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Lucy ignored her sister. “Get him for me, Meg. Please.”
Meg was hardly a slave to convention, but this was rash even for her. “Now? You don’t think you could have done this a couple of hours ago?”
“You were right. Everything you said. You were completely right.” Even through yards of tulle, Lucy’s face looked pale and stricken. “Help me. Please.”
Tracy spun on Meg. “I don’t understand. What did you say to her?” She didn’t wait for an answer but grabbed her sister’s hand. “Luce, you’re having a panic attack. It’s going to be okay.”
“No. I—I have to talk to Ted.”
“Now?” Tracy said, echoing Meg. “You can’t talk to him now.”
But she had to. Meg understood that, even if Tracy didn’t. Tightening her grip on a bouquet of miniature calla lilies, Meg plastered a smile on her face and stepped out onto the pristine white runner.
A horizontal aisle divided the front of the sanctuary from the back. The former president of the United States and her husband waited there, moist-eyed and proud, to escort their daughter on her final walk as a single woman. Ted Beaudine stood at the altar, along with his best man and three groomsmen. A shaft of sunlight fell directly on his head giving him—what else?—a halo.
Meg had been politely admonished at last night’s rehearsal for walking too quickly down the aisle, but that wasn’t a problem now as she reduced her customary long stride to baby steps. What had she done? The guests had turned in anticipation, waiting for the appearance of the bride. Meg reached the altar much too soon and stopped in front of Ted instead of taking her place next to Charlotte.
He regarded her quizzically. She focused on his forehead so she wouldn’t have to meet those unsettling tiger quartz eyes. “Lucy would like to talk to you,” she whispered.
He cocked his head while he processed that information. Any other man might have asked a few questions, but not Ted Beaudine. His puzzlement shifted to concern. With a purposeful stride, and no hint of embarrassment, he strode up the aisle.
The president and first husband gazed at each other as he passed, then immediately took off after him. A buzz rose from the guests. The groom’s mother came to her feet, and then his father. Meg couldn’t let Lucy face this alone, and she hurried back up the aisle. With each step her sense of dread grew stronger.
When she got to the narthex, she spotted the frothy top of Lucy’s veil over Ted’s shoulder as Tracy and her parents gathered around her. A pair of Secret Service agents stood at full alert by the doors. The groom’s parents appeared just as Ted pulled Lucy away from the group. With a firm grip on her arm, he led her toward a small door off to the side. Lucy turned, searching for someone. She found Meg, and even through the tulle waterfall, her entreaty was clear. Help me.
Meg rushed toward her only to have mild-mannered Ted Beaudine pin her with a look that stopped her in her tracks, a look as dangerous as anything her father had conjured up in his Bird Dog Caliber movies. Lucy shook her head, and Meg somehow understood her friend hadn’t been pleading for her to intercede with Ted. Lucy wanted her to deal with the mess out here, as if Meg had even a clue how to go about that.
As the door shut behind the bride and groom, the former first husband of the United States advanced on her. “Meg, what’s going on? Tracy said you know about this.”
Meg gripped her bridesmaid’s bouquet. Why did Lucy have to wait so long to rediscover her rebel’s heart? “Uhm . . . Lucy needed to talk to Ted.”
“That’s obvious. About what?”
“She’s . . .” She saw Lucy’s stricken face in her mind. “She’s having some doubts.”
“Doubts?” Francesca Beaudine, furious in fawn Chanel, shot forward. “You’re responsible for this. I heard you last night. This is your doing.” She charged toward the room where her son had disappeared only to be restrained at the last moment by her husband.
“Hold on, Francesca,” Dallas Beaudine said, his Texas drawl in marked contrast to his wife’s clipped British accent. “They have to sort this out for themselves.”
The bridesmaids and groomsmen rushed into the narthex from the sanctuary. Lucy’s siblings clustered together: her brother, Andre; Charlotte and Holly; Tracy, who was darting murderous looks at Meg. The minister went to the president, and the two engaged in a quick conversation. The minister nodded and returned to the sanctuary, where Meg heard him apologize for the “short delay” and ask the guests to stay where they were.
The chamber ensemble began to play. The door at the side of the narthex remained closed. Meg was starting to feel sick.
Tracy broke away from her family and charged toward Meg, her rosebud mouth puckered in outrage. “Lucy was happy till you showed up. This is your fault!”
Her father came to her side and put his hand on her shoulder as he regarded Meg coldly. “Nealy told me about your conversation last night. What do you know about this?”
The groom’s parents heard his question and closed in. Meg knew Lucy was counting on her and fought the urge to back away. “Lucy . . . tries so hard not to disappoint the people she loves.” She licked her dry lips. “Sometimes she can . . . forget to be true to herself.”
Mat Jorik was from the No Bullshit School of Journalism. “Exactly what are you saying? Spell it out.”
All eyes fastened on her. Meg tightened her grip on the calla lily bouquet. No matter how much she wanted to run she had to try to make this at least a little easier on Lucy by laying the groundwork for the difficult conversations that lay ahead. She licked her lips again. “Lucy isn’t as happy as she should be. She has some doubts.”
“Rubbish!” Ted’s mother exclaimed. “She had no doubts. Not until you manufactured them for her.”
“This is the first any of us have heard about doubts,” Dallas Beaudine said.
Meg briefly considered pleading ignorance, but Lucy was the sister she’d never had, and she could at least do this much for her. “Lucy realized she might be marrying Ted for the wrong reasons. That he . . . might not be the right man for her.”
