by Julia Kent
Thankfully, Mom and Dad have started to move away, so the comment goes unheard.
“Are you hitting on me, Mr. McCrory?”
“If you have to ask, I clearly didn't do it well, so let me try again. This time, I won't fail to communicate exactly what I mean.”
“I like the sound of that.”
That vaguely troubled look comes over him. “But I do need a few minutes to talk about–”
Before he can finish, Perky comes running over, a huge Vuitton bag over her shoulder, a dashing Parker Campbell behind her, on his phone as she drags him by the hand.
“HASTY!” she calls out. “We have an emergency!”
“What's that?”
“Mallory's mascara is the wrong shade. It was supposed to be Burnished Mink and they sent Polished Bronze instead.”
“That's an emergency?” Ian asks Parker over our heads.
Parker shrugs. “I guess?”
“How bad is the freak out?” Walking away from the men, we head for the dressing area as I try to let the wave of arousal inside me abate.
“She's sobbing. Something about the mascara shade matching the brown ring around Will's blue-green irises?”
“Oh, boy. Anyone give her a Xanax yet? Some CBD?”
“She refuses. Fiona's feeding her four-basil tea and rubbing a crystal on geopathic lines in the dressing room to help.”
“Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Helping?”
“God, no. But the dressing room smells like caprese and Fiona found a lost quarter under a radiator.”
“Good for her. That probably doubles the net worth of a nursery school teacher.”
“Meow. Good to see the old Hasty's back.”
A genuine laugh rolls out of me. “Was I that bad?”
“Yes. But I like you better now.”
“Who knew being ruined would make me likeable?”
“Do you care about being liked?”
“It's better to be respected than liked.” The old canard comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, but I don't agree with it anymore.
“HASTY! Give me all your mascaras. I need to find the best match,” Mallory snaps as we enter the dressing room. I'll give this event center its due: The building is designed for bridal parties. One big room with ten smaller rooms, like a dressing area at a bridal boutique, is the perfect layout. We have three private bathrooms, each with a shower, but ventilation prevents steam from leaking into this big prep area. There are water dispensers, plenty of coffee and tea, and a buffet set up on a side table.
Bottles of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and boxes of tissues are on a tray. Tampons and pads are in a discreet covered basket, too.
“The photographer is coming for the pre-wedding pictures in twenty minutes,” Mom says. We've all gone to our various hairdressers already, and our pedicures and manicures perfectly complement our outfits, so I find my dress and head for a room.
Dressing is easy, though I need a zip up. I pad out to the main area in bare feet and turn, Mom reading my nonverbal signal and coming over to help.
“This reminds me of your wedding,” she whispers. “Oh,” she adds. “I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't–”
“It's fine. It's natural to compare.”
“He took so much from you.”
“Just ten years and all my money, Mom.”
“What do you have left?” Perky asks, the flat sarcasm making me laugh.
“Cheese. I have cheese.”
“Sounds like he got the short end of the stick then, because your cheese is awesome.”
“Burnished Mink to the rescue!” Raye calls out, entering with her hand held high, a slim rectangular box in her hand. Her hair's in a gorgeous updo, much like mine, and following on her heels is her wife, Sanni.
Mallory halts mid-sob. “What?”
“Sanni found it! She had to go to three different malls, but she finally found it at the makeup store.”
Mallory tackles Sanni like she's JJ Watt. “Ahhhhh! You are my guardian angel!”
“Over mascara?” But Sanni takes the hug and the designation in stride.
“I know it's silly. I just–everything's color coded. Spreadsheets, rooms, décor, my clothes, everything. And if it all doesn't line up just so, the energy's off. And if the energy is off, the comfort won't be there. And if the comfort's not there–”
“If you give a mouse a cookie,” I whisper to Fiona, who brightens with laughter.
Mom holds a steaming cup of tea in front of Mal. “Drink.”
“What's this?”
“More of Fiona's four-basil tea.”
She takes a sip and makes a face. “Who put whisky in this?”
“Me,” Fiona declares. “There is no amount of woo that can unwind you now. We've moved from herbal to distilled relaxation.”
“I can't be drunk at my own wedding!”
“Not drunk. Just a little less tense,” Mom soothes.
Red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “Were you this nervous when you married–” Mallory's hands clap over her mouth.
I roll my eyes. “You can say Burke’s name. He isn't Voldemort.”
“He's close.”
“I had a life with him. We were together for eight years. My wedding was part of that. All the things you're experiencing marrying Will, I experienced with Burke. Maybe the emotional stuff’s not the same,” I say, waving as if that's trivial. “But the rest? Sure. We did the wedding shower and the bachelorette party and the rehearsal dinner. Remember?”
“All of your events were carefully planned for maximum corporate networking. Who has a bachelorette party at a regional bank?”
“It was their private events center, and it's very exclusive, and...” I hear the defensive tone in my voice.
Then I start to laugh.
“That was Burke's idea.”
Before anyone can comment, the photographer appears, all smiles and buried in equipment, a young assistant trailing behind with a rolling case and an eager expression.
“And away we go,” Mom says under her breath, tears in her tone.
“Don't cry, Mom. Remember your mascara. No one likes a raccoon in wedding pictures.”
“Where's Veronica?” Mallory asks, frantically looking around.
“She texted me,” Raye says. “She's on her way. Said there was an accident on I-95, but no worries. Just stuck in traffic.”
“There's always someone who's late,” Mom says reassuringly. “It's almost a requirement. A good luck omen, even. It'll be fine.”
Weddings are assembly lines.
No one will admit it, because we all like to think our wedding is unique, but the rituals are pre-determined in our little corner of New England culture. There's a proposal. The wedding shower. The bachelor and bachelorette parties. The rehearsal dinner. The ceremony and reception, the guest book and presents, the seating arrangements, the honeymoon–a series of checklists that vary something like birth plans.
They may be individual, but there's a certain inevitability to it all.
And at the end of a big wedding, everyone's exhausted, there's a big mess left behind, and a new life is forged.
See? Just like giving birth.
(Minus the pain).
Since Chaz isn’t here, Veronica's husband, Justin, is paired with her. I've got Ian, and Paul is matched with Raye. Fiona has Fletch, of course, and Perky has Parker.
Five bridesmaids, five groomsmen.
And a glowing bride marrying her Prince Charming.
“I am so, so sorry!” gasps Veronica, who rushes in, hair perfect, face completely devoid of makeup. “Horrible accident. Everyone was rubbernecking. They had it cleared by the time we got to it, but it was on the other side of the highway, so there was no reason for people to drive so slowly except morbid curiosity.”
“It's fine,” Helen soothes her. “Let's get you into your dress and get some makeup on you.” While the two of them scurry off to a private dressing room, Mom comes up
to me with a bottled water and a plate of my own cheese, some olives, and a couple of grapes.
“What's this?”
“I gave some to Mallory, too. We need to eat. Once the ceremony starts, it'll be a blur. You'll forget to eat or pee, and after a hundred handshakes your arm will go numb. You'll forget your own name, dear,” she says pleasantly.
“Mom! You almost sound cynical!” I take the plate, though, and sample my own cheese. The crystallization hasn't set in quite yet, but the taste is smooth, creamy, and has the hint of musk that gives it depth.
“Pragmatic,” she corrects me. Her eyes get misty. “I'm marrying off my second daughter. I want everyone to be well.”
Second daughter.
Marrying off.
“But I'm not married off. I had a wedding, but I'm not married,” I mutter. Mom hears it and sighs. She holds my left hand as I pop the rest of the cheese in my mouth with the other.
“Your wedding was beautiful. And who knows? Perhaps you'll have another one someday.”
“A real one.”
“Hastings, your wedding to Burke was real. The marriage was real. You made it real. Not him. Don't diminish your own authenticity just because some prick conned you.”
“Mom!”
Clap clap!
The photographer draws everyone's attention. “Pictures. Five minutes. Let's get everyone ready for the bridal prep set.”
We rush to finish makeup, the pictures taking exactly as long as Sarah-the-wedding-photographer says they will, her schedule as precise as a Swiss train. She's confident, firm, and has the kind of voice that projects, an artifact of years of doing this for a living.
“Mallory? One more shot with your besties!”
Fiona and Perky go straight to Mal's sides, Raye standing back with a serene smile. Veronica and Helen hover near Mom, chatting away, and then Helen walks out discreetly, grinning.
We know what “besties” means. I've been in enough weddings to know that exclusion is part of the deal.
I'm never in these shots.
Ever.
“Hey! Come here,” Mallory says to Raye, who steps forward, shy but moving to Fiona's side.
I turn away, reaching for a white paper cup to fill with coffee.
“Hasty?”
My shoulders tighten at the name.
“Get over here.”
It should not matter.
It.
Should.
Not.
Matter.
But it does.
A tingling covers my entire back, mid-calf all the way to neckline, the rush of blood and relief and–gratitude?–filling me with a warmth that comes out in a smile as I make eye contact with Mallory.
I take my place.
We pose.
And then I go to her, reaching out for a hug.
“Damn it, Hasty,” she laughs in my ear. “I'm going to cry!”
“Too late for me,” Mom says from behind me. “I already am.”
“No raccoons!” I shout, which makes Mal laugh harder, and soon the room is a series of sniffles and giggles.
Which is what Helen Lotham finds when she walks back in, carrying a huge wheel of cheese on a platter.
My cheese.
“Oh, Mallory. Will is going to be completely speechless when he sees you.”
“Because of my raccoon eyes?” Mal jokes, as Mom carefully wipes her makeup.
“Because you are stunning. Absolutely stunning. I cannot believe how lucky my son is to have you as his lifelong partner,” she says, setting down the cheese, her hands over her heart as she chokes up. “And how lucky we are to have you as our daughter-in-law.”
Mom breaks in half. The sobs are seismic.
I don't have in-laws. Not just because Burke never legally married me, but because he told me his parents died years ago in a train accident in France.
That was a lie, too. Pritha and Thomas Janoo live in Taos, New Mexico, a fact I learned from the Feds while being grilled. They, too, were the victims of Burke’s massive identity theft–he took out $175,000 in credit card debt using their social security numbers.
And yes, Burke flipped his real last name backwards.
Fitting for a guy who turned my world inside out.
Helen, Mom, and Mallory become a puddle of tears as Dad appears, tapping on the door.
“Ten minutes, everyone.” He beams at Mallory. “You're gorgeous, kiddo.” His eyes jump to Mom, and he frowns. “Oh, Sharon. You're crying again?” Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a tube of mascara. “Here you go.”
Mal takes it. “Burnished Mink!”
Raye gasps. Sanni, who is on the sidelines, starts to snicker.
“What?” Dad asks, clearly innocent. “Mom asked me to hold it for her as we were leaving the house this morning. Said she didn't want it to get lost.”
CLAP, CLAP!
The room turns to find Dancy standing outside, peeking in, his hand covering his eyes. “Sorry to intrude, folks, but it's time to line up. We've got a bride and a groom to join in holy matrimony.”
“Holy shit,” Perky says to Mal. “You're really marrying Will Lotham.”
“OMIGOD!” Fiona screams. “Mallory is marrying Will Lotham!”
“Is this news to them? I mean...” I mutter to Veronica, who smiles.
“I think they're channeling their ninth-grade selves.”
“And that's different from..?”
“Didn't you ever have a crush? Imagine marrying him.”
Ian comes to mind. Instantly, like a magician's flash of smoke, conjured by her words.
“Who knew Little Miss Perfect would end up marrying the asshole quarterback?” Perky says, making Veronica go tense.
Before I can ask who Little Miss Perfect is, Helen starts to line us up, shooing Veronica to her place. We are, in order:
Raye.
Veronica.
Me.
Perky.
Fiona.
Mallory has no maid or matron of honor. Said she couldn't pick just one.
Indecision was always one of her most annoying traits.
This time, it's endearing.
Besides, this isn't a competition.
Life doesn't have to be one.
I'm more nervous than I should be. I'm not the bride. In truth, I'm just a decoration. All five of us are, just as the groomsmen in tuxes are there to make Will stand out. Look good. Uniformed men, like soldiers who have his back.
That's how this works.
As we turn, I see Dancy's already at the altar, Will looking proud, not a hint of anxiety about him.
Mallory's idea that the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk down the aisle together is egalitarian. It also gives me a chance to hold Ian's arm, and as Raye goes first with Paul, then Veronica with Justin, I'm suddenly holding Ian's elbow, the fine weave of his jacket like heaven against my fingertips, his tall grace matching my rhythm as we walk down the aisle, all eyes on us for few moments.
Well, not all. A few widen, then disappear as heads huddle. I don't know if they're gossiping about me or the famous Ian McCrory, but I don't care.
Imperceptibly, Ian turns his head toward me and whispers, “You look extraordinary.”
I smile and glance up at him, my whole soul glowing.
Because he makes me feel extraordinary.
We part at the altar, followed by Perky and Parker, Fiona and Fletch, the crowd's murmurs growing as people start to cry happy tears. I look out upon the one hundred fifty or so people and marvel at how tiny our side of the family is.
There's me, Mallory, Dad, and Mom. Aunt Trish and Uncle John from upstate New York. Phoebe is Mom's cousin who flew in from Tennessee. Mom is an only child, and our last living grandparent, Mom's dad, is in an Alzheimer's facility two hours away, unable to recognize Mom anymore.
I'm sure Mom told him about the wedding, even though he wouldn’t really understand.
So this is it.
Mallory has some local friends, and her former employers,
the Tollesons, are here. All the people from the Habitat for Humanity table Mal volunteers at during the Dance and Dairy festival sit in a small cluster in the middle, Mrs. Kormatillo in an aisle seat, wearing an enormous hat. The Hessermans are here, Eric and Jackson with Lori, his dad somewhere in the back, and I see Philippe with a young guy who could be his son or his lover.
Hard to tell which.
Raul and his dad, Thiago, are sitting next to Karen Minsky, who looks really different out of uniform.
Almost friendly.
Will and Veronica are Helen and Larry's only kids, but they obviously come from large families. Aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins' kids abound, the Lotham side of the open-air barn bursting with toddlers and tweens, two babies in arms, and the low-level rustling and murmurs that come from active people at a ritual designed around happiness.
Sheer joy.
And also?
Will's family is way more connected. Bigger, stronger, socially and financially. An old analytical piece of my mind kicks in, computing and calculating, wondering if–
“Dearly beloved,” Dancy begins as the crowd hushes.
And I point a firehose at that part of me.
It needs to be snuffed out.
During the next half hour, my little sister will make a vow to marry the man who will be my brother-in-law forever. He isn't a con man, and he has actual, living parents who are here to support him. A sister I know. A family business.
Roots.
Will is real.
A quick glance across to the groomsmen makes me think again of my own wedding. All of Burke's groomsmen were well-connected finance guys he schmoozed with, but they weren't his friends.
Will's guys are people from high school. College. Grad school. A slow-rolling timeline of connection and friendship, of deep meaning and value.
Mallory found her soulmate right here in Anderhill.
Right where she's known she belonged, her whole life.
And while I'm insanely jealous of that, I'm also insanely happy.
For her.
The rest of the ceremony is a blur.
It has to be.
I'm not sure I can compare my life to hers anymore. I'm feeling two different layers of emotion, and they’re at odds with each other, so the easiest way to manage is to just do what I'm told, and think later.
Act now.
Think later.
Feel it all much later.