It was the first big snow, and I knew it was not going to be
an ordinary day. So much was happening
and I was just trying to keep it together. There was a weird energy with this one. I had done so many weddings before, some celebrity, some for friends, but
after the rehearsal a few days before, I just had a feeling I should stay at
the top of my game because this one was somehow different. The bride was a very
well respected acquaintance, the groom, an interesting person, and the family –
eccentric. What threw me off was the
energy of the location. I’ve probably visited many haunted places over the years, and I have a long
history with being able to sense and smell and hear things that I believe most
people don’t. I always try to never
buy into it too much, even though I know it’s there. I am just very fond of being in the now, and I don’t
usually feel like I want to delve into unseen mysteries. Just being in this life is complicated enough.
After visiting the mansion, for the first time, I felt a
strong presence. I did a
bit of research and I learned others claimed the mansion was ‘haunted'. I stopped myself from reading too much into it. I have a big thing about other
people’s judgments, and I just feel really strongly about figuring things out
for myself and not supporting gossip.
It was 11.11. 2012, and the bride requested the ceremony be
at 11:11 am. I made a gorgeous hand crafted wedding vows book to read from. My then 18-month-old
son was teething, and my three-year-old daughter were growing restless. As the snow fell, I waited in the back of the
mansion with the bride’s famous artist father. 11:12,
11:13, 11:14. The wedding planner came to announce the groom had arrived late. The guests seemed apprehensive. Finally, we
were given the go ahead to proceed.
I mustered all I had learned from experience – leant positive
energy to the crowd, preformed the rites I had written, and saw that couple
through to legal marriage, the final kiss, and everyone was finally relieved. Deep
breaths.
Suddenly, it was all over. I announced that the reception
would follow downstairs in the old theater room, as Gypsy Swing Review began playing old Jaingo Reinhardt tunes. I
knew my husband had taken our children outside, because I could hear my
teething son fussing during the ceremony. I was the first one down the
stairs. Champagne was indeed calling.
It was just about noon as I made my way down. On the middle of the staircase, a guest came
out of nowhere. He had an old fashioned
way of touching my arm just at the elbow. As he spoke, I remember looking at his striking glasses. They just don’t make them like that anymore. Maybe Gucci does. He must be a friend of the bride's father. The smiling man seemed to know my name.
“Gabrielle. It’s nice
to meet you. I’m Ab. I must say that this is the
nicest ceremony I’ve ever seen here.”
I was feeling slightly uncomfortable, but his
compliment put me at ease. I made my way
to the Champagne stand as the music roared and jangled. My husband came down with the kids. Ab sat in an old wall seat. I was surprised he wasn’t mingling with
any other guests. He just seemed to be taking it all in. I could tell he truly appreciated the music, as did I. My whole life, I always felt I belonged in the 20's, and the music made me feel nostalgic for a time I cannot remember except in sepia flashes. He stood out in a dashing way; his well tailored suit shined extraordinary in a room full of
money. His Bakelite frames glittered in the lights as my daughter danced The
Charleston with the flower girl. I
listened intently to the strange white noise of him sitting alone, thinking I should introduce him to my husband at first chance.
Smiling thoughtfully from the wall seat, he seemed to communicate to me telepathically:
“This is a good time for you. Money is no problem. You will reach success. Your wildest dreams will come true. The world is looking out for you.”
Slightly bewildered, I tried to visit with other guests while simultaneously managing my husband's stress-as our son kept climbing the stairs. That’s what kids that age do. I intended to introduce Ab to my family but I turned around he vanished. I figured he was dancing or mingling, and
trusted I would find him later.
“Please get River!” My husband pleaded.
I turned and our son was already at the top of those
stairs again, so I promptly chased him into the old library.
River giggled and looked up the wall. My
face went white. Am I drunk? No, I had two sips. There, hanging on the wall was an old portrait of “Ab”.
Later, I finally finished the research: Apparently "Ab” was A.E.H. who had shot himself in the head there in a reported 'accident' in 1927, allegedlly, to avoid being forced to implicate
important political friends in the Tea Pot Dome Scandal hearings the following business day.
“This is the best ceremony I’ve ever seen here” was a kind
compliment to my work. Furthermore, out of all the people I've met, living or dead, Ab is certainly one of the good ones. After much thought, I resolved not to make too much
more of it. A compliment is compliment after all.
