Alex's dark hair was spiked in the front, longish in the back. His dangling silver earring caught the light through the stained gla.s.s. It seemed a genuine accessory, while the navy-colored suit he'd chosen, eschewing the traditional tux, fit well enough but appeared awkward on him somehow.

Yeah. I had to agree with Jane. There was nothing remotely Sinjin-like about him. Except, of course, that-like many of us-he'd had English ancestors in some prior century.

Colonial times ended two hundred years ago, I told her. You might not want to set your expectations too high for finding look-alikes from your era.

True. There was a pause. But faces really do not change, Ellie. At least, I had thought not. She directed my attention to Di's maid of honor, the elder Dasch.e.l.l sister. Notice her features. Very Germanic, do you not think? My family entertained visitors from the Continent who had similar face shapes and colouring.

But, Jane, remember that Kendra and Stacy are first-generation Americans. Their parents are both German. In general, there's been a lot more mingling of blood in the centuries since Europeans came to the New World. You saw kids in my high school and college who had blended ethnicities.

Perhaps, but families still encourage their children to marry within certain boundaries.

I laughed. But they don't always listen. Just think about Angelique and Leo. Not only are they different religions, but his background is mostly Hungarian, while she's a UK mutt like me-part English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh-with another nationality or two thrown in from her dad's side. Their kids are going to have a real mix of features, and if any one of those kids marries someone Asian or Hispanic or Black- Yes, I understand your reasoning, yet how commonplace is such a thing?

Look around, I told her. I pointed out Alex's best man-a black-haired, Cuban-born guy-and his blond, fourth-generation Tennessee-born wife. She sat across the aisle from me and gazed at her husband with pride. They've been married for a year.

I nodded toward some of the other racially mixed couples in the congregation, some married, some engaged, and I reminded Jane of the guys I'd dated in college whose ethnicities and religions were different from mine, including Dominic, who was half Latino.

I would agree you were often willing to take a chance on a gentleman regardless of his background, she said magnanimously, although it may well have been veiled criticism. But while the search for true love in your time has the potential to expose you to a mult.i.tude of possible partners, it brings an equal abundance of heartbreaks.

I rolled my eyes, not at all shocked by this latest pearl of Regency wisdom, but one didn't tell the formidable Jane Austen "Duh."

Before I could respond more appropriately, however, Jane added, It is also a rather repet.i.tive, cyclical process, it seems, as the same individuals, or those representing the varying types of male, keep reappearing.

She was right about this, of course. I hadn't spent time compiling a list of male categories for no reason.

She began quizzing me about my then-burgeoning relationship with Dominic. Tell me about Mr. Reyes-Jones, she said.

I like him, I admitted. I'm attracted to him. I want to believe in him. But I don't know, Jane. Will it work? I inhaled as much air as I could take in. What do you think?

She considered. What is it that most draws you to him?

His pa.s.sion, I said without hesitation. The wild enthusiasm he has. He's not cold and cowardly or unintelligent or remotely effeminate or- Like any of the gentlemen you have thus encountered, she finished for me.

Right. But, I mean, what do I know? He could be as stupidly self-centered as Jason. Or he could completely betray me like Sam. At what point do I take the risk? And, even if I decide to go for it, what if HE doesn't? What if I'm just another person he wants to have deep philosophical discussions with?

Jane thought about this as the Reverend droned on. "Diana, do you take this man..." and blah, blah, blah.

What I hated to admit, even to myself, was how much I'd been hurt by bad boyfriends in the past. How cynical they'd made me. How I doubted I'd ever find the soul mate I'd fantasized about. How I feared the thoughtful, romantic man who loved to dance with me and make me dinner and hold me was a myth. Someone who only existed in fiction through a writer's sleight of hand.

Well? I finally asked Jane, eyeing a somewhat smug-looking Dominic, who sat next to me, alternately flipping through the hymnal and staring idly around the church.

Indeed, he does seem comfortable with himself at present, Jane commented. But his words and his actions are, in truth, occasionally at odds. I have suspicions I am quite unable to substantiate.

I stopped listening to Reverend Jacobs altogether. So, wait-you don't KNOW? You're as clueless about his character as I am? And all this time I thought you were supposed to be wiser than me.

Neither of us is a perfect being, Jane said, with no trace of venom. Then, less benignly, I, of course, am not the one with a history of such lamentable suitors.

I almost laughed aloud. You forget, I've read your biography. Plenty of "history," as you say, was hinted at for you, dear Jane. Just because the intimate details of your romances weren't recorded for posterity doesn't mean they didn't exist.

A moment of stone-cold silence followed. My history lacked the outrageous drama of yours, she retorted.

Well, she had me there.

Yet, at Mark and Seth's union, five years later in Toronto, I felt sure I was not in the midst of some new romantic melodrama. I felt sure I'd matured greatly. And I felt sure that what I was now experiencing with Andrei was merely a part of the relationship process-the next step, if you will, on my own road to eventual holy matrimony.

That bright, late-May afternoon, with Andrei as a member of our merry crowd, I scanned the congregation from my place at the podium, under a billowing white canopy, and read into the microphone a selection from Gibran's The Prophet.

"When love beckons to you, follow it...

And when its wings enfold you, yield to it...

And when it speaks to you, believe in it...

Think not that you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course."

I looked into Mark and Seth's eyes, aglow with what I'd undoubtedly call love, and I smiled at them both. Then I stepped down from my perch of honor and wound my way back to my seat next to my Slavic boyfriend. He spread his palm over my bare knee and shot me a wink.

My old roommate Kim, who was sitting on the other side of me and struggling to keep her three little ones from whining or crawling under the seats, nudged me once and said, "Nice job." Then she hissed at her husband, "Grab Jordan! Don't let him eat the gra.s.s!"

Tom, who was the parental bookend further down the row, s.n.a.t.c.hed up their nine-month-old son, pried the fistful of crabgra.s.s from his little hand and stuck an arrowroot cracker in the kid's mouth.

Kim and I laughed. Tom grinned at us. Andrei's hand slid a few millimeters up my thigh. Jordan gummed the cracker and gurgled while Mark and Seth exchanged rings.

It was a near-perfect moment, and I could feel in my nerve fibers that I should be next. That I should get to have this crew all around me again-a year from now, perhaps-only Andrei and I would be the ones up in front of the crowd, pledging our vows and our intention for a shared future.

I impulsively turned to Andrei and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. He responded by slipping his fingers under the hem of my tasteful rose-colored dress.

"Not here," I whispered in panic.

"Where then?" he countered.

"Nowhere now! This is a wedding-"

"Then afterward. At big reception." He squeezed my thigh for emphasis before releasing me, and I tried to block out an unwelcome wave of dread.

Mostly, I loved s.e.x with Andrei but, lately, it'd been getting wilder. Louder. Kinkier. And increasingly less discreet. We did it once in the employees' bathroom at the Shop-N-Save. We did it with handcuffs. Twice. He insisted we try it blindfolded, under the stars, at the park, before midnight one Tuesday. Thank G.o.d we didn't get caught.

But here I glanced around us, almost frantic. Where could we go so he could get his fix? And that was exactly what it felt like-a kind of addiction-especially when we were trapped in not-very-s.e.xually-conducive moments like these, and I was stuck trying to arrange something to tide him over for a few hours. I wanted to be able to socialize for at least part of the reception. I didn't want to be biting my lip in a dark closet somewhere to keep the other guests from hearing my screams of rapture.

However, since this was an outdoor wedding, our options were limited.

"I'm not doing it in the port-o-potty," I informed him. "And our hotel is a half-hour's drive away."

He nodded. "How about car?" Then he paused to reconsider. "No, too easy."

"Too easy?" I imagined the logistics of getting in a position even remotely comfortable in that tiny car. And his Volkswagen had a stick shift.

"Too easy for people to see us," he explained. "Maybe there is good place on other side, by workers?"

There was a small building, not far from where the reception garden was, where the caterers could organize their trays before bringing them out. However, service people swarmed that area and everything else was pretty much open air. We had tents or canopies covering us but, since the day was cool yet very clear, there were few hiding places.

"I guess we can look," I said, wanting to please him but not knowing if it'd be possible. "I doubt we'll find anything really private, though."

He shrugged and a grin tugged at the corners of his lips. "I know we find something."

A cheer went up around us, and I realized that our negotiating had distracted me. I'd missed the announcement of Mark and Seth's permanent couplehood.

I stopped whispering with Andrei and joined in the clapping. I saw a line forming to greet and congratulate the new pair.

"Let me talk to Mark and Seth for a few minutes, and then we'll figure out a place, okay?"

He studied me with those intense gray eyes, his expression one of a.s.sessment rather than of pa.s.sion. "Okay," he said just before I turned away to shake hands with the grooms.

Seth gave me a jolly hug and Mark kissed my cheeks, both sides, when I offered them my congratulations.

Mark leaned in. "You caught yourself one hunky Russian dude, babe. I couldn't help but stare at him when the two of you got here."

I grinned. "Yeah. I'll introduce you to him later when we have more time to chat."

Mark raised his blond eyebrows. "I'll hold you to that, Ellie."

"But remember," I told him. "You're a married man now. No flirting."

He shot a look at Andrei, who seemed to be people-watching from his chair. "Oh, don't worry about me. You'd better keep a tight rein on him, though. The flock thinks he's delicious."

I followed Mark's gaze and saw immediately that he wasn't kidding. There was a small tribe of single women-Canadian, I think, none of whom I knew-who kept eyeing Andrei and sending flashes of carnal interest his way. To Andrei's credit and to my heart's relief, he smiled at the women, but conversed with no one.

I walked back to Andrei and sat down next to him again. "Alrighty. We're clear for a while. Did you figure out a good spot?"

To my surprise, he shook his head and said, "Maybe now is not best time. We can wait for after dinner."

Grateful, I reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Thanks. Yeah, we'll be better able to slip away unnoticed then."

"Yes."

Although Jane chatted constantly throughout the dinner-commenting on the meal, on the variety of outfits, on the reception guests and on Canadians in general-Andrei, by contrast, was unusually silent. He'd send an occasional heated look my way, though, and he seemed to be enjoying the spirited conversation Kim, Tom and their brood of antsy young ones brought to our table, so I figured the long drive and active weekend had begun to take their toll.

"Callie, put the fork down. Down!" Kim cried. "Do not stab your brother with it." She motioned to her husband across the table. "Tom. Stop her."

Tom, who'd been picking rice-cereal clumps out of little Jordan's hair, reached around Callie's quieter twin, Zack, and grabbed the offending utensil. Two-and-a-half-year-old Callie gave him a demonic glare and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her spoon. She aimed it menacingly at her baby brother. Baby Jordan responded with a shriek and soon the whole table was in an uproar.

"Remind us to get a sitter next time," Tom said to Andrei and me with a sheepish grin.