Chapter 6 - The Ceremony and the Glass Cage
The organ began the prelude at precisely two o'clock.
I sat in the third row on the groom’s side—not the front row, where the mother of the groom belonged by every law of custom and blood. Olivia’s mother, Beatrice Sterling, had informed the head usher that the first two rows were reserved for “immediate family with active roles,” which apparently included Olivia’s third cousins from Boston and her father’s law partners, but not the woman who had carried the groom for nine months.
I did not protest. I sat between an elderly great-aunt who smelled of camphor and an empty seat that had been left vacant by a late cancellation.
The music swelled, the brass stops of the digital organ vibrating through the glass panes of the conservatory until the tropical foliage above our heads seemed to tremble with the noise.
And then, James walked out.
He entered from the vestry door beside the minister. He wore a midnight-blue bespoke tuxedo with a black grosgrain lapel, and when the sunlight from the glass dome struck his face, he looked so breathtakingly like his father that a collective gasp went up from the older women in the pews. He was smiling—that wide, crooked, boyish smile that Arthur used to wear whenever he had successfully hidden an anniversary present in the tool shed.
His eyes scanned the crowd. He looked at the front row, blinked in confusion when he saw only Beatrice Sterling and her sisters, and then his gaze moved back, row by row, searching with a sudden, sharp anxiety that tightened the muscles of his jaw.
He saw me.
Our eyes met across thirty feet of white linen and ivory flowers. The anxiety vanished from his face, replaced by a smile so tender, so full of relief, that my vision blurred with unshed tears. He touched his lapel—a small, private gesture he had used since he was seven years old to signal that everything was all right.
I raised my gloved hand and touched my collar in return. *I am here, Jamie. I am here.*
Then the congregation rose with a heavy, collective rustle of silk and linen, and the bridal march crashed down from the speakers like a tidal wave.
Olivia was magnificent. There was no denying it. She moved down the petal-strewn aisle on her father’s arm like a marble goddess descending into a mortal forum. Her head was held high, her veil drifting behind her like morning mist, her face settled into an expression of serene, aristocratic triumph. She did not look at the guests; she looked straight ahead at James, her eyes fixed upon him with the possessive certainty of an owner inspecting an estate.
The vows were traditional, spoken in the cool, liturgical cadences of the old prayer book.
“...to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health...”
When the minister spoke the words *in sickness and in health*, Olivia’s left eyelid gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. Her gaze flicked toward me—just for the fraction of a second—before returning to James’s face.
James did not notice. He was looking at her as if she were made of spun gold. When he slipped the diamond-encrusted platinum band onto her finger, his hand was trembling—not with illness, not with fear, but with that vast, terrifying reverence that a young man feels when he believes he has been given more than he deserves.
“I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together,” the minister intoned. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The kiss was long, theatrical, and designed for the photographer who crouched on one knee at the base of the chancel steps.
The congregation erupted into applause. James turned, his arm locked through Olivia’s, and they began the recessional march back down the center aisle.
As they drew level with Row Three, James slowed his pace slightly. He looked down at me, his face glowing with a joy so pure it felt like a physical light, and he whispered, “I love you, Mom.”
Olivia did not break her stride. She tightened her grip on his elbow, her fingers digging through the midnight-blue wool of his sleeve with enough force to turn his torso back toward the grand exit, her chin tilted high, her gaze fixed entirely on the open doors of the reception hall.
The cocktail hour was an endurance test conducted in a steam bath.
The Conservatory staff had opened the high louvers in the ceiling, but the June air outside was ninety-four degrees with seventy percent humidity, and the draft did nothing but stir the heavy, perfume-laden heat within the room.
I stood near the perimeter, behind the large potted ficus that marked the boundary of Table Nine. In my beaded bag, the cream envelope felt as heavy as a lead ingot. My feet, swollen inside my blue satin pumps, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic agony that seemed to sync with the beat of the jazz trio playing near the champagne fountain.
“Eleanor, darling!”
It was Beatrice Sterling, sweeping toward me with a flute of Bellini in one hand and a fan of ivory lace in the other. She was a large, handsome woman who looked like an admiral in lavender chiffon.
“Beatrice,” I said, inclining my head.
“Isn’t it simply divine?” she cooed, her eyes sweeping over my dress with the practiced appraisal of a pawnbroker. “The light in here is so... atmospheric. Though I must say, Eleanor, you’re looking terribly pale. Are you quite sure you shouldn't be sitting down? We wouldn't want you overdoing it before the entrées. The fish is halibut—very rich, lots of cream—perhaps a bit heavy for an unsettled stomach?”
“I am fine, Beatrice,” I said evenly. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Well, of course you are,” she said, her smile not reaching her pale eyes. “Olivia mentioned you’ve been feeling the heat lately. We’re just so grateful you managed to make it for the vows. If you need to slip away early—before the dancing gets rowdy—we’ve already arranged for a driver to take you back to your cottage. You don't need to feel obligated to stay for the cake cutting, you know. Everyone understands.”
*Everyone understands.*
The phrase was a velvet-covered bludgeon.
“I will stay as long as my son requires me,” I said, my voice hardening.
Beatrice’s smile thinned. “Of course. Well. Do try the canapés. The smoked duck is quite passable.”
She drifted away, rejoining a circle of women who were laughing with that high, brittle cadence that belongs exclusively to country club verandas.
I looked across the ballroom. James was surrounded by four of his college friends, who were pounding him on the back and forcing glasses of bourbon into his hands. He was laughing, but every thirty seconds his eyes would dart around the room, looking for his bride, or looking for his mother.
Olivia was standing by the three-tiered wedding cake, talking to the photographer. She was pointing toward Table Nine. Her face was animated, her gestures sharp and decisive.
I saw the photographer nod, write something down on a small pad, and turn away.
A cold, heavy premonition settled into my marrow. She wasn't just isolating me; she was preparing something. She was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse that has wandered too far from its hole in the wainscoting.
I reached into my bag, my thumb finding the cool, smooth surface of the red wax seal.
May you like
*Let it end,* I prayed, closing my eyes against the blinding glare of the afternoon sun reflecting off two hundred crystal glasses. *Dear Lord, just let the sun go down. Let the music play. Let me get through this night without falling.*
***
