Father Knows Best
By Amanda Robb
The moment everyone's been waiting for: the first kiss.
Photo Credit: Amanda Marsalis
At a meeting with Brett in the spring
of 2006, Randy raised the issue of displaying
affection and how it can lead to
sexual temptation. “From what I experience
as a guy, the physical aspect of
things just opens all kinds of doors for
hormones,” Randy told him. “Why
open those doors now? It’s a distraction
from getting to know Lauren.”
Indeed. Lauren would later tell me that
during their courtship — which included
dinners alone, a skiing excursion, and
a seven-day trip to Japan as part of
a church missionary group — she and
Brett never exchanged a kiss, or even
so much as held hands.
Didn’t she wonder what kissing and
sex would be like? Lauren and I are
spending a winter afternoon at the
local salon getting pedicures (I want
“Femme Fatale Red”; she wants something
softer), and I can’t help but use
our time alone to press for more intimate
details. “Of course,” she says,
“but it was just really hard to imagine,
so I tried to focus on other things.”
Did that work?
“Sometimes.”
Did she masturbate?
Lauren suddenly looks like a Barbie
doll — amiably expressionless. “I’m not
going to answer that,” she says.
“I wouldn’t either,” I say.
“Good,” she says.
What she will say is that her courtship
with Brett was emotionally hot.
“We talked a lot,” she says. “We asked
each other intense questions like
‘What’s the saddest thing that’s ever
happened to you?’ and ‘What’s the
hardest thing you’ve been through?’”
Seven weeks into their relationship,
Brett asked Randy if he could propose
to Lauren. Randy said yes.
Lauren and Brett become official
partners on December 29, 2006, smack
in the middle of a whiteout blizzard.
I’m invited to the big event, and I’m
determined to be there — despite it taking
more than an hour to drive eight
miles from my hotel to the Mountain
Springs Church. Inside, the decor is
simple: white candles, white-fabric columns
framing the altar, a string quartet
playing Bach. About 250 people sit
smiling; a serene pregnant woman next
to me whispers that at least another
100 can’t make it due to the storm.
At exactly 5:10 p.m., seven trim,
tuxedoed groomsmen enter and line
up, perfectly spaced, followed by seven
bridesmaids in black spaghetti-strapped
sheaths, delicately picking
their way up the aisle.
And finally, a radiant Lauren emerges
in a tight-bodice, low-back, full-skirt
gown (think Penélope Cruz in Atelier
Versace at the 79th Academy Awards).
Randy, who is officiating, takes his place
at the altar. In his homily, he praises
“the power and the beauty” of Lauren
and Brett’s choices. “To walk in purity
in your relationship and engagement . . .
has brought great honor to the throne
of God and to your parents,” he says.
“Brett . . . I walked [you] through what
Lauren’s heart looked like. We talked of
her incredible fragileness and the place
that you must occupy for her to continue
to grow into the fullness of all that
God has created in her.”
Everyone but me is smiling.
Soon enough, it’s time for the
inevitable. Randy seems to be stalling.
“You know,” he hems, “as soon as I
do this next part, I lose all control.”
Finally, with tears standing in his eyes,
he pronounces his daughter another
man’s wife. With that, Brett lifts
Lauren’s veil and kisses her.
Lauren had told me she was afraid
she’d faint when Brett’s lips touched
hers. I try to imagine what it would
be like to experience my first-ever
smooch in front of an audience of
hundreds, but Lauren is fine. And her
first kiss with Brett makes me teary,
too — on the one hand because she
looks so happy, on the other because
she’ll never know the sublime joy of
kissing a beautiful-but-stupid jock,
who, in your worst nightmare, you
would never, ever marry.
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