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“I believe it. Age discrimination is for real. Especially for women. As soon as you hit thirty, they start casting you as someone’s mother.”
“Lots of thirty-year-olds actually are mothers.”
“Not to thirty-five-year-old men.” She nods emphatically but keeps her voice at a whisper. “Yeah, that’s how Hollywood rolls. Dudes can age, women over thirty are past their prime. I am twenty-eight for the foreseeable future.”
“Do you want me to tell people my age? I can lie, so you look younger in comparison.” I turn a little and hold out a hand to an imaginary guest. “Hi, Matt Hertzsprung. I’m thirty-three.”
She bites back a laugh as she slaps my shoulder. “No. Don’t talk about age at all. It’s much safer.”
I manfully change the subject. “Who’s sitting in the front row, if you’re relegated back here?”
She waves at the far side of the chapel. “The first two rows on that side are for the bridesmaids. She has eight of them, including my little sister, Maddie. My half-brother, John, is the best man. He’ll stand up front with my dad. The rest of the groomsmen will sit on this side. With the exception of John, they’re all dates of the bridesmaids.”
“Are you saying they couldn’t bring a plus one?”
“No, Destiny required each bridesmaid to bring a date to be in the wedding party. So weird. She wanted to make sure the wedding pictures are full of beautiful young people, I guess. My dad doesn’t have that many friends anymore—at least none who could be here.” She lifts a shoulder. “To be fair, his friends have already attended more of his weddings than anyone should have to.”
Before I can respond, the organ sounds the opening chords to the wedding march. The chattering breaks off, then resumes when the music doesn’t continue. The organist hits the notes again, and people finally filter into seats and settle down.
When the crowd has quieted, the music starts in earnest. The electronic piano in the choir loft is state of the art and features an impressive array of realistic musical voices. Strings soar and woodwinds sing. I turn in my seat to see a small orchestra packed into the tiny space. That’s why it sounds so real—it is. I should have expected only the best for Nicholas Holmes.
The bridesmaids and groomsmen pace in, doing that step-pause thing you only see in movies. They must have practiced for hours because the synchronization is perfect. Each couple waits until the one before gets halfway down the aisle before starting. Having been in a couple of weddings myself, I know how difficult it is to maintain that slow pace.
After the seven beautiful young couples reach the front, a small girl in a huge dress follows. I lean closer to Nica, my arm pressing against her bare back. I suck in a breath at the electric touch, but she doesn’t appear to notice. “That little girl is impressively focused.”
Nica’s snicker vibrates through my arm and to my core. “That little girl is a paid actress. She’s probably twelve, playing six. Destiny wanted everything to be perfect, and apparently her sister’s kid isn’t quite as coachable.”
I shake my head. What would it be like to have a stand-in hired to replace you in your aunt’s wedding? That poor kid is probably scarred for life.
As the little girl approaches the altar, the eighth bridesmaid steps into the chapel, and the main doors thud shut. The little girl sprinkles the last of her rose petals, twirls slowly, allowing the dress to bell out, then retreats toward the side door, drawing every eye. She steps out of the way as two men stride toward her—the groom and his best man. They pause just outside the door, and the little girl slips past them, her job done.
Nicholas Holmes looks exactly like his publicity photos. Thick white hair brushed back from his temples—if that’s really a hairpiece, the designer deserves to be paid their weight in diamonds. Trendy glasses frame his famously blue eyes. His tuxedo lapels glimmer in the candlelight as his lips quirk in his well-known, closed-mouth smile—more of a smirk, really. He waits a beat, then paces to the center of the room.
His best man looks like a pale imitation. The same wavy hair but dark, less fashionable glasses, and a crooked grin that makes him look like he just tasted something bad. This is obviously Nica’s half-brother John, a slick Hollywood lawyer. I’ve read Nicholas John Holmes II is as charming as he looks, which is to say, not very.
The strings crescendo, and the music ends. The maid of honor—a young woman who looks enough like Nica that she must be the half-sister—has arrived almost unnoticed and takes her place on the left, overshadowed by their charismatic father. The organist jumps in again, repeating the familiar opening chords to the wedding march, but this time, she goes on. The audience stands, and we all turn toward the back. Someone throws the double doors wide from the other side, and the bride is framed in the opening.
She’s beautiful, of course. Every woman Nick Holmes has married was beautiful. There was a photo collage of all six of them on the cover of Talk to Us magazine. Not that I normally read it, but it’s impossible to miss when I go to the checkout stand at Bi-Mart. Plus, I’ll admit anything remotely related to Nica always gets my attention. I actually bought a copy of that one, but the article barely mentioned her.
An older man hovers beside Destiny—probably her father. With his dark tuxedo and gray hair, he seems to fade into the background beside her brilliance. She’s wearing a form-fitting, tissue-thin white dress. Heavy beading accentuates the hem and covers the private areas in a decorative bikini overlay. The side is open all the way up, and the gauzy material is laced together over her hip with sparkling string, leaving a two-inch gap. I turn away, feeling a little ill.
The bride and her father pass us and proceed to the front of the chapel. I can’t tell what the back of the “dress” looks like—her thick blonde hair streams almost to her knees. According to the magazine, her extensions cost thousands. Sparkling crystals and glittering ribbons of lace are woven into the blonde tresses, with the occasional flicker of pink and blue appearing as she moves.
I glance at Nica out of the corner of my eye, and her lips twitch up in an adorable smirk. Swallowing a snicker, I look away, trying to focus on the happy couple. The officiant has appeared from somewhere—he probably followed the groom out of the side room while we were watching the bride. He wears a brilliant rainbow striped robe as if trying to compete for attention. When the music stops, he flings his arms out, the fabric snapping. “Mawwiage! Is what bwings us together, today.”
A giggle goes around the room as people recognize the line. I lean closer to Nica. “Did he really just quote The Princess Bride?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Destiny insisted.” She pauses, then goes on. “It kind of makes her more likeable.”
This opening sets the tone for the wedding. I’m hoping it was unintentional, but the officiant’s opening statements sound like a tongue-in-cheek comment on the institution rather than heartfelt support of the commitment. There are no Bible passages read—instead, one of the bridesmaids reads a poem written by a famous rapper who couldn’t be here for the occasion. Even the brief homily sounds ironic.
The bride and groom recite their vows. Holmes’s deep voice carries easily through the room. He recites the words like a Shakespearean soliloquy, the professionally crafted sentiments that promise little beyond his current admiration rolling off his tongue. Destiny’s thin voice sets off a feedback squeal which is immediately squelched by the sound technician in the choir loft, but we miss the beginning of her vows. She gets halfway through, then stumbles to a stop. The maid of honor hands her a small card, from which she reads the rest of the speech, pausing at all the wrong places.
Nica closes her eyes, but I can’t tell if she’s sympathetic or bored.
Rings are exchanged and the officiant pronounces them married. Holmes grips the bride and gives her an Oscar-worthy kiss that devolves into an R-rated grope as she paws at his clothing. Someone yells, “Get a room!” and the audience laughs half-heartedly. Then the strings swoop in, saving the day, and the couple hurries down the aisle.
“That was…” I start but can’t think of anything neutral that’s also true.
