“If you keep looking at her like that, I’ll have to cover my kids’ eyes,” Aaron says, nudging me with his elbow. “And Mom’s, too.”
“Don’t forget, I was your best man, and I caught you fishing for the garter—or so you said—under the table before the first toast.”
I laugh when my brother’s face reddens. “Just because the first toast hadn’t happened doesn’t mean I hadn’t hit the champagne yet. Speaking of, I haven’t seen you with a glass in your hand.”
“I’m driving us to Boston,” I remind him. “I could have had hired a car, but then my car would have been here, and limiting myself to the one champagne toast felt easier than figuring out travel logistics.”
Aaron chuckles. “Be honest. You didn’t want to let your guard down during the first joint Gamble-Reilly event since before anybody currently living in Sumac Falls was even born.”
“That might have crossed my mind.”
Luckily, everybody is on their best behavior. While I haven’t seen our mothers cross paths at all, I spot Georgia and Hope talking. The conversation appears to be a happy one, with both women smiling, so I relax and leave them to it.
“Hayden,” my mother says, and I turn to find her approaching me. She does not look relaxed. “The big city photographer you just had to have is insisting on a photo of that woman and I together. She just tried to corner me again, for like the fourth time.”
Actually, I just had to have Taylor hire a photographer who wasn’t local precisely because I didn’t want somebody who knew our families or the history between them. The wedding pictures might be performative—though I’ll keep a few hidden deep in my phone, I’m sure—I was afraid we’d end up with either a lot of Reilly photos or a lot of Gamble photos. Or, even worse, a bunch of candid shots snapped whenever Gin and Colleen were near each other, hoping to catch a flare-up of the feud.
“I think that’s a pretty standard picture on any wedding photographer’s checklist, Mom,” Aaron tells her, his voice light and a little cajoling in a way that often worked with our mother. I never mastered it the way he did and decided long ago it’s just part of the second son toolbox. “But you both disappeared while we were doing the bridal party.”
“I’ll go find Cara and Gin.” I don’t bother trying to lighten my tone. Neither mother is going to be happy about this, but they’re doing it. And the sooner we get it over with, the sooner they can return to their own sides of the reception.
I don’t have any trouble finding the bride. It’s as if my body has some kind of inner Cara-detection system. And, as though she can feel my attention on her, she turns and our gazes lock. I nod my head, and she starts making her way toward me.
Meeting her halfway, I inform her the photographer would like for us to meet at the gazebo with our mothers for a group shot.
“You’re kidding.”
I glance around to make sure nobody’s watching us. Of course people are, because we’re the stars of today’s show, so I lower my voice. “The photographer’s insisting.”
“Do we really need to do this?” she hisses at me. “It’s not exactly going to be a treasured keepsake, you know.”
“It would be strange if we didn’t.”
“Maybe to the photographer, who doesn’t know us. But not a single one of our guests would be surprised by Colleen Reilly and Gin Gamble not wanting to be in a photo together.”
“Valid point,” I admit. “But I said we’d do it, so now we’re doing it.”
She rolls her eyes, but walks to where Gin is visiting with a friend. Cara speaks to her for a moment, and I hope nobody else notices how Gin’s smile is suddenly one hundred percent more forced.
But they come, and we all line up at the bottom of the gazebo steps, still framed by the floral arrangements. We’d learned when attempting the initial photos of the bride, groom and bridal party that standing in the archway put the photographer below us, and there was a lot of talk about angles. We get it right this time.
“Okay,” the photographer said. “I’ll probably take a few shots, but I’ll be quick so you can get back to the party.”
“Tell your husband to tell his mother that her necklace is hung up on the collar of her dress,” I hear Gin mutter to Cara.
Cara turns to me, but I just nod to let her know I heard. When I turn to my mother, she’s already fixing the necklace. She looks to me to make sure it’s hanging correctly, and I smile and nod again.
“Thank your wife’s mother, please,” she says in a tight voice.
Wow, this is fun. I lean forward so I can look across Cara to look her mother in the eye. “Thank you, Gin.”
She doesn’t smile, but her expression softens slightly. Very slightly. At least she doesn’t look as though she’s considering making her daughter a widow on her wedding day as the photographer calls for us to smile.
When she’s satisfied she’s got a good shot, everybody scatters again. I try to catch Cara’s arm, but she gives me an apologetic look and goes after Gin.
While I’m careful to keep a smile on my face, my annoyance increases with every passing moment. It may be understandable that a generations-long feud between two families leads to a more stringent bride side versus groom side than one usually sees at a wedding, but that division among the guests is also keeping me away from my bride.
I distract myself for as long as I can, talking with Taylor and Bill, and trying to talk my nephew out of peeing behind the gazebo instead of walking to the very nice portable toilets we’d rented and had placed at the edge of the town square. I want a few minutes with Cara, so I climb the gazebo steps.
