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Hannah
Four Years Ago
As I stand in front of the antique pedestal mirror in my suite, a tear escapes my eye as I take in the sight of me in my gown.
“Oh, stop it. You’re gonna cause us both to ruin our makeup!” my mother scolds as she fastens the string of pearls around my neck.
Then, she wraps her arms around my shoulders from behind and lays her head on my shoulder.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“You’re stunning, Hannah.”
I smile at her as her lips quiver.
“Don’t you start too,” I cry.
The door opens, and Maria, my wedding planner, steps into the room, followed by my four bridesmaids.
They are a vision of beauty in their wine-hued dresses.
“Wow, you look stunning! Are you ready to head to the chapel?” Maria asks.
I turn around and nod. “Ready!”
She leads us out of the room, down the elevator, and across the lobby of the hotel. Everyone milling around stops what they are doing and watches us as we make our way to the revolving door. Shouts of congratulations and the sound of whistling fill the air.
The limousine is waiting for us when we make it outside, and the driver is standing on the curb. He outstretches his hand and helps the girls, one by one, into the car, then Mom and me.
Once inside, my maid of honor, April, pops the cork on the bottle of champagne that was chilling in a bucket of ice. Mom holds the flutes as she pours us each a glass and carefully hands them out.
“To my beautiful best friend on her big day. I hope it is as magical as you imagined,” April says as she raises her flute in the air.
We all lean in and clink our glasses before sitting back and relishing our pre-wedding cocktail.
The driver takes his time in getting us to the chapel just before the doors are closed to the sanctuary. The girls file out and get into line while Maria’s assistant hands out their bouquets.
Mom takes the arm of one of the groomsmen to be lead to her seat while I’m ushered into a small office off the side of the doors to wait for my father to come and escort me down the aisle.
“Okay, here is your bouquet and a handkerchief to tuck around the handle, just in case,” Maria says before closing the door and leaving me to myself.
I take deep breaths and enjoy my last few moments as Hannah Whitmar. Tonight, when I lay my head down on my pillow, I will be Mrs. Bryan Cope.
A thrill shoots through me as I look at my finger where he will be placing my wedding band in a few short moments.
I watch the clock sitting on the bookcase behind the pastor’s desk. Ten minutes past five. The ceremony was supposed to start at five, so there must have been some late guests straggling in. I begin to pace nervously when the door swings open, and my father, Gordon Whitmar, stands on the threshold, looking especially dapper in his custom Ralph Lauren tuxedo.
“Oh, Hannah,” he gasps. His voice a mixture of pride and … grief?
“Hi. Daddy. Are you ready to give me away?” I ask as he takes me in.
His eyes fill with tears, and I walk to him and wrap my arms around his neck.
“It’s okay. I’m not really going anywhere,” I whisper.
He holds me tightly for a few beats, and then he takes a step back.
“Bryan’s not here, baby,” he says, and his face begins to turn red with anger.
