“Clara Belle, why can’t you ever, for just once, do something without putting up a fight?” Charlotte stepped out of line and angled herself toward me.
The photographer opened his mouth as he tapped at his watch, but Charlotte lifted her bouquet into his face to shut him up.
“My whole life, all I’ve ever done was what this family wanted me to do, and be who this family wanted me to be, and smile when told to”—I threw my arm in the direction of the photographer—“never once putting up a fight except when it really mattered.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, you had to fight for your one true love, Boone Cavanaugh.” Charlotte threw her hand on her hip. “A hell of a lot of good that did you because you lost him then and you’ve clearly lost him now. Maybe you should pick your fights a bit more carefully in the future.”
I heard Avalee hiss Charlotte’s name, but everyone else within hearing range looked too shell-shocked to say anything. There it was, the great war of the Abbotts about to take place on the east lawn while family portraits were being snapped two hours before the first sister got married off. No one could say I didn’t have style when it came to my timing.
“I am picking my fights carefully.” I eyed the empty space between my father and Ford, the place meant for me. I’d been trapped between those two, a victim of their lies and falsehoods, for enough of my life. No more. “I’m not standing there. You want me to be a part of the family photo, choose somewhere else.”
“You could just not be in the family photo at all.” Charlotte’s gaze cut to Ford, whose gaze was clearly focused on me. That would explain why I felt the urge to simultaneously shiver and throw up.
“You won’t hear an argument from me. I won’t even shed a tear to pretend like I am heartbroken.” When I went to settle my own hand on my hip, I only made it to my upper thigh. The Thing was more like The Strait Jacket.
Charlotte’s face started to go red. “Get into line, Clara Belle!”
I tried crossing my arms. Same result. Couldn’t move. “No.”
“Now.” Charlotte stabbed her finger at the empty space between Ford and our dad.
“Order me, threaten me, beat me, try to force me”—I shook my head hard—“I will not stand there.”
“Get into line, Clara Belle or so help me God—”
“God’s long past helping you, Charlotte, so no need for the idle threats.”
Her face went another shade of red, the serpentine vein running down the center of her forehead beginning to pop through her skin. “Get into line, damn it!”
As she lost her cool, I got cooler. “No.”
Half of a shriek, half of a grunt of frustration came from the bride. “Stop being so stubborn and thinking of what you want for once in your life! There is more to this family, to the world, than the needs, wants, and tragedies of Clara Belle Abbott, for God’s sake.”
Her words hit me like a slap. So much so, I almost reached for my cheek to rub it. At the same time I tried to convince myself her accusations had no merit, I knew to a degree they did. But that wasn’t what I wanted to focus on. That wasn’t what I wanted to tackle as the photographer continued to stare at the spot between Ford and my dad, flashing me expectant looks in between stabbing his finger at his watch’s face.
I went for the quickest way I knew to throw Charlotte off balance, if only for a few moments. “You want me to stop behaving like the moon orbits around planet Clara? Fine. Why don’t you stop sleeping around with your sister’s boyfriends?”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open and a sharp gasp came from it, followed by a collective gasp circling the rest of the family. They all knew the first low blow would come at some point, but it almost always came from Charlotte.
I’d taken them all by surprise. Though it wasn’t exactly in the way I’d intended.
Charlotte took a step closer. Then another. Looking at me with such contempt in her eyes, I could have shriveled up into a pile of sand if I hadn’t built up a sort of immunity to her brand of hatred.
“Stop getting knocked up by the town trash.” She enunciated each word painfully slowly, looking me up and down like I was the town trash in question. “Please, did you really think Ford was actually going to marry you after that? You were nothing but used goods, a rung on his climb to the Abbott sister who hadn’t defiled herself with the likes of Boone Cavanaugh.”
Another gasp circled my family. My mom covered her mouth and shook her head, backing away a step. Surely this wasn’t the way she’d envisioned the wedding day of her first daughter to get married going.