“You may kiss the bride,” said the rector, smiling gently.
The entire congregation was sniffling. Everyone who knew and loved Venice or Michael was weepy. Annabel did not risk it. If she began crying, she might never stop. She looked down the row of groomsmen, outlined in starched white collars and cuffs like old-fashioned black-and-white portraits. Daniel was looking up at the ceiling, or at God, or just to keep his own tears from overflowing.
I want you, Daniel. And I am a Jayquith. We do not give in. We get what we want.
Crashing the wedding had been easy. Somehow Alex had eased his way into the church; perhaps in country villages where you were supposed to have neighborly attitudes, the rector didn’t allow checking invitations. Perhaps nobody thought a stranger would try to get into a church. The reception would be different.
Had it been Daniel Madison Ransom’s wedding, there would have been circling helicopters, drooling photographers, and hordes of panting autograph seekers. Somebody must have leaked the guest list, because the handful of photographers there were concentrating on Daniel and Annabel.
Venice Pearse’s family was only rich, not famous, and as for the Thiells, they kept a low profile. People who own entire cities for gambling do not like to be recognized. It was confusing that J Thiell had recently asked for publicity. J Thiell didn’t care about green spaces. The only green thing J Thiell cared about was money.
The boy memorized the face of the photographer who had jammed his camera into the Jayquith girl’s face. He had to stay out of photographs.
Crashing the reception worried him. But at any wedding, half the wedding guests wouldn’t know the other half. He could easily say, “I was in school with John,” and who was to know who John was, or whether anybody had been in school with him? And he was the right age, or could pass for it. If anyone probed, he’d change the topic; he’d say, “Wasn’t the bride lovely? Beautiful ceremony.” If he could just get himself on the grounds of the bride’s estate, he’d be fine.
Lying so much made him nervous. Interesting, thought Alex. Planning a murder doesn’t bother me, but being an imposter does.
He had counted on cadging a ride from somebody at the church, but he had not counted on sitting next to Theodora Jayquith. Did he dare ask her for a lift? She had begun her spectacular career as an investigative reporter. What if she decided to do a little investigating about him? He slid away from Theodora and crowded next to the young people, laughing loudly when they did. He slapped somebody’s back when somebody slapped his.
Flashbulbs went off. The boy flinched and ducked, but of course nobody wanted his picture. He felt like a jerk. The wedding photographers captured bride and groom, bride and father, bride and mother. They plucked at this person and shunted that person over and everybody was smiling so hard their cheeks trembled.
“So clever of you to have the wedding here in the country,” gushed the older guests to Mrs. Pearse.
The country, thought the boy. As if country people had so many limousines to go around they don’t have to hire any.
The bride’s mother swarmed over the bridal party, hugging and bubbling, “Daniel, my dear,” she cried, “such a pleasure to have you with us. Congratulations on doing so well at Harvard. And you and Michael will both be in law school in the fall! How exciting.”
Daniel did not look excited. He looked as if he would prefer to hitchhike home than attend a wedding reception.
For a moment the boy considered changing his plans. I could talk to Daniel, he thought. But would he help, or would he stop me? His father and my brother, killed by the same man. I can half prove it. But not enough for court. Not enough for police. It’s been ten years for Daniel. Maybe he’s forgotten the murder of his father. It’s been only six months since my brother was murdered. I have forgotten nothing. The law won’t help me. I have to be my own law.
“On to the reception!” cried Mrs. Pearse. “Venice! Michael! Emmie! Annabel! Daniel! Gavin! Come on, now.” She was a collie herding the wedding party, nipping at their heels. Alex memorized the names. Venice, Michael, Emmie, Annabel, Daniel, Gavin.
Limousines took the bridal party—in different order from their arrival; the groom instead of the father accompanied the bride. Sleek contemporary vans, with pointy-glassed front ends, slid up to the church steps to carry the house guests of the Pearses and Thiells.
Wiping sweaty hands on his trousers, Alex crowded into a cranberry-red van with eleven other passengers. He ended up holding a girl in his lap. Everybody was giggling, the way kids do when too many are crammed into too little space. During the five-mile drive to the reception, he evaded questions while making friends. Two of the boys actually mentioned tennis games later on; this seemed to be a very tennis-oriented crowd, and Venice’s estate had several courts. The boy found himself agreeing to a match.
Either he had what it took to be an actor, or this was a particularly easily duped crowd.
Luck be a lady tonight, he thought. And thought of the girl who had smiled at him, the sister of the bride. Emmie. She had a lonely look to her.
She would be his luck.
Jayquith.
Daniel was so shocked that all the poise he’d gathered in all the years of public life deserted him.
The irony of it! To meet a girl he could love—and she was a Jayquith. No wonder Daniel had felt a core of strength in her. Look at her genes!
There was no greater louse on earth than Hollings Jayquith. You didn’t amass that kind of fortune without crawling beneath rocks. Hollings Jayquith had spent a lifetime smashing the people in his way like a machine crushing soda cans. He had smashed Senator Madison Ransom. Hired it to be done, of course. Hollings never did anything unpleasant himself.
Daniel made it through the ceremony without looking at Annabel, and even through the photography session, although the photographer moved him next to Annabel and they both flinched. Her cheek stained as red as if it bore his handprint from a slap.
I will not feel guilty! thought Daniel. This is not my fault! Con artist!
He pulled out every trick he used to deal with his mother, hiding some of himself, faking the rest. It didn’t work. Annabel remained, for Daniel, the beautiful girl of the beautiful hours in the Egyptian Wing.
I should have known. Who else is named Annabel? The Cleopatra hair and eyes threw me.
So, Annabel. Did Daddy skip the fund-raiser and send you instead? Your little mission to make friends with Daniel Madison Ransom? Your little nonsense with the pennies … as if a Jayquith needed wishes. Your father has connections the world over. He found out my father was on to him. It’s no surprise that ten years later, he would also find out that my mother had begun to catch on.
Of course, it’s my own fault for deciding to announce the truth on Theodora’s show. I have to hurt them back somehow, don’t I? What better way than to have the murderer named on his own sister’s live television show—in front of tens of millions of people—and see what she says.
But of course there’s nothing Theodora and Hollings don’t share. She would call him, announce that she gets the first Ransom interview ever, just as she had all the Senator Ransom interviews. Hollings would realize we have evidence. He’d start to work. He has to squelch it. What better way than to have his lovely daughter appeal to my hormones?
“Thank you, Mrs. Pearse,” said Daniel gravely. “Of course I’m very excited about law school.” He hated the mere thought of law school. What was law but verbal confrontation? Physical fights, yes, that was fine with Daniel, he loved using his fists. Wrestling was his best sport. He would certainly have stayed with boxing if its dangers had not so terrified his mother. But speech? He did not want it. He did not want this entire afternoon. That photographer had gotten Annabel’s tear. What an actress! Now he, Daniel, would be cast as the bad guy, making beautiful Annabel cry.
People were gawking. Guests were more interested in meeting Daniel Madison Ransom than in kissing the bride. Normally on these occasions he resort
ed to sunglasses, the wonderful blind wall behind which he could keep his eyes and his sanity. He hadn’t brought them to the wedding. Too affected. It would be hours before he could cut out. Michael would never understand if Daniel skipped.
The Pearses’ country place was a magnificent French manor, its white stucco walls shining in the sun and its turquoise-blue shutters reflecting the summer sky. Horses stood in high grass behind white fences and flowers splashed loudly in large patches.
Although the house had its own ballroom, and could easily contain the largest wedding party, tented yellow pavilions had been erected on each side of the rose gardens, and filled with white chairs and round tables. Violinists and cellists were tuning. The sweet chaos of an orchestra getting ready filled the country air. Daniel heard the musical clink of crystal glasses, the laughter of friends.
Annabel was walking toward him.
Oh, no. No scenes, please. He had scenes too often with his mother. And what was he supposed to say to her? Hi, Annabel, I know we had a great time together, but your father murdered mine, and it’s cut into my ardor.
No, Annabel, walk the other way, neither of us needs to do this, not with reporters skulking at the edge of the action and three hundred people eager for the next act.
Daniel’s only hope was a waiter, balancing a tray of champagne glasses on his fingertips. If the waiter stood between them, maybe Daniel could avoid—but no. He could avoid nothing. From here on in, his whole life would be scenes and hurt.
He owed the truth to his father, to his mother, maybe even to America.
His mother was a difficult ally. To put it more factually, she was a mental case. Only a few hours ago, he had been planning on having Annabel as his ally. They’d be partners and get through it together.
Right, he thought. A mixture of grief and resentment and some other emotion he could not identify swirled through him.
Love, he thought. That’s the other emotion. I really fell for her. Okay, Daniel, get tough, cut the love out, don’t give her an inch. This is Hollings Jayquith’s daughter, don’t ever forget it.
She’s brave, I’ll give her that. I wouldn’t walk up to a man that three hundred people are staring at, knowing perfectly well I risk a second slap in the face. But then, maybe she has an offer to make. Maybe Daddy gave her a bargaining position.
He wanted her to be innocent.
He wanted her to know nothing.
It came to him, when she was only a few steps away, that he never wanted her to know. How wonderful if this lovely girl could go on thinking that her father was also wonderful. But she could not. In only a few days, she would have more knowledge of Hollings Jayquith than she deserved.
A summer breeze lifted Annabel’s soft hair, as if it truly were a black cloud. He wanted to hold the silkiness of it in his hands, against his cheeks.
Stop it, stop it, Daniel ordered himself, but nothing stopped. It was as if he had gotten on a roller coaster ride at an amusement park and he could not get off, no matter how much money and fame and training he had, until the ride ended.
“Champagne?” said the waiter, flourishing his silver tray. Daniel nodded and took one.
“No, thank you,” said Annabel.
In the strange black-and-white bridesmaid gown, she seemed as much in costume as she had at the museum. He found himself wondering how she would look in a bathing suit or jeans. Terrific. She would definitely look terrific.
“There’ll be toasts soon,” the waiter reminded Annabel, moving the tray closer to her hand.
“No, thank you,” she repeated courteously.
“Might as well take one,” Daniel said. “You could just throw it at me.”
She laughed slightly. “I may just do that,” she said. Her voice was calm. Waiting for an explanation. She was willing to discuss this. He had met probably the only girl in America who really would understand his position … and he could never be seen with her again, let alone dance with her, or hold her close, or share his heart.
Emmie’s heart had been breaking all day. She could not talk to her mother. Daddy had discarded her several years before for a younger, lovelier woman who had her own L.A. clothing line. A trophy wife, people said. Your dad’s earned a better one; why should he be stuck with the old one? Daddy had not done terribly well with trophy wife number one, and moved on to trophy wife number two. Then he started drinking too much, although this did not prevent him from acquiring trophy wife number three. Finally one day, he came home, and asked Emmie’s mother if they could get back together.
Emmie’s parents were polite, agreeing on most things and compromising on the rest. They did not seem like husband and wife. They were people renting a house together. They never had real conversation. Perhaps real conversation would hurt too much. Emmie did not want to go through what her mother had been through. She just wanted to be loved, for good and forever.
Emmie watched Annabel and Daniel, and Mr. Thiell dancing with his new daughter-in-law. Venice could be so peculiar. Mr. Thiell had said he would give her anything she wanted for her wedding gift. And did Venice ask for diamonds or emeralds, for a yacht or a fabulous car? No. She asked him to buy a parcel of land she had always admired and turn it into a wildlife preserve! It killed Emmie. Venice wasn’t going to build a dream house there, or even pitch a tent. She wanted it fenced off forever, so that not even she could touch it.
Emmie wondered, if somebody offered her anything at all, anything on earth, what her answer would be.
“Hi,” said someone cheerfully. It was the boy she’d seen when they got out of the limo. The shy one with the bright eyes and hesitant walk. “The wedding was breathtaking,” he said. “You looked terrific. Is black fashionable at weddings? I thought you’d be in soft stuff, like roses or something.”
Emmie loved how men were inarticulate about colors and styles. She said, “I voted for soft stuff. Cream and peach and lace. But Venice won, of course, because Venice always wins, so here we are looking like people who sleep on beds of nails.”
The boy laughed. “The bridesmaids looked ready to take over a small country, actually. I’m Alex.” He put out his hand.
“Emmie,” she said. His hand was very warm. It was company. She wanted to keep it. “Sister of the bride. Are you a friend of Michael’s?”
He shook his head. “Friend of John’s. Did you go to Wythefield like the rest of the girls, Emmie?”
“Of course. We’re Wythefield women from way back. Even my grandmother. Where did you go?”
“Harvard,” he said.
“My neighbor Gilly goes there. Do you know Gilly?”
“I’d remember that name,” he said. “No, I’m in college now. Where are you going in the fall, Emmie? Tell me about it. And do you mind if we start edging toward the food?”
Emmie walked with him toward the buffet. A boy as handsome as this would soon be swallowed up. Or he’d go off with John, whoever John was. Boys were loners. They were in groups only for a purpose, like sports or war. They didn’t collect in knots, as girls did, to laugh and share and talk.
People enveloped them. “Emmie,” they cried, “you look beautiful! What a dramatic gown! How like Venice to choose such drama! And who is this?”
That was the real point, of course. Who is this and why is he wasting his time with Emmie?
“This is Alex. Alex, I’d like you to meet—” and then she’d introduce Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, or Susannah, or Gretchen and Jonsy, or Leigh and David.
Alex could not have been more gracious. He shook hands, said the right things, told little anecdotes. An excellent guest.
Spotlights went on under the yellow tent. Venice danced with Michael, then with her father, and then with J Thiell. Emmie shivered. Michael’s father frightened her, always had. “What relation is my sister’s father-in-law to me?” said Emmie to Alex.
“Distant. Want to dance?” Alex did not hold her at arm’s length, but face-to-face, as if they had known each other forever. The slow dance did not las
t nearly long enough. They split apart for two fast ones and Emmie, normally nervous when dancing, found herself free and easy. The rhythms entered every muscle. Still, the slow dances were better. She felt his muscles then, against her body, felt the threads of his suitjacket and the scratch of his cheek.
Alex stayed with her until the sun sank, leaving dramatic orange stabs through the violet sky. “Come on,” he said suddenly, keeping her hand as if he owned it.
Don’t daydream, she said to herself. Alex only latched on to you because he doesn’t know anybody here except John.
She ran with him, at his pace, up the path mowed among the roses to the top of the Pearses’ hill. A new and more distant horizon spread west. The awesome orange bulb of sun was back in sight, as if Alex could beckon to it, make it reverse. “The sun is a stage show,” said Alex, “that never ends. It just rolls on down the road.”
She wanted to kiss him. No, she wanted to throw him down on the grass and skip all conversation and—
Get a grip on yourself, Emma Elizabeth Pearse. You’re going to make a fool of yourself. Now talk about that sunset. Talk about weather. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” she said, forgetting weather and thinking only of romance. “Michael and Venice will have left on their honeymoon, of course, but we’ll be hosting all day Sunday. Want to come over for lunch and tennis?”
He gave her a strange smile, as sinking as the sunset. For a moment Emmie was afraid of him. The whisper of fear intensified her crush, as though fear were an integral part of love.
Daniel wanted to put his arms around Annabel, learn by touch what he could not learn from words. Her scent swamped him. He wanted to know the taste of her lips, explore her cloudy hair, find out if she’d be anywhere near him next September, if she wanted to spend the summer with him. Or life.
What was this love stuff, that had never touched you, not in twenty-two years, and suddenly you were drowning in it, with a girl you could not have?
Lie, he counseled himself. What does Annabel matter, anyway? You can never see her again.
But he did not lie. Because she mattered.