Oct 7 Protagonist Background Story

July 8, 1983

He walked into St. Michael’s Roman Catholic church, freshly showered, and wearing just one polo, a crisp collared plum colored shirt with a Charlotte County Community College logo one his left breast with a subtle lighter shade of purple Adidas three-leaf logo on the right. His khaki shorts were a size bigger than he needed; his soccer playing, bike riding thighs made his correct size too tight. He rarely wore socks in the summer, but he was going into a church, so he put on white, ankle-length ones and fit them into his new boaters, purchased specifically for the rehearsal and the following dinner.

He made it on time. Father Damian Ross had not started, matter of fact, he was not on the alter nor was he talking with his cousin Andrea Michaux or Giorgio Bianchi, her high school sweetheart and fiancé. He dipped his right hand into the Holy Water basin, crossed himself, kissed his fingers, and walked down the aisle to his seat at the front pew.

Longfellow Mikolaj Dark smiled when Andi waved at him. He nodded down when George up nodded, acknowledging him as well. He looked at his cousin’s bridal party and suppressed several thoughts that were inappropriate for the time and place. When he found his seat and shook a few hands, there was a loud crash from the entrance. Every head turned; Longfellow stood. A lavender dress hugging the wearer’s curves was the only thing he could see due to the sunlight blurring his sight. With each step, though, she was coming into focus. The first thing he saw was red hair, titian actually she told him three years earlier.

“God, she’s more beautiful,” he whispered to himself, hoping no one would hear him. He looked around and sighed when he realized it was true.

In his mind, she walked slowly, her hips sashaying left to right, her bosom jiggling. He closed his eyes in an effort to bring himself back to reality. When he opened them, she had found her seat, talking with the bridesmaid next to her, one of Andi’s college friends. He slowly slid down and turned away from looking at her.

Longfellow closed his eyes again, this time saying a quick, silent prayer to the ancestors and saints to give him the right words to tell Francesca Thayer how much she hurt him. He also needed the words to properly express how he had finally got her out of his emotions. That was until she walked into the church.

“So, let’s get this started,” Father Ross said as he walked onto the altar.

“Could the bridal party please rise?” the cleric asked. Longfellow and his fellow groomsmen did so. He rose without turning to his left, just kept his eyes forward. “Andrea, please.”

His cousin, shorter with the same olive skin he had worn for almost 19 years, cleared her throat and smiled at him. “Nicky,” she began, “come here and stand next to me.”

He went right so as not to squeeze past the other five other men, walked quickly to join his favorite cousin. She gave him a quick hug and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry to say this,” she began, her face turning redder with each passing second. She looked down at the piece of paper and inhaled deeply.

“Francesca,” she exhaled, “Could you join us.” The beautiful titian-haired woman, curvier than the last time he saw her, stood, and excused herself as she made her way to the center aisle. She tried to avoid looking at the man she hurt almost a year earlier, but she couldn’t do it. She looked into his dark brown eyes and her body sank.

The old feelings returned to him, the butterflies in his stomach flew around like they did the first time he saw her at Travers Lake. Her breathing was slightly labored, and she quickly moved her head to the back of the church. She shook her head with tears welling in her eyes.

“Guys,” the groom said. “You two will walk down the aisle together, then join us during the first dance.”

“I know there’s a history with you two,” Andrea jumped in. “So, please, go to the back of the church or step outside if you need to. Please, come to some truce.”

He didn’t speak: Francesca took his hand and headed down the aisle. Once outside and the door closed, she said just two words before busting into tears, “I’m sorry.”

“I read your last novel,” Francesca told him as the sun set, causing the upstate New York Friday night sky to show oranges and reds and magenta. She moved closer to him as they leaned against his Plum Crazy colored Barracuda, hoping that he would put his arm around him like he did whenever she was close and there was a slight chill in the air. She wished, but knew it was not going to happen. She hurt him, and she had to realize that he wouldn’t get over it quickly.

“What did you think about it? I mean, it’s my first New Adult novel.”

“I loved it. You did a great job working in more adult themes to the supernatural elements.” Absentmindedly, she reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. He didn’t withdraw it, allowed her to hold it.

He looked into her eyes before looking down at her feet. “What happened?” he asked.

She knew what he meant. She looked at him and didn’t speak, just raised a hand to touch his face. She stroked it and the words came out quickly and honestly. “I lost our child.”

The words hit him like a stomach punch. Longfellow could feel his knees wanting to give. His heart skipped a beat, he missed a few breaths. He heard the words and they registered. “She lost our child,” raced through his mind.

Sensing that he had so many questions, Francesca answered the most important, “I was pregnant and miscarried before I started classes. My roommate took me to the clinic where the doctor sent me to the hospital.

“There was nothing anyone could do. A month old is what the ER staff guessed. Once I returned to the dorms, I knew I couldn’t tell you. I felt that if I told you what happened, you’d leave your school, race to Nashville, and be with me. It wasn’t something you should worry about. It was my problem.”

He squeezed her hand tight and kissed her cheek. “No, you didn’t need to think like that. I would have called you, talked with you, made sure that you didn’t think that at all.”

“Oh, Longfellow,” she whispered, using his proper name and not the English diminutive of his Polish middle name, the one everyone loved using. She pulled him down and kissed his lips.

The electricity between them had returned. He knew it. She knew it. She began to cry. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.