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She slid her hand into the crook of my elbow by way of answer, and we walked down the center of the long stretch of outdoor seating toward the large circular arch on display. People from New York and a full half of Midland were in attendance to watch the momentous occasion. This would seal the Lockes and the Kings together in a way that nothing else could. An old-fashioned sort of bond.
Whitley and I had reserved seats near the front by my parents. I took the inside seat so that she could get up when it was her turn to sing. My mom squeezed my hand excitedly. My dad gave me a reassuring smile. Locke stood at the front of the room in a suit with a similar pink tie with his troop of groomsmen behind him. The band struck up a tune. Everyone turned around in their seats. It was finally time.
The bridesmaids came forward first in their blush gowns that almost grazed the grass at their feet. One by one until Cora was the last. A smile was plastered on her face. Only I could tell that it was false. Cora never smiled like that.
Then, Canon D was played, we all rose to our feet, and Margaret appeared at the end of the meadow in a dress as pure as snow in a full princess motif, complete with a tiara and my aunt’s glittering diamond necklace on her throat. Uncle Richard was at her side, keeping his head held high as he walked his oldest daughter down the aisle.
Words were exchanged at the altar before all assembled. Then, the pastor announced a special performance. Whitley rose to her feet on wobbly legs. They strengthened as she strode toward the band and stood before the microphone.
Her hazel eyes were wide as she surveyed the enormous crowd. For a second, I thought my brave, valiant girl would faint from the pressure. But as soon as the first note came from the band, she entered a trance.
Her body was taut as a bow, and it began to melt as she surrendered to the music. Her eyes fell closed, and her body swayed ever so slightly. As if her very being had been captivated before she even released.
And release she did.
The tune was low and almost haunting. A séance in the middle of a wedding. A call to worship. Her voice was so deliriously good that it felt like swallowing honey.
As the song picked up and the chorus took over, Whitley opened her eyes and met her audience. Her voice rose with her. I was entranced by that voice, unable to look away, and I wasn’t the only one. I could feel the rest of the wedding guests paralyzed by her. My mom’s grip on my hand tightened, and I heard a sniffle. Tears tracked down her face, and Aunt Susannah blew into a tissue in the seat in front of us. Margaret had tears in her eyes at the front of the aisle.
She sounded nothing like my grandmother. And somehow, it was as if she had been reincarnated into Whitley’s voice. Her soul singing through her voice. There was presence in each syllable. A force that I could no more walk away from than the gorgeous woman singing.
I’d thought that I felt something for her before.
I knew I did now.
At the end of the song, the word suspended in silence.
Then, a roar of approval came as everyone applauded her rendition. Margaret rushed forward and hugged Whitley. Whitley looked baffled by the reaction, hurrying back to the seat next to me and sitting down.
She was shaking.
“Whitley,” I got out hoarsely.
She shook her head. “It was awful. I know. Not my best performance. I was so pitchy at the start. But I thought the end was okay.”
I looked at her as if she had sprung a second head.
She reared back at the look. “What? I know everyone clapped. Was it that bad?”
“Believe me when I say, that was the best performance I have ever seen in my entire life.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”
I took her hand, threading our fingers together. She looked at me in surprise, but I didn’t release her. “I know that I joke about almost everything, but you were phenomenal. I have no idea who told you that you weren’t good enough or why you would hide your gift because what you have is a gift, Whit. It was incredible.”
She flushed then, bright pink, and ducked her chin to her chest. A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away hastily. “Thank you.”
We could get to the bottom of this. Because, holy shit, that woman should sing. Even if it was only for me, she should sing as often as possible. No one should ever have told her otherwise. No one.
13
WHITLEY
Susannah was currently crying as she thanked me at the reception. Margaret and Cora had already come over. Malcolm, Trent, Nate, and Lawrence had followed. Aunts and uncles I didn’t know were whispering about the performance. Everyone was talking about it, offering their praises, and generally making me incredibly embarrassed.
I’d thought it was mediocre at best.
I’d certainly sung it better in high school than at present.
