Page 2 of The Wedding Party

I dial 911 on speaker and hurry to her side. Her lips are blue and her eyes shut. I hold my hand over her mouth, hoping for a trickle of air.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance now for what looks like a gunshot wound, but”—I scan the bed and room—“I don’t see a weapon. She’s breathing, but it’s weak.”

There’s a lot of conversation and instructions that follow.

It’s an hour later when I hold Moxie in my arms and watch the ambulance drive away.

But I already know that Elsa is as good as dead.

Chapter One

CARRIE REYNOLDS

Denver, Colorado

Present day . . .

In life, there are light moments, moments that twinkle like stars in the sky, moments that stand out even in the darkest of times, giving us joy, strength, and renewed energy. And then there are dark moments that scorch us with pain and torment and leave us desolate, struggling to move forward at all, and when we do, we’re walking on eggshells, tentative, afraid of what comes next.

I’ve known a lot of those dark moments. The first time I felt one, I was twelve. My brother was fourteen. Neither of us saw the car coming. I don’t remember much about that day.

Suddenly, he was just—gone.

Instead of him and me walking to school together, I walked to school alone. There were no more varsity football games to attend. No more sibling arguments over breakfast. No more video game battles. No more games of hide-and-seek.

Struggling to shake off the horrid place my mind has taken me, I finish filling the wine fridge with the new bottles I picked up on the way home. Oliver, the blessing that man is in my life, sensed I was off today when we talked on the phone and suggested wine and takeout, despite his work on some multimillion-dollar acquisition for Phoenix Technology. Of course, his father decided to retire right after we set our wedding date, which was unexpected. Once Oliver was forced to claim the reins of a multimillion-dollar company, we had to put the wedding off a year. But almost a year later, we’ve settled into all that is new. Almost.

Reaching back into the wine fridge, I grab a half-full bottle of riesling and pour a glass. We’ll open a new bottle when Oliver arrives. I walk to the kitchen island, sit down on a stool, dig into my giant Louis Vuitton bag, and pull out a bottle of pills. Contrary to what I, a nurse, would recommend to my patients, I down my nightly cocktail of medication with my wine before tabbing through an architectural magazine, looking for ideas for the house Oliver and I want to build. After the impending wedding and holidays are past us, of course. Coming right off the holidays to dive into our wedding in January is a big undertaking.

The front door alert goes off, and I quickly slide my pill bottle back in my purse and settle the strap on my seat. Oliver rounds the corner, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and so JFK Jr. in his navy suit and tie. Some might say I’m marrying up. Not that I’m horrid or anything. I have nice long brown hair, warm brown eyes, good skin, and a heart-shaped face, but it comes together as rather average. And it’s an unsaid thing that I’ll always need to lose a little weight. Meanwhile Oliver is a lean, mean muscle machine, eating whatever he wants, while I diet. It’s the curse of my life. And being five foot three doesn’t help. A few pounds are like pudding pads on my hips.

Oliver sets his briefcase down on the counter behind us, eyeing my wine as he does rather than kissing me. I’d prefer the latter, but we don’t always get what we want in life. Don’t I know that for a fact.

“Started without me, did you?” he asks, shrugging out of his jacket and settling it on the back of the stool next to mine.

“A few sips,” I say, “but I bought some new bottles. Let’s try one of those. And where’s my takeout?”

“I ordered your favorite. Giovanni’s lasagna coming up in”—he glances at the Rolex his father gave him when he took over the company last year—“fifteen minutes, I would guess,” he adds.

“Perfection,” I say as he kneels in front of the wine fridge and starts reviewing my purchases.

“How was work?” I ask.

“Complicated and exhausting,” he says. “But that deal I told you about is coming together.”

He actually didn’t tell me anything about “that deal,” as he calls it, except that it’s worth millions for his company and is some sort of an acquisition of a smaller competitor. He’s always too exhausted to dive into the nitty-gritty with me. But I’ve come to know that men share differently than women. They give us pieces, while we read them a book right out of our minds.

“You got that pinot I like,” he says, holding up the bottle. “I approve.” He pushes to his feet, grabs two glasses, fills them, and then joins me at the island, and we angle toward each other.

“Talk to me,” he urges, sliding my hair behind my ear, his touch tender and attentive. “What’s going on with you today?”

Attentive is really the word I highlight in my mind. Oliver is always attentive and present. No matter what is going on in his life or in the world, when we’re together, he’s engaged.

“We lost a little boy today.” My voice hitches. “It was, uh”—I look away and reach for my wine—“rough.” I sip and glance over at him.

“How old?” he asks.