I laugh, and I’m so grateful that it’s Grace I got to see first. “I’m okay, Mom.”
She clasps both of my hands. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” My anger has evaporated, beaten back by the woman I call Mom, and I resolve that, today of all days, I will not think about Mrs. Lincoln.
“I’m so excited for you, darling,” Grace adds, beaming up at me.
“You look good, Mom. Makeup and all.”
“Thank you, dear. Oh, the donations to Coping Together have been unprecedented. I can’t thank you enough. It’s so generous of you.”
I chuckle. “That was Ana’s idea. Not mine.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She’s trying to hide her surprise.
“I told you. She’s not acquisitive.”
“Of course she isn’t. It’s a wonderful gesture on both your parts. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I got an aggravating text from an old business associate.”
Grace narrows her eyes, and I think I may have said too much, but she chooses to ignore my explanation and checks her watch. “Kickoff is in fifteen minutes. I have your boutonniere here. Now, do you want to wait here, or go out to the pavilion?”
“I think Elliot and I should go take our seats and wait.”
Mom pins the white rose to my lapel and steps back to admire her handiwork.
“Oh, darling.” She stops, placing her fingers over her lips, and I think she’s going to cry.
Shit. Mom.
My throat tightens, but Elliot steps into the room, saving us both. “What am I, chopped liver?” he chastises Grace, with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Oh, darling. You look so handsome, too.” She recovers and cups his face and pinches his cheeks, and I feel a momentary stab of envy that they have such a touchy-feely relationship.
“Mom, you look like a queen.” My brother, charming as ever, plants a kiss on her forehead. She laughs, a girlish, sweet laugh, and she pats her hair.
“You boys,” she admonishes us. “You’d better get out there. The ushers will show you where to go. But first let me pin on your boutonniere, Elliot.”
As we head to the pavilion, Taylor intercepts me.
“Sir, I’ve picked up Miss Steele’s suitcase, and everything else has been sent on to Sea-Tac.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Taylor.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “Good luck, sir.”
I nod my thanks and continue with Elliot toward the barnlike tent.
A string quartet is playing “Halo” by Beyoncé while I wait for Miss Anastasia Steele. My folks have gone all-out; the pavilion looks opulent. Elliot and I are seated at the front of several rows of gold chairs, which are filling up fast. I stare at the scene in front of me, noting all the details, hoping it will distract me from my nerves. A pale pink carpet leads to an impressive, arched flowery bower pitched at the water’s edge. It’s made of white and pink roses, intertwined with ivy and pale pink peonies that remind me of Ana’s blushing cheeks. Reverend Michael Walsh, my mother’s friend and her hospital’s chaplain, will officiate. He’s standing in his designated place patiently waiting, like us. His dark eyes twinkle at Elliot and me. Behind the floral arch the sun skips across the shining waters of Meydenbauer Bay. It’s a beautiful day to get married. One of the official photographers is stationed near Walsh, and her lens is directed at me. I look away and turn to Elliot. “You’ve got the rings?” I ask, probably for the tenth time.
“Yes,” he hisses.
“Dude! Just checking.”
I turn and survey our guests as they arrive, nodding and waving to those I know. Bastille and his wife are here; Flynn arrives with his wife, Rhian, each holding one of their small boys firmly by the hand. Taylor and Gail are seated together. The photographer José Rodriguez and his father are here. Ros arrives with her partner, Gwen, and they usher their little girls into their seats. Eamon Kavanagh; his wife, Britt; and Ethan are here—Mia will be pleased. Mac salutes me; he’s sitting with a young blond woman I’ve not seen before. Grandma and Grandpa Trevelyan are shown to their seats near us. Grandma waves enthusiastically at both Elliot and me. Alondra Gutierrez is in the background, directing her small team of people. There are a number of guests that I don’t recognize—either friends of my folks or of Ana’s parents. My mother and father and Carla and Bob make their way to the front of the gathering to take their seats. My dad breaks rank and dashes toward us. He’s brimming with pride, and Elliot and I both stand to greet him.
“Dad.” I hold my hand out to shake his, but he takes it and pulls me into a bearlike hug.
“Good luck, son,” he enthuses. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I squeeze the words past the sudden tangled knot of emotion that’s lodged in my throat.
“Elliot.” Carrick hugs him, too.