Page 147 of Intermission

Madeleine Faith Prescott.

“Thank you.” The whisper through my lips is the sincere shout of my heart, but those syllables feel somehow insufficient to express my gratitude. This beautiful woman, my Madeleine Faith, is my bride at last.

With one hand nestled in the crook of her father’s arm and the other slightly lifting the hem of her wedding gown, Faith ascends the steps toward me, where my heart pounds upstage, center.

She is simply... radiant. I know I should take a moment to look at and appreciate the one-of-a-kind gown—provided at cost as a gift from another theatre friend, a costume designer—but I can’t take my eyes off her face.

“Friends, family, beloved,” Pastor Bryan says, stepping forward. “Today, we gather together to witness the joining of Noah Thomas Spencer and Madeleine Faith Prescott in holy matrimony. Who gives this woman in marriage to this man?”

“Her mother and I.”

Faith winks one cinnamon-colored eye at me, just before leaning toward her father’s cheek and leaving a kiss behind. My smile quirks to one side. Oh, how we struggled not to laugh when that line came up at rehearsal last night!

Dr. Prescott places Faith’s hand in mine—perfection—and then turns, descending the steps to take his place beside his wife.

I turn to face my bride. Her beauty, always stunning, shines with a brilliance that makes me weak.

The ceremony is a blur of her love meshed with mine. All we’ve been through, together and apart, is culminating right here, right now. I’m not ashamed of the tears that fall as I pledge my vows and slip freshly soldered rings on Faith’s finger, and I cherish each of her tears as a platinum band slides onto mine.

“By the power vested in me by the State of Iowa, as witnessed by our Triune God and these friends and family members, I nowpronounce you husband and wife!” Pastor Bryan takes a step back.

I am hers. She is mine. And we’re going to kiss to prove it.

“This has become something of a habit,” I say, closing the little bit of space between us. “Kissing you on this stage, with an audience.”

“No, that was Liesl kissing Rolf, not me kissing you. But Madeleine FaithSpencerhas never been kissed by anyone, anywhere.” She inches forward. “Not even her husband.”

“Hmm. I can change that.”

I cup the side of her face with my hand, loving the flutter of her eyelashes as she tilts her smile toward mine.

“I love you,” she whispers as a breath against my lips—words I return before claiming her kiss.

I am determined to make this first kiss one Madeleine FaithSpencerwill remember for all of her days. But one perfect kiss is not enough for my bride. I pull back, but Faith grips the lapels of my tuxedo jacket and presses her lips to mine again.

Our second kiss is a rather rousing encore—at least in my opinion.

The audience agrees, breaking into laughter and wolf-whistles above the cheers and applause that began with our first kiss as husband and wife.

We’re both laughing when our lips finally part. My right hand takes her left, and then, as one would expect from two actors on a stage, we raise our joined hands and take a bow.

Last night, we rehearsed the recessional to an instruments-only version of “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” fromMamma Mia!, but when one of my groomsmen shouts a series of nonsensical but familiar 1950s-esque syllables and the pit orchestra begins the reprise version of “We Go Together” fromGrease,we realize our plans have been hijacked... perfectly.

Grinning, we glance at each other and shrug. Though we didn’t plan it, couldn’t have, Faith and I execute a perfectly synched hand jive before rejoining our hands, descending the stairs, and running out of the Opera House toward... life.