My heart fluttered despite the circumstance. Unfortunately, an entire pesky half of me was elated at the idea of being forced together with Teddy again.
She squeezed my arm, her palm warm against my frigid skin. “You should justtalkto him, okay?” Her searching eyes screamed with subtext:don’t run away from your problems again, Margot.
I dragged my fingers through my ponytail and pulled at the hem of my dress one more time. “Let’s go inside,” I concluded, drawing my shoulders back.
Georgie’s smile barely lifted her lips. Neither of us were particularly thrilled about the prospect of telling our friend that she shouldn’t walk down the aisle in twenty-four hours. Thankfully, Serena had always been the most gracious of the bunch—that didn’t mean we had much of a clue how she’d react.
We linked arms and stepped through the doors.
The first thing I noticed was the string quartet playing a Franz Liszt piece in the far corner. A memory dislodged in the back of my mind—one of the rare times Serena ever asserted her opinion—when I tried to play classical music while driving to a store at the edge of town. She said it made her sad.
I scowled and surveyed the restaurant.
Linen-draped cocktail tables scattered throughout, spilling out the wide-open glass accordion doors and to the behemoth of a balcony. No one greeted us or even glanced our way, each woman dripping in jewels and each man dressed in a flawlessly tailored suit. I plucked a glass of champagne from a passing server. Georgie followed me, mouth slightly parted, as I ventured outside.
The swell of ocean lapping against wooden pilings beneath us mingled with the warmth of the string quartet. An ivy-wrapped pergola built into the deck twinkled with lights. Two long tables—positively drenched in rows of burning tapercandles—were flanked by tufted linen chairs and stretched from one end to the other. It all finished in a rather foreboding microphone stand.
“Are we supposed to make aspeech?” I hissed through my teeth.
Georgie looked like she might cry. “Are we terrible bridesmaids?”
Serena swished through the doors behind us, signaled by the clink of her heels against wood and a waft of floral perfume. We turned with identical smiles, although I was aware that mine might’ve appeared eerily similar to a grimace.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she murmured, pulling us into gentle hugs.
Her hair, swept flawlessly into old-Hollywood-style curls, cascaded around a strapless, cream-colored lace dress. I would have believed it if she said she’d stepped straight out of a fashion shoot for couture brides.
“Where’s the lucky guy?” I asked, scanning the restaurant with obvious trepidation.
“At the bar with his groomsmen,” Serena replied without missing a beat. “But I wanted you to meet my mother and father-in-law.”
Georgie and I shared a silent plea for help while Serena put her back to us, reaching for the couple behind her that appeared otherwise disinterested in anything other than the glasses of wine and whiskey in their hands. The woman was a picture of elegance in a taupe blazer and matching slip dress, and the man, to my dismay, might as well have been a version of Jesse with a few extra wrinkles and salt-and-pepper hair.
“These are my bridesmaids,” Serena explained proudly, motioning to us each. “Georgie Wheeler and Margot Wade.”
A moment of hesitation passed, beyond what would be considered polite, before the woman extended a limp hand tome. “Genevieve Newhouse,” she purred through barely-moving lips.
I gripped her fingers and shook them.
“Warren Newhouse, the second,” he muttered, ball of ice clinking as he knocked back a swig of his whiskey.
“Nice to meet you,” Georgie said. “This is a beautiful rehearsal dinner.”
Serena beamed.
“If by beautiful, you mean disturbinglyquaint, then you would be correct.” Genevieve let out a tight-mouthed, squawk of a laugh, which earned her a narrowed sidelong glance from her husband. “We offered about a hundred far superior options, but Serena insisted on holding the wedding in this… town. What is it called, darling? Bluebell Canyon?”
“Bluebell Cove,” Serena corrected, her smile never wavering.
So, evidently, the compromise for her own wedding was thecityshe had it in. A tiny piece of my heart broke as I watched her, calm and grinning, accepting whatever fraction of a morsel was offered. It reminded me of Jeremiah, her older brother that reluctantly became her guardian when their parents passed. He vanished from her life the second she turned eighteen.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I lived in Manhattan for seven years, and this far surpasses any restaurant in the city,” I said.
“That’s right, Mom—” Serena began.
“Genevieve,” she snapped, then quickly recovered with a thin smile. “Have you two had a chance to sample the hors d'oeuvres yet?”
Georgie’s stare bored holes in my profile, as if begging me tosay something, or maybe not say anything at all. I couldn’t tell, because I openly glared at the odious creature claiming to be Serena’s future mother-in-law. She didn’t seem to notice—I wondered how many glasses of wine she’d knocked back already—as she plucked an invisible piece of lint from her husband’s suit and palmed a nonexistent flyaway into her updo.
