I didn’t want to like anything about Mom and Hannah’s new life. They had left me. My mother hadn’t even put up a fuss, really, and didn’t seem to miss me. She would simply sit back in her kitchen chair in the glaringly bright sunlight and point out the sparkling view, the flowers and the French food. Like Satan, she tried to steal my soul.
Between the party atmosphere, the wine, the food, the good looks, the superb conversation on things about which I knew nothing, I was lost. On the weekends I was forced to spend with them, I passed the time by throwing sticks or rocks into the bay, wooing seagulls with potato chips, hoping they’d crap on Beatrice’s vintage Peugeot convertible, and waiting till I could go home.
Hannah drank up everything Beatrice had to teach—how to dress, how to style her hair, how to care for her skin, eat less, walk more. By the time Hannah was sixteen, she could make boeuf à la mode and a fresh salad, could converse in French and Spanish, and I was a slumping teenager with oily skin and hairy arms, jealous and disgusted at the same time.
So that’s how it was—Mom with her steely edges and razor-sharp insults, always telling me in one way or another that all this could be mine, too. It wasn’t that she wanted me to live with her, not really. She just wanted to win another daughter so she could best my father.
But Hannah . . . Hannah had just tried to save herself. And she had.
Maybe, after all these years, it was time I started cutting Hannah some slack. She’d done what she had to do . . . and so had I.
I sighed and looked down at my notes.
Ceremony: Four o’clock, Saturday, October 14.
Thanks, sis.
CHAPTER 13
Melissa
Clear blue skies, seventy degrees and a wedding waiting to happen. The photographer snapped a few more pictures and muttered instructions to his assistants.
“Okay, Melissa,” he said to her. “Chin down, eyes on me, gorgeous, gorgeous, you’re so pretty, that’s it!”
She smiled. She was so pretty. It was true. She dropped her gaze to her bouquet, knowing her fresh eyelash extensions would show beautifully.
“Now, over by the window, eyes straight ahead, yes, yes, you’re sure you haven’t modeled, my God, you make my job easy.”
Oh, everything was perfect. Hannah had done an incredible job, Melissa had to hand it to her. Just looking out over the yard made her heart soar.
There were endless strands of bulbs across the vast green lawn (smelling like skunk no more, thank goodness!). Hannah was outside, talking to the crew of a half dozen people as they uplit a few trees and put out the three hundred luminarias that would be lit at dusk. The infinity pool was filled with small, floating glass bowls, each one holding a bobbing candle atop an orchid blossom. The centerpieces were cream and white roses, white hydrangeas, gardenias and orchids, all spilling out of beautiful Waterford Lismore Rose bowls. Above each table hung a stunning, huge flower arrangement with tiny fairy lights hidden within.
To the left of the vast yard, the ceremony area was set with chairs, the driftwood arch stunning under its cloak of flowers. Each row of seats had a bountiful floral arrangement, and it was utterly magical. The wedding favors were boxed and wrapped and set out by the exit—each guest would receive a one-of-a-kind Judith Stiles vase (she was a local potter, quite talented and the mother of a movie star, which would help Melissa’s influencer status hugely, she hoped). In addition, guests would get a sampling of Chequessett Chocolate truffles, a bag of specially roasted coffee from Beanstock, a bottle of locally made Dry Line gin and a set of gorgeous, heavy Waterford candlesticks.
So far today, Melissa had done yoga at dawn, had a light breakfast, had a massage on the master bedroom deck (Bradley had had one, too, on another deck, since she wanted to surprise him at the First Look). The massage was followed by a soothing green tea and cucumber facial and hand treatment and a fresh mani-pedi. A light lunch, a mimosa, several bottles of Perrier mineral water. The hair and makeup stylists had arrived, and right now, she felt like a princess, sitting there in a white silk robe with her minions around her, the photographer moving through the room, his assistants holding up light reflectors.
She had been waiting all her life to feel this way.
“Isn’t this fun?” she asked Ophelia, who was having her hair done as well.
“Not for me.”
“Oh, Phee!” Melissa said, laughing lightly. The photographer took a string of photos, and Melissa turned slightly toward him while still looking at Ophelia. “Go ahead, admit you like being pampered.”
“Can I call my mom today?”
“I thought she was your daughter,” whispered the hairstylist, who was pulling on a few strands of Melissa’s hair to texturize it.
“In my heart, she absolutely is,” Melissa said, glancing up at the woman. Marie? Mary? Marny? Something like that.
“Can I?” asked Ophelia.
“Not today, honey.” Melissa didn’t want the negativity of her sister tainting the beautiful energy today. “You can call her tomorrow and give her all the details. She’ll be dying to hear,” she said, conscious of the eyes on her. “But today, just relax and enjoy, honeybun.”
Now that Ophelia had brought Kaitlyn to the fore, Melissa couldn’t help picturing a different scenario. One with her loving, sober sister, minus the hillbilly accent, minus the numerous tattoos, minus the attitude. Instead, Kaitlyn would be teary-eyed and hilarious, making everyone laugh. In this scenario, she had changed her name spelling to Caitlin, so much classier—and would be the maid of honor. Ophelia would be the happy junior bridesmaid.
It would’ve been nice to have a sister like that. Or a friend.
But she couldn’t taint her big day by thinking sad thoughts. “It’s time to put your dress on, honey,” she said to Ophelia. “You’ll look so gorgeous in it.”
“Fine.” Ophelia stood up. “But this is stupid,” she said. “I barely know him. You barely know him. He’s an idiot, and he’s so fake. I can’t stand him. He just told me to call him Dad, for crying out loud.”
“He loves you,” Melissa said. “Can someone take her to her room and help her with the dress? She won’t be able to zip it alone.”
Ophelia was removed to be dressed. Melissa took a cleansing breath and released it. This day was everything. Her sullen niece was not going to ruin it. No one was going to ruin it.
“Twenty minutes till First Look,” Hannah said, sticking her head in the doorway.
“Thank you, Hannah,” she said smoothly. “I’ll be right on time. Um . . . could you stay and help me get in my gown?”
“Of course. My pleasure.”
Because honestly, the person Melissa knew best in this room was Hannah Chapman. There was that sister pang again. Hannah felt like her friend. For the past six weeks, even before Bradley’s divorce was final, Melissa had talked more to Hannah than anyone, even Bradley. Hannah knew her favorite colors, foods, fabrics, desserts, flowers, vacation spots. She’d told Hannah about Dennis’s “tragic passing” and why this day would be so important.
Because Melissa Grace Spencer Finch soon-to-be Fairchild was in control, living her destiny.
As Hannah zipped her up (and the photographer took more photos), Melissa had to ask. “How’s your sister doing today? I hate thinking that she’s upset or sad.”
Hannah gave her a mysterious look. “I did call her this morning. She seems great, actually.”
“Is she working today?”
“She said she was reading. She didn’t mention her schedule.”
Melissa had nothing against Lillie, of course. She wasn’t out to hurt her or rub her face in all that she, Melissa, had. No, she wished Bradley’s first wife the best, because that’s what classy people did. Wished the losers luck and kept moving onward and upward. Even so, she was glad she’d thought of security guards.
She put on her simple necklace—a gold bezel-set two-carat diamond—and added her diamond drop earrings. Simple, but so stunning. Her hair was perfect, and she couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. Click-click-click went the camera.
Take it in, said the wedding advice. Notice everything. You’ll never get married again.
If things went well with Bradley, that might even be true.