That’s it. Nothing special. Nothing magic.
We’re married.
I reach for Kate’s hand. The least I can do is help her down the three steps to the aisle.
But she pulls away before we can head toward the crowd. Stalking to stand in front of the altar, she tosses her head hard enough to send her veil flying. Before I can sweep it up from the floor, Kate shouts: “Hey!Mam!”
Orla Lynch stands like she’s being sentenced by a judge.
Kate hollers, “What do you think of this?” At the same time, she rips the shawl from her shoulders, tossing it to the floor like it’s on fire.
She’s covered in ink, shoulder to shoulder, from the slope of her throat to the V framed by the top of her dress. The drawing is a mess; it looks like a child scribbled on paper. There are green rectangles with circles on them that might be dollar bills. Red curves twist like a snake. In the middle, large black letters spell outFuck You.
Orla staggers until the backs of her knees hit her pew. Kate’s grandmother reaches up to steady her, but Orla just brushes away Fionnula’s veiny hand. All the color has drained from Orla’s face, leaving only the scarlet slash of her lipstick. “You didn’t,” she gasps. “Youcouldn’t. You have been locked in your room.”
Kate’s laugh sounds like the screech of a parrot. “You locked me up. But I told Breagha I wanted to make you a card. I wanted to say I was wrong, that I was sorry. She brought me paper and markers.”
Breagha still stands by the altar. She’s shaking so hard I can hear her teeth rattle. “Kate…” she moans.
Kate just laughs again. “Here’s your card, Mam. Here’s everything I wanted to say.”
Orla starts to wail like she’s watching an infant get washed out to sea. She folds her talons into a fist and starts beating at her chest. White rose petals go flying.
Lynch takes one step toward his wife, then another toward his wayward daughter. He stops halfway between them, looking utterly confused.
Fionnula shakes her head, her lips curled into a bemused smile.
Kate gives another one of those eerie, crazy laughs. Holding out her hands to me, she asks, “So, beloved husband. Ready to fuck your bride? Let’s do it here, in front of the altar.”
Before I can answer, Orla staggers up the stairs to the dais. Pointing at Kate like she’s casting out a demon, she shouts, “You are a hateful child. You are impossible to love. I should have had an abortion the day I found out I was pregnant with you.”
Planting her hands on her wasplike hips, Orla sucks in a huge breath of air. But before she can spew more garbage, I step between her and Kate, moving fast, purposely making the spiteful witch take a full step back.
“Careful,” I say, towering over her. “You’re talking to my wife.”
Before Orla can figure out how to wrestle more pity from the crowd, I turn back to Kate. Lacing my fingers with hers, I pull her close to my side. Her eyes blaze as she raises her chin, and we walk out of a silent St. Brigid’s together.
24
KATE
Wolf’s Bentley is waiting at the curb outside the church.
This is the part of the wedding where our guests should line either side of the walkway. They should hold little bags of birdseed because St. Brigid’s won’t allow guests to throw rice. They should clap and call out good wishes as Wolf and I hold hands, laughing as we run the gauntlet.
Well, we’re holding hands, at least.
Everyone else is still inside the church. I wonder if Mam has collapsed, or pretended to faint at least. I’m willing to bet Breagha is crouching beside her, fanning her face, telling her everything will be all right.
You’re talking to my wife.
My.
Wife.
The two words jack a cable into my spine, flooding my body with an electric thrill. I’ve been somebody’s daughter. Sister. Granddaughter.
But no one’s ever called me wife before. No one’s ever fought for me, lashing out with words as cold as a snowball, as sharp as a polished scalpel.
