Love never dies... it only transforms

My brother calls me with news. “I’m marrying over Labor Day. The wedding will take place in Montreal.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell him, excited for him because he loves her. Their tale is one that will have a happy ending. I go to Montreal ahead of the family so I can explore the city on my own while lodging in my future sister-in-law guest room.
The bride's mother, Hildegard, greets me at the door. She is not her  biological mother, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Hildegard is originally from Hamburg. A tall woman, she can instantly see through anyone playing games in life, and will call him or her on it when something is out of line. Fearless in stating her opinion, she is witty, and nearly always a precisionist in style.
While she makes us coffee, I peruse the bookshelves.
“You’re a reader?”
“It’s my great escape, being in my head.”
“Ach so. What are you currently reading?”
“A biography of Frida Kahlo.”
She lights up, “A painter. A lot of physical misery, she had.”
“It permanently attached her to her interior and imagination,” I add.
Hildegard is also an artist. “Interesting, my daughter told me you share astrological signs, yet she never speaks about the interior.”
“My interior is what I live for.”
“Have you ever painted, dear?”
“Yes. I prefer oils because I can play with color and texture. Painting gives me the chance to connect with myself.”
She smiles and hands me a paper map.  “A map of the city. We haven’t been here since we left, that was eighteen years ago.  I think you’ll find it surprisingly clean, safe and peaceful,” she says.
What she forgets to mention is Montreal is also eclectic. As I roam, I find the city is a hub for ethnic theater, television and film, which stimulates my thinking.
In the process of my experimentation, what I want is to make art for mass appeal. I don’t want to work for another home-builder. It’s more sales than actual designing. Innately attracted to the theater, I think that perhaps my design talent will lend itself to this arena. I establish a new plan; to offer my services gratis on my days off at a theater.
By Friday afternoon, my mother, eldest brother, his wife, and their daughter have flown in. They, too, will be staying here. 
Hildegard’s husband, has joined her. Both he and my father bear the same name, a French and a Spanish version, an unusual name and not generational.  My father having died the year before, I intuit this as an omen–a soulmate union sanctioned by the divine hand of God.
To ease any crowding, the bride and her parents stay at the home of her closest friend Diana.
In the kitchen, my mother grills fresh salmon, roast potatoes, and makes a vegetable quiche for my vegetarian benefit.  I’m dicing tomatoes for a garden salad while my oldest brother sits at the kitchen table with a map, planning day trips. “On Sunday, we can go to Quebec City. It’s a two-hour drive, and it’s historical,” he says.
That evening we hit the Latin Quarter. My niece being a teen thinks I'm cool because I expose her to the nightlife of the city.
The following morning is the wedding. The bride has left us directions on how to get to the church, by foot. I like that Canadians walk. Not only do I find it healthful and quaint, but it gives me a chance to explore the neighborhood.
During the long traditional French Catholic service, where parents join the bride and groom by mostly standing around like confused deer, I fantasize a year back in time, I would have bet my last dollar I’d be up there—but ...