NINE
A RETAKING OF weddings vows shouldn’t be as romantic as the first time around. That was what Julie’s mother had read somewhere, but she watched her daughter marry for the second time and she thought: what do ‘they’ know?
People go into a second marriage with their eyes wide open, with all the knowledge of the trials and pitfalls of marriage behind them, and yet they choose to step forward again, and step forward with joy. Because they know what love is. Because they know that, despite the hassles and the day-to-day trivia, and sometimes despite the tragedy and the heartache, they know that love is worth it.
So Julie’s mother held her husband’s hand and watched her daughter retake her vows, and felt her heart swell with pride. They’d ached every step of the way with their daughter. They’d ached for their grandsons and for the hurt they’d known their son-in-law must be feeling. But in the end they’d stopped watching. Julie had driven them away, as she’d driven away most people in her life. But somehow one magical Christmas had brought healing.
It was almost Easter now. Julie had wanted to get on with their lives with no fuss, but Rob wasn’t having any part of such a lame new beginning. ‘I watch people have parties for their new homes,’ he’d said. ‘How much more important is this? We’re having a party for our new lives.’
And they would be new lives. So much had changed.
They’d moved—Julie from her sterile apartment in Sydney, Rob from his bachelor pad in Adelaide—but they’d decided not to move back to the Blue Mountains. Amina and Henry were in desperate need of a house—‘and we need to move on,’ they’d told them.
Together they’d found a ramshackle weatherboard cottage on the beach just south of Sydney. They’d both abandoned their jobs for the duration and were tackling the house with energy and passion—if not skill. It might end up a bit wonky round the edges, but already it felt like home.
But... Home. Home is where the heart is, so somehow, some way, it felt right that their vows were being made back here. On the newly sprouting gardens around Amina and Henry’s home in the Blue Mountains, where there was love in spades. Amina and Henry had been overjoyed when Rob and Julie had asked to have the ceremony here.
‘Because your love brought us together again,’ Julie had told Amina. ‘You and Henry, with your courage and your love for each other.’
‘You were together all the time,’ Amina had whispered, holding her baby daughter close. ‘You just didn’t know it.’
Rob and Julie were now godparents. More. They were landlords and they were also sponsoring Henry through retraining. There’d be no more working in the mines. No more long absences. This family deserved to stay together.
As did Julie and Rob.
‘I asked you this seven years ago,’ the celebrant said, smiling mistily at them. She must have seen hundreds of weddings, but did she mist up for all of them? Surely not. ‘But I can’t tell you the joy it gives me to ask you again. Rob, do you take Julie—again—to be your lawful wedded wife, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?’
‘I do—and the rest,’ Rob said softly, speaking to Julie and to Julie alone. ‘Beyond the grave I’ll love you. Love doesn’t end with death. We both know that. Love keeps going and going and going, if only we let it. Will we let it? Will we let it, my love?’
‘Yes, please,’ Julie whispered, and then she, too, made her vows.
And Mr McDowell married Mrs McDowell—again—and the thing was done.
* * *
Christmas morning.
Julie woke early and listened to the sounds of the surf just below the house. She loved this time of day. Once upon a time she’d listened to galahs and cockatoos in the bush around their house. Now she listened to the sounds of the waves and the sandpipers and oystercatchers calling to each other as they hunted on the shore of a receding tide.
Only that wasn’t right, she told herself. She’d never lain in bed and listened to the sounds of birds in the bush. She’d been too busy working. Too busy with her dot-points.
But now... They’d slowed, almost to a crawl. Her dot-points had grown fewer and fewer. Rob worked from home, his gorgeous house plans sprawled over his massive study at the rear of the house. Julie commuted to Sydney twice a week, and she, too, worked the rest of the time at home.
But they didn’t work so much that they couldn’t lie in bed and listen to the surf. And love each other. And start again.
She’d stop commuting soon, she thought in satisfaction. She could maybe still accept a little contract work, as long as it didn’t mess with her life. With her love.
With her loves?
And, unbidden, her hand crept to her tummy, where her secret lay.
She couldn’t wait a moment longer. She rolled over and kissed her husband, tenderly but firmly.
‘Wake up,’ she told him. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘So it is.’ He woke with laughter, reaching for her, holding her, kissing her. ‘Happy Christmas, wife.’
‘Happy Christmas, husband.’
‘I have the best Christmas gift for you,’ he said, pushing himself up so he was smiling down at her with all the tenderness in the world. ‘I bet you can’t guess what it is.’
She choked on laughter. Last night he’d driven home late and on the roof rack of his car was a luridly wrapped Christmas present, complete with a huge Christmas bow. It was magnificently wrapped but all the wrapping in the world couldn’t disguise the fact that it was a surfboard.
‘I have no idea,’ she lied. ‘I can’t wait.’
They’d come so far, she thought, as Rob gathered her into his arms. This year would be so different from the past. All their assorted family was coming for lunch, as were Amina and Henry and their children. For family came in all sorts of assorted sizes and shapes. It changed. Tragedies happened but so did joys. Christmas was full of memories, and each memory was to be treasured, used to shape the future with love and with hope and memories to come.
And dot-points, she thought suddenly. There were—what?—twenty people due for lunch. Loving aside, smugness aside, she had to get organised. Dot-point number one. Stuff the turkey.
But Rob was holding her—and she had her gift for him.
So: soon, she told her dot-point, and proceeded to indulge her husband. And herself.
‘Do you want your present now?’ she asked as they finally resurfaced, though she couldn’t get her mind to be practical quite yet.
‘I have everything I need right here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What more could a man want?’
She smiled. She smiled and she smiled. She’d been holding this secret for almost two weeks and it had almost killed her not to tell him, but now... She tugged away from his arms, then kissed him on the nose and settled on her back. And tugged his hand to her naked tummy.
She could scarcely feel it herself. Could he...? Would he...?
But he got it in one. She saw his eyes widen in shock. He was clever, her husband. He was loving and tender and wise. He was a terrible handyman—her kitchen shelves were a disaster and she was hoping her dad might stay on long enough to fix them—but a woman couldn’t have everything.
Actually, she did. She did have everything. Her husband was looking down at her with awe and tenderness and love.
‘Really?’ he whispered.
‘Really.’
And she saw him melt, just