checked the bridesmaids, making sure everyone was properly zipped and hooked, and no tags or straps showed. Then she unwrapped the bridal bouquet from the florist’s tissue paper. The greenish white flowers looked like they’d been grown in a test tube.
Emily came flapping back, face flushed, makeup smeared, hair hanging. The hairstylist and makeup artist hovered nearby for emergency repairs, but they couldn’t do anything about the sweat stains on the plum Vera Wang.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your mother,” Emily said. “No one’s seen her. The organist wants to know when to start the procession. She’s playing the same songs over and over.”
“Better get my father in here,” Desiree said.
Emily broke free of the flurry of combs and makeup and ran out again. She returned shortly with the bride’s father. Brendan looked splendid in his pearl-gray morning coat. Helen wondered if his silver hair had been touched up. Helen expected Brendan to turn teary-eyed when he saw his daughter in her wedding dress, but he ignored her bridal beauty.
“What’s she done this time?” he demanded. He couldn’t even say Kiki’s name.
“She hasn’t shown up yet,” Desiree said. “We’re supposed to start at ten, and it’s ten fifteen.”
Brendan whipped out his cell phone and began punching in numbers. He had long, thin scratches on both hands. The cook’s cat must have been busy.
“She’s not answering her home or cell phone,” Brendan said.
The blond bridesmaids looked bored. Their foreheads were shiny. The makeup artists kept patting them with powder, which speckled their black dresses. Hairstylists poked their coiffeurs with pins.
“People, what’s the problem? ” Jeff, the wedding planner, looked like a worried little boy. “If we don’t start soon, the flowers will wilt and the dinner will be delayed, the chocolate souffles will fall, and the band will . . .”
The dominoing disasters were cut short by the appearance of the groom, against all protocol.
“Desiree, darling,” Luke said, “is there a problem?”
Chauncey, his best man, was right behind him, mobile red lips in their perpetual pucker. The bride’s father strutted back and forth, looking at his watch and dialing his phone.
The room grew smaller and hotter. Desiree seemed overwhelmed by the heavy dress and the crushing crowd. She stood like a melting snow queen in her crystal-frosted gown. “It’s ten thirty,” she said. “The wedding should have started at ten. What should I do? Should we postpone the ceremony or go ahead?”
“Marry him,” her father said. Helen could see the man’s panic. His wife could delay this wedding, then run up even bigger bills for a second ceremony.
“Marry him,” Chauncey the best man said. His voice quavered theatrically.
“Marry me.” Luke kissed her passionately, but the bride remained rigid and unyielding.
The bridesmaids said nothing. Emily patted Desiree’s back as if she were a colicky infant.
“Is that your mother’s Rolls in the parking lot?”
Helen wasn’t sure who said that.
The bride broke from Luke’s embrace and looked out the window. When she turned back, Desiree’s face was a mask of hate and shame. “That’s her car. She’s with her chauffeur. She’s disgusting. I’m not holding up my wedding so that old tart can screw her chauffeur.”
The bride took her father’s arm defiantly. “Let’s go.”
The bridesmaids were shooed down the aisle like a flock of chickens.
The makeup artist gave Desiree a final dusting of powder. The organist launched into the bride’s music. It was supposed to be a wedding march. But Helen thought the bride and her father looked like two invaders crossing enemy borders. They stomped down the aisle, Desiree’s cathedral train raising small flurries of rose petals in their wake.
Just before they reached the altar, Desiree turned around and scanned the church for her mother. For one instant, Helen saw a vulnerable young
Emily came flapping back, face flushed, makeup smeared, hair hanging. The hairstylist and makeup artist hovered nearby for emergency repairs, but they couldn’t do anything about the sweat stains on the plum Vera Wang.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your mother,” Emily said. “No one’s seen her. The organist wants to know when to start the procession. She’s playing the same songs over and over.”
“Better get my father in here,” Desiree said.
Emily broke free of the flurry of combs and makeup and ran out again. She returned shortly with the bride’s father. Brendan looked splendid in his pearl-gray morning coat. Helen wondered if his silver hair had been touched up. Helen expected Brendan to turn teary-eyed when he saw his daughter in her wedding dress, but he ignored her bridal beauty.
“What’s she done this time?” he demanded. He couldn’t even say Kiki’s name.
“She hasn’t shown up yet,” Desiree said. “We’re supposed to start at ten, and it’s ten fifteen.”
Brendan whipped out his cell phone and began punching in numbers. He had long, thin scratches on both hands. The cook’s cat must have been busy.
“She’s not answering her home or cell phone,” Brendan said.
The blond bridesmaids looked bored. Their foreheads were shiny. The makeup artists kept patting them with powder, which speckled their black dresses. Hairstylists poked their coiffeurs with pins.
“People, what’s the problem? ” Jeff, the wedding planner, looked like a worried little boy. “If we don’t start soon, the flowers will wilt and the dinner will be delayed, the chocolate souffles will fall, and the band will . . .”
The dominoing disasters were cut short by the appearance of the groom, against all protocol.
“Desiree, darling,” Luke said, “is there a problem?”
Chauncey, his best man, was right behind him, mobile red lips in their perpetual pucker. The bride’s father strutted back and forth, looking at his watch and dialing his phone.
The room grew smaller and hotter. Desiree seemed overwhelmed by the heavy dress and the crushing crowd. She stood like a melting snow queen in her crystal-frosted gown. “It’s ten thirty,” she said. “The wedding should have started at ten. What should I do? Should we postpone the ceremony or go ahead?”
“Marry him,” her father said. Helen could see the man’s panic. His wife could delay this wedding, then run up even bigger bills for a second ceremony.
“Marry him,” Chauncey the best man said. His voice quavered theatrically.
“Marry me.” Luke kissed her passionately, but the bride remained rigid and unyielding.
The bridesmaids said nothing. Emily patted Desiree’s back as if she were a colicky infant.
“Is that your mother’s Rolls in the parking lot?”
Helen wasn’t sure who said that.
The bride broke from Luke’s embrace and looked out the window. When she turned back, Desiree’s face was a mask of hate and shame. “That’s her car. She’s with her chauffeur. She’s disgusting. I’m not holding up my wedding so that old tart can screw her chauffeur.”
The bride took her father’s arm defiantly. “Let’s go.”
The bridesmaids were shooed down the aisle like a flock of chickens.
The makeup artist gave Desiree a final dusting of powder. The organist launched into the bride’s music. It was supposed to be a wedding march. But Helen thought the bride and her father looked like two invaders crossing enemy borders. They stomped down the aisle, Desiree’s cathedral train raising small flurries of rose petals in their wake.
Just before they reached the altar, Desiree turned around and scanned the church for her mother. For one instant, Helen saw a vulnerable young
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