Rachelle fumbled with the bouquet of yellow roses and locked eyes with him. Her flowers sagged from thirst.
The simple gold band she clutched stuck to her sweaty palm. Instead of a flowing white gown, she wore the black pencil skirt and short-sleeved white silk blouse that, until today, had served as her choral ensemble uniform.
Her groom was dressed in his standard singing attire too—white collared shirt, black tie, and black slacks. He had removed the diamond earring from his left earlobe, his goatee was freshly cut, and as far as she was concerned, he had never looked finer.
Between the two of them, the worldly goods they possessed amounted to less than what Rev. Prescott likely paid to have his preaching robe cleaned.
And yet, she knew this was right. The right time, the right place, and the right man, even if she had to marry him in secret. One day they would look back on this elopement with tenderness and pride, telling their children about their union in an empty church sanctuary, not far from the university they would graduate from in six months.
He smiled at her and arched an eyebrow, questioning the delay in her response. The minister repeated himself.
“Rachelle Marie Mitchell, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She smiled. Her beloved didn’t have to worry about her having second thoughts—not when she felt this way.
“I do, Reverend Prescott,” she said. “I do.”