Miles to Go Read Free

stringquartet assumed their places next to the gazebo and began playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
    It would seem that Mother Nature had been waiting for the optimal moment to strike, for just as the finishing touches were being made—and Diane was looking rather pleased with herself—a microburst hit. In one great sneeze, the umbrellas were turned inside out or took flight (I watched one guest chase one through the parking lot), the vases fell and shattered, and the rose petals so delicately thrown about were brusquely blown away.
    The scene would have been amusing if it weren’t so tragic. Our unfortunate guests ran around the garden in a state of panic, clinging to their hats, garments, or spouses. All was chaos.
    As soon as the ceremony’s accoutrements were sufficiently destroyed, the wind stopped, as if Mother Nature was taking a moment to survey her handiwork. Then the rain started back in earnest.
    The preacher, Reverend Handy, a friend of McKale’s father, had come from another wedding and gotten caught in the weather-delayed traffic, arriving on the scene just fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. I noticed his stunned expression as he surveyed the ruins of our day. The setting looked like a news clip from one of those interviews you see broadcast from a trailer park after a tornado’s blown through—complete and utter devastation.
    At noon I took my place under the dripping gazebo and waited for my bride, standing before a small gathering of survivors congregated beneath a bobbing sea of umbrellas.
    And then she appeared, her father on one side, the distraught Diane on the other, wet and carrying an umbrella. McKale was my sun, radiant in a strapless ivory dress. Asshe neared, we looked into each other’s eyes and the chaos melted away. I slid the ring on her finger, hoping that she hadn’t seen the carnage as an omen for our marriage.
    After we were pronounced man and wife, most of our guests fled while those remaining crowded under a dripping canopy to await the cutting of the cake.
    McKale was quiet as we drove off on our honeymoon, the rhythm of the windshield wipers filling the gap of our silence. When we were alone in our hotel room, I said, “I’m sorry about how things turned out.” I expected her to burst into tears, but she didn’t. Instead she looked down at her diamond ring, then took my hand. “I would have married you with a plastic ring, standing in a landfill in the middle of a hurricane. The show was for them. All I wanted was you. It’s the best day of my life.”
    That’s when I was sure we’d last forever.

    Angel was by my side when I realized that McKale’s wedding ring was missing. I started frantically patting around my chest and neck. I must have looked like I was having a heart attack or stroke because Angel looked alarmed. “What is it?” she asked. “Should I call a nurse?”
    “They took it,” I said.
    “Took
what?”
    “My wife’s wedding ring. It was on a chain around my neck.”
    She looked almost as distraught as I felt. “I’ll see if the nurses know anything about it.” She pressed the call button, and within a few moments a nurse I’d never seen before appeared in the doorway.
    “Do you need something?”
    Angel said, “Alan’s missing some jewelry.”
    “Well, we usually remove jewelry in the ER.” She turned to me. “What are you missing?”
    “It’s a woman’s diamond ring on a gold chain,” I said.
    “It’s probably in your locker. I can check on it for you.”
    I lay my head back into the pillow. “What’s your name?” I asked.
    “Alice.”
    “Alice,” I said, “do you know where the rest of my things are? I was carrying a backpack when I was attacked.”
    “No. But I can ask the police. They’re just down the hall.”
    “Why are they down the hall?”
    “They’re standing guard over one of the men who attacked you.”
    I had forgotten. My doctor had told me earlier that one of the young men who had assaulted me was