Apparently unconcerned, Kate’s grandmother sits in the front pew on the left side of the aisle, wearing a powder-blue dress with a corsage of sweetheart roses pinned to her chest. With her snow-white hair and deeply wrinkled skin, she looks like the type of mark Shannon dreamed of—ancient, gullible, and rich enough to make a decent scam worthwhile.
But when I met Fionnula Lynch in her Three Oaks room, she seemed a lot sharper than most of my mother’s targets. She managed to buy her own dress for today, without relying on my Amex card.
There are empty spaces next to her on the hard wooden bench. I’d expect Kate’s mother to be there—mother of the bride, proud and loving, or at least putting on an act for the crowd. But maybe the Lynches have some other tradition.
An altar boy comes running down the aisle in a black-and-white costume designed to make him look like an angel. He skids to a stop in front of the priest, whose name I haven’t caught. The kid tugs on the old man’s sleeve, then whispers something in his ear.
The priest nods and gives a clear signal to the organist. Music fills the cold stone church, one of those slow marches that goes on and on, something that can be repeated enough times for everyone to make it down the aisle.
I shoot my cuffs. In deference to the church, I’m wearing a white shirt beneath my tuxedo jacket, instead of my customary black. It looks like I’ll be standing alone—which seems right, given the way I’ve lived my life.
The door opens at the back of the church. I look up, expecting to see Orla Lynch soaking up the limelight.
But it isn’t Orla, framed in the arch.
It’s Nutmeg.
My sister is wearing a slender tuxedo, a perfect reflection of mine. She has on shiny black heels. Her hair is bright pink, cut shorter than it was when I left her at the Four Seasons. She’s holding a small bouquet of sweetheart roses, a softer shade than her hair.
Nut takes her time walking down the aisle, gliding from step to step like she’s been practicing for a while. She smiles the entire way, clearly on the verge of breaking out in laughter. When she gets to the end of the aisle, she winks at me.
Taking her place by my side, she turns to face me. I take the cue and brush a kiss against her cheek. “Cutting it a little close, Nutmeg,” I whisper.
“Come on, Cocoa Puff,” she whispers back. “You always knew I’d make it.”
I didn’t. But we can both pretend for the rest of the day.
The door opens again. Breagha Lynch is waiting, holding her own little bouquet of miniature roses, wearing a soft pink dress to match. Escorted by one of her father’s men, her smile is brilliant. Her eyes gleam like she’s having her best day ever.
Once more, the door opens to frame Barry Lynch and my bride.
Kate has managed to tame the wildfire of her hair. The dress she chose is stunning; simple lines, flowing fabric, with a veil that covers her face. She’s crossed a shawl over her chest, holding the edges close as if she’s cold. I suspect she’s only grappling with a case of nerves. Maybe that explains her silence since she took my credit card in her father’s office.
Kate’s roses are white, wrapped with a matching ribbon. She doesn’t manage the same stately walk that Nutmeg and Breagha achieved. Instead, she stalks down the aisle like she’s staking a claim, striding fast enough that her father has to waddle to keep up.
Once they reach the front of the church, Barry Lynch makes a show of lifting Kate’s veil, rocking onto his tiptoes to kiss her cheek. She stands as still as a coatrack, staring straightahead. Lynch shuffles to his seat in the front row, where his mother pats his wrist.
I try to catch Kate’s eye. I want her to know I understand. She hasn’t made peace with her father, hasn’t forgiven him for launching this merger in the first place. She and I are practically strangers. This isn’t the wedding any little girl dreams of.
She picks out a spot somewhere above my left ear, concentrating like she’s trying to burn a hole in the church’s stone wall. I don’t know what battles she fought with her family these past four days, but they’ve left her tense. Her face is drawn, as if she’s lost weight.
I stare at the skirt of her dress. I wonder if she’s been cutting.
The door to the nave opens again. Orla Lynch steps forward like an actress taking the red carpet at the Oscars. Whispers ripple through the crowd. The belated mother of the bride is wearing white.
Her vintage Dior isn’t a bridal gown. She isn’t that obvious. The dress is made out of some shiny fabric accented with pearls, cinched tight at the waist as if she’s a wasp, or maybe a praying mantis. Her hair is pulled up in a tight twist, and her scarlet lipstick matches the polish on her nails. Orla doesn’t carry a bouquet; instead, she has a heavy corsage strapped around one wrist—white roses, like her daughter.
Wedding rules aren’t carved in stone. No one goes to jail for breaking the rules of fashion. But Orla Lynch has done everything humanly possible to upstage her daughter.
I look at Kate to see how she’ll react, but she’s still studying that spot on the church’s stone wall. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t swallow. Doesn’t acknowledge her mother in any way.
Except she pulls her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.
Orla takes her seat, grinning like a shark.
The service that follows is textbook standard—a greeting from the priest, scripture readings, a responsive prayer. Thepriest drones on about something I forget before the words have stopped echoing in the church. Kate and I recite our vows. We exchange the rings I produce from my pocket.
We kiss like we’re children in a school pageant, lips closed, so fast the priest is caught by surprise and almost misses his next line. He tells us to go in peace, and we’re done.
