The boy was wearing his best suit. In spite of that, he was the least well-dressed person at the wedding. He reminded himself of his name. He was Alex. He mustn’t forget it. Alex.
The bridesmaids, giggling, waved at their friends, hugged each other, and posed for informal photographs.
He was amazed by the number of photographers present. This was no team preparing the wedding album. These were reporters. He slid behind a thickly blossoming purple rhododendron to prevent being caught forever in a reporter’s camera. Pretending that he, too, had friends to whom he must wave, the boy shielded his face and slipped quietly into the church.
It was dim, the bright sunlight filtered by stained glass. Wine-red carpet covered the aisles. Narrow pews were filling with beautiful people. He recognized a rock star for whose autograph he would have given his car. He recognized a former President of the United States. A Wall Street stockbroker fresh out of prison after multimillion dollar swindles.
An usher, his tailed jacket sweetly traditional against the drama of the bridesmaids, smiled in welcome. The usher was broad shouldered: football-team wide, no padding beneath his jacket. He seemed too energetic for the job of seating people: a repressed energy trembled beneath the black jacket and tails. The usher was—
Daniel Madison Ransom.
Alex was awestruck.
Who could forget the assassination of Senator Ransom? When had that been? A decade ago, maybe. But they were always replaying the murder on television. Senator Ransom, instead of changing America, left a weeping wife, a little son, and a shocked nation.
“Friend of the bride or groom?” whispered Daniel, actually speaking to the boy.
In a weird way, Alex felt as if they were buddies, had been to school together or something. He knew a thousand things about Daniel, but Daniel neither knew nor cared to know a single thing about him. How did Daniel feel about that? Or did the rich and famous simply take it in stride, forgetting or never knowing that public curiosity existed? “Bride,” said the boy softly, since he was certainly no friend of the groom.
The boy was escorted to a pew in which three other guests had already been seated. A married couple, incredibly handsome in their fifties, and with them—he caught his breath—Theodora Jayquith.
How astonishing that Daniel Madison Ransom—who would never have given the woman an interview—had been the one to seat her! They had to have recognized each other. Did Theodora regard Daniel as a challenge? As prey? Did she plan to net him at the reception, and plant him firmly in front of her own cameras? Her trophy?
And Daniel? Had he any knowledge of who really killed his father? He couldn’t have. He would not be at this wedding if he did.
The boy pretended not to recognize Theodora Jayquith. He pretended, when they smiled slightly, as people sitting crushed against each other must, that he never watched television news and had no earthly idea who she might be.
The next time he saw her show, would his own face be on it?
Because he intended to make news.
The worst kind of news.
Here—to this church—would come the person he wanted to kill.
It was good that Emmie was slender. Black layers and silvery white capelets cascaded over her shoulders and plunged down her sides, angling around her ankles. Venice had chosen gowns that were demanding on the eye, and required beauty. Emmie was not beautiful. She had finally ceased to be jealous of Annabel’s beauty, although being her roommate had placed Emmie forever in second position. But she was still jealous of how Annabel attracted men. Being unloved had hurt Emmie in boarding school, but boarding school was a rehearsal. This summer counted.
Emmie had her heart set on finding a boyfriend at the wedding.
Michael, of course, was taken, although in Emmie’s opinion, only temporarily. Venice was a very difficult person. There were also ten ushers. According to Michael, two were engaged and two heavily involved. That left six.
But they will not, she thought, a terrible resigned sadness filling her heart, choose me. They’ll choose Annabel. Or Candice.
Emmie saw the years passing by, as she ceased to be a plain freckled girl and became a thick freckled matron. Venice would get divorced, and have affairs, and more marriages, because that was the kind of girl she was. But where would Emmie be? On the sidelines. Emmie was brilliant in math and had long ago decided to be an engineer. Emmie knew she could hold her own in college. She expected to be pretty impressive. But sometimes being impressive lost its appeal.
Sometimes—on her sister’s wedding day, for example—she just wanted to be loved.
I have enough money, she thought. They could marry me for that. Perhaps I should advertise. WANTED: handsome stud who needs cash.
The limousine stopped. Emmie gathered her black and white panels carefully.
She smiled routinely at a handsome young man who was crossing the village street. Definitely a wedding guest. When else does a young man wear a black jacket with satin lapels? His smile back was quick with interest. He adjusted his scarlet bow tie, as if he worried about her opinion.
Behind him cascaded the green lace of willow trees. Dozens of laughing people of every age poured out of cars and cried greetings across the church lawn. Church bells rang. Even Venice, moving with care, keeping her gown off the grass, seemed soft and warm, displaying possibilities that until now only Michael had seen. The bridesmaids gathered, their dramatic gowns made serene by the green grass and the blue sky.
The romance that had eluded Emmie throughout planning the wedding suddenly touched her heart. She wanted the wedding to be beautiful, and the marriage to last forever.
She waved at the boy. He waved back, smiling shyly.
Maybe it’s him! Emmie told herself, full of hope.
The intensity of falling in love left nothing between Daniel and his emotions. He was peeled like an orange.
Michael had known right away that something had happened. He and Daniel talked the day after the Egyptian Wing dance, and Michael said, “So what’s going on?”
“I had a nice weekend,” was all Daniel could manage.
Michael laughed softly. Their friendship did not require details.
Daniel actually counted the hours until he saw Annabel again, the way when he was a kid at boarding school he used to count the hours until finals were over and he could go home to a room and a shower of his own. At the wedding he and Annabel would dance again, and kiss, and begin the scary, beautiful process of finding out about each other. Finding out, he thought, laughing, what she looks like without a ton of Nefertiti makeup.
Between seating guests, Daniel kept going back to the arched open doors, watching for the arrival of the bridesmaids. He was there when her limousine stopped, when some other lucky man helped her out.
He hardly knew her.
She was intoxicatingly beautiful. Clouds of soft black hair lay on her shoulders like a gathering storm. Her ethereal features seemed to float in happiness. He had known she would be lovely out of the Egyptian costume, but he had not known she would be this lovely.
Behind her the blossoming trees were a stage set. He felt connected to Annabel by every invisible wave: radio wave and light wave and ultraviolet wave. The world blurred at the edges. Daniel did not notice the strange black and white gown. He saw only the girl within it.
He left his duties and threaded his way through the press of people. His heart beat as if he had just finished rowing for the Harvard team. Venice’s little sister came running up to introduce him. He managed to remember Emmie’s name.
Annabel’s smile tumbled toward Daniel. He could have caught it, like a thrown bouquet.
“Annabel Jayquith,” said Emmie Pearse.
Litchfield was beautiful, if you liked grass and white buildings.
Jade did not.
“Oooooh!” squealed her gray-haired ladies. “A wedding! Ooooooh, look at the beautiful bride!”
Jade did not. Only her own future mattered to Jade. One plan after anot
her slotted into her mind, and had to be discarded. She had so little time. She must use it well.
“Ooooooh! Look!” cried the bridge players, overcome. “Check out the wedding guests! There’s Theodora Jayquith! Right there!”
Jade looked.
“Annabel darling!” cried Venice’s mother, hugging her several times. “Why isn’t your father here? What has happened to the man? I’m beside myself. You know I adore Hollings.”
Annabel shook her head in apology. “Business, Mrs. Pearse. I’m mad at him myself. He ought to be able to arrange his life better, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, but I think that about all men.”
The groomsmen gathered at the top of the church steps. It was time to line up.
Daniel, edging through the crowd, was momentarily sideways to her, his profile as demanding as his personality. For a heartbeat, she treasured Daniel privately, as if he were a portrait on her wall, for her eyes only.
Mrs. Pearse repeated her views on men. A lifetime of social training prevented Annabel from shoving Mrs. Pearse to the grass and running right over her body to reach Daniel. The wedding consultant passed out the bouquets. Annabel took hers without looking.
Emmie was performing introductions.
Candice, another bridesmaid, burbled all over Daniel. “What a pleasure! Of course I would have recognized you anywhere. You know what? When your father was killed, I was taking a quiz about the Revolutionary War. I kept the pencil.”
Daniel smiled courteously in Candice’s direction, but his eyes, seeking Annabel, went through her. Yes! thought Annabel, I want your eyes to go all the way through, I want you to know me that well.
Annabel let Emmie introduce her. Daniel’s wonderful grin was emerging. His eyebrows met in the middle and became a single. She would get to know those two eyebrows.
“And this,” said Emmie, “is Annabel …”
Their fingertips touched. They jumped, as if from static shock. They were on fire for each other.
“… Jayquith,” said Emmie.
“Jayquith?” Daniel froze. His smile faded. His hand withered. Daniel actually looked down at Annabel’s hand, and stepped back, as if to avoid contamination.
Candice, Gavin, Bruce, Amanda, Spencer—all turned, gaping, mentally photographing what was happening.
“Daniel?” said Annabel. The stares of the rest of the bridal party were knives. “What—?”
The expression on Daniel’s face had changed from desire to loathing. He actually dusted his hands off, as if removing her. “I didn’t know,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have told me. Did you plan this? Did your father order you to get to know me?”
Annabel could not see Daniel clearly anymore: Shock blurred him. Know what? she thought. She felt Candice’s fascination, heard Gavin catch his breath, half-saw Emmie freeze.
“I will not stand in public next to a Jayquith.” He did not say her last name as much as spit it. Then he turned away without missing another beat. Changed places with Gavin. Struck up a bright conversation with Candice, his new partner.
The wedding consultant, greedy with delight to have been a witness to this scene, pushed everybody inside the church.
Annabel had gripped her bouquet so tightly all the stems were snapped.
A photographer—not the one Venice had hired for the wedding pictures, but a professional follower of the famous—shoved his camera into her face. He snapped over and over and over again, immortalizing her single tear, her white-knuckled fingers, her broken bouquet. A huge grin split his face: He was happy. He could sell these.
My name, she thought. I’m as doomed as Venice’s marriage. By my own name.
Six
WHEN PEOPLE HURT YOU, Hollings Jayquith liked to say, never let it show. Think of yourself as a baseball that you refuse to throw. You could, of course. You could throw yourself a hundred miles an hour and smash faces and windows. But you won’t. You’ll stitch yourself down. Never never never let them see how deeply they have cut you.
Annabel tried to stitch herself down. But she had never been cut so deeply and the stitching did not hold. I’m going to come apart in this church, in front of all these people, among a score of photographers and my aunt who has never fallen apart for anything or anybody on earth.
Three trumpeters stood on the chancel steps, their graceful instruments gleaming like beaten gold. What primitive emotions a trumpet call arouses. The guests shivered, as if armies were on the march, or danger.
I am eighteen, she told herself. I am poised, sophisticated. I will get through the rest of this afternoon and evening. I will not flinch, I will not cry. I will neither flush nor stumble. I will not let Daniel see how deeply he has hurt me.
Annabel cast a glance behind her. Venice was ready. The tall cowl of her gown was like a white sunrise behind her hair. She actually looked like the girl Michael thought he was marrying. All the bridesmaids had been given gold necklaces hung with tiny gold treble clefs, a bright speck of diamond glittering from the curl of each clef. Pure Michael, if he thought his marriage to Venice would be gold.
Poor me, thought Annabel. I am gold.
The bridesmaids came in from the west and the groomsmen from the east. Annabel, seventh in line, emerged from the anteroom just as Daniel offered his arm to Candice. Candice, puffed with importance, swung them toward the photographers, to be immortalized with Daniel Madison Ransom. Daniel’s eyes—the same eyes that had looked so deep—slid up and over Annabel, as if she were stairs or carpet.
The photographer who’d gotten her tear leaped into the aisle between them, kneeling, springing up and about like a Russian dancer, clicking insanely at her face. Annabel felt as if she were in an asylum, not a church.
I will not cry. I have been trained in front of the public eye. I will not give that photographer a second shot into my soul.
Gavin emerged where Daniel had been a moment earlier. The wedding consultant gave Annabel a gentle push in the small of her back and she forced herself to glide toward Gavin. “Gavin,” she murmured, summoning a smile, “you look so handsome.” Gavin was nice. She had known him all her life. Boring, solid, steady. Rich of course. Destined for a comfortable life. But he was only Gavin. He would never be more.
He was one thing, though: He was kind. He did not refer to Daniel’s flinging of verbal stones. Instead he kissed her hot cheek, a kiss of comfort and friendship. Of course the photographer did not bother to get that; who cared about Gavin’s kiss when you could have Daniel’s slap?
Would it be better to be married to Gavin, who was dull but kind, than to Daniel, who was exciting but cruel?
Annabel and Gavin moved slowly. It was torture. She smiled at the guests. She knew fewer than she had expected, but exposure to stares hurt more than she had expected. Emmie and I daydreamed about this wedding for weeks and weeks, she thought, and it’s hell, not heaven.
Daniel was ten paces ahead. The hair she had never touched, the shoulders she had never caressed, the reasons she did not know.
Annabel did not have a temper and she would not explode. She expected that someday, instead, she would implode. She would be a building detonated by experts. She would cave in. There would be nothing left of Annabel Jayquith but dust and rubble.
If a biography were written of her, each page would have two columns. In the public column, would be her out-loud remarks: Lovely day for a wedding, so nice to see you, Mrs. Pearse, what perfect flowers! The private column would give readers access to her heart. No sentences. Just cries of pain. Mama! Daddy! Daniel! Please! Not this!
So much pain. Perhaps people lived like this, their hearts carved away, while their lungs went on and their legs continued to move. They were bridesmaids in weddings and tennis partners over the summer and went on to college. And their first loves dissolved like pearls in acid.
Aunt Theodora had frosted her hair even lighter. The earrings today were great strips of foil. They might have been peeled off a chrome bumper. She looked stunni
ng and overly dramatic, as if it were her wedding. What have you done to Daniel, thought Annabel, that he won’t stand next to me because of our name?
It took all her control not to stop at Theodora’s pew and shriek at her. I have gone to so many dumb mixers, thought Annabel, and ridiculous parties and annoying get-togethers. And to meet what? Skinny, mindless, boozing dorks who love me for my last name. Then I meet him. And he hates me for my last name! Oh, Aunt Theodora, I hate you right back! How could you do this to me? What interview was it? What fact did you uncover, what unbearable pressure did you apply, to make Daniel feel this way?
She had to distract herself with something. Names, she would think of names. GavinSpencerCandiceVeniceEmmieMichael. If she ever had a daughter, what kind of name would she pick? Trendy and televisiony like Tiffany? No frills like Jane? Inherited like Eleanor Hope? Weird like Venice?
It did not distract her. The only name she cared about was Daniel.
And the only name that will ever matter, she thought, is Jayquith.
Gavin patted her knotted fingers. “No big deal,” he breathed. “I’ve been in six weddings. All we do is hang out at the altar.” The ponderous hesitation step finally brought them to the chancel steps. She let go of Gavin’s arm. The congregation was not looking at her. They had turned to see the bride. Even Theodora.
The close dark church was heavy with the scent of lilies of the valley. Even after all these years it reminded Annabel of her mother. Do you wish you were here, Mama? thought Annabel. Did you think about my wedding? About whether I would have true love and lilies of the valley banked along the window ledges of my church?
But what if I don’t have a wedding? What if I have already met the only man I could love and he hates me? What if I don’t get a second chance, and I have to take second best?
“I will,” said Venice.
Annabel was amazed. Venice had actually promised to honor and cherish and love Michael above all others. Let it be! thought Annabel. Let her keep the promise. Let her marriage last.
“I will,” said Michael, who had to brush his cheek dry.
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