Chapter 8 - THE SECOND WEDDING
Our second wedding had thirty-eight guests.
In my mother’s church hall in Detroit.
Clara Vance Hayes, worth hundreds of millions on paper, wore a simple ivory dress.
Mary made half the food herself until her cardiologist threatened to call me.
My old shop owner brought beer.
Margaret came.
So did a few Vance employees.
No Thomas.
No Preston.
No people who came because the Vance name looked good on an invitation.
Clara walked down the aisle alone.
Not because no one loved her.
Because she chose to.
When she reached me, she whispered:
“I can see you.”
I almost laughed.
“Good.”
“That sounded more romantic in my head.”
“It worked.”
We wrote vows.
Mine were terrible.
Clara loved them anyway.
“I married you the first time because I thought I owed your father.”
I heard Mary sigh loudly.
I continued.
“I stayed because I learned I never owed him that.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“And I choose you because when I ask what you want, the answer matters more to me than what I think is best for you.”
Mary whispered:
“Finally.”
Everyone laughed.
Clara’s vows were worse for my dignity.
“I married Gabriel because my father told me he was honest.”
She looked at me.
“He neglected to mention stubborn, suspicious, mechanically obsessed, and incapable of owning formal shoes without complaining.”
More laughter.
“But when everyone around me thought protection meant controlling me, Gabriel learned to ask.”
Her voice shook.
“He did not save me.”
I felt something inside me stop.
“I saved myself.”
She smiled.
“And he stood beside me while I did.”
That was better than being called a hero.
Much better.
We kissed.
No strategy.
No inheritance mechanism.
No deathbed promise.
Just marriage.
Afterward, Mary cornered Clara near the cake.
“You know you don’t owe me grandchildren.”
Clara nearly choked.
“Mary!”
“I’m just establishing healthy boundaries.”
I walked away.
Nothing good could happen there.
The next year, Clara and I moved out of the Vance estate.
She sold it.
People were shocked.
“Family legacy.”
She didn’t care.
Too many rooms had surveillance.
Too many hallways held fear.
We bought a house outside Milwaukee.
Normal by Vance standards.
Ridiculous by mine.
Four bedrooms.
Garage.
Workshop.
Clara insisted.
“You need somewhere to destroy engines.”
“I repair them.”
“Debatable.”
Mary had her own room.
She refused to call it hers.
Then left sweaters in the closet.
Victory.
One evening, Clara came into the garage.
I was rebuilding an old Mustang engine.
She held a pregnancy test.
I froze.
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
My brain stopped.
She smiled.
“I’m pregnant.”
I sat down.
Hard.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Doctor?”
“Appointment Thursday.”
“Should you be standing?”
Clara stared.
“Do not become Thomas.”
That sentence fixed me instantly.
“Right.”
I stood.
“What do you want?”
She smiled.
“Now you’re learning.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me too.”
I hugged her.
Then stopped.
“Can I?”
She laughed.
“Yes, Gabriel.”
We held each other in the garage.
Years earlier, Walter had feared his daughter would be alone.
Now she wasn’t.
But not because he successfully arranged her future.
May you like
Because Clara had fought to own it.
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