While she works, she chatters in broken but passable English about what a beautiful bride I will be. Then she asks, “Is your groom also de vampire?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “And you can’t mention vampires to anyone else, okay?”
“Not to worry. Chael explained all to me.”
Curious, I ask, “How do you know Chael?”
She gets one of those love-struck smiles that answers the question more eloquently than words. “We have been friends for many years. He spends a lot of time in Paris. It’s where I live.”
“Paris is almost five hundred miles away.” I know. I ran it. “You came all that way to help today?”
“Ah, if Chael asks, I cannot refuse.” She sighs. “Besides, he sent a first-class airline ticket to Cannes and the limo to drive me back to the airport is waiting outside. Chael is a very generous man.”
Whew. Chael to the rescue once again. My thank-you note to him is going to be pages long.
Lisette finishes up, pinning the one simple rosebud I chose as my hairpiece over my right ear. She stands back, nods and proclaims me done. I take her down the hall to Mom’s room where I know she and Trish will be waiting. I have to duck quickly back to my room when John-John’s door opens. After all Dad went through to keep at least one wedding tradition intact, I’m not taking any chances. He’s got me half believing in the superstition now.
It’s almost nine.
Nervousness nibbles away at my self-assurance. After battling almost every conceivable enemy both mortal and not, why would the idea of getting married make me nervous?
I touch my hair. Wonder what I look like? I run a gentle fingertip over mascara-thickened lashes. Is it too much?
A sound from downstairs draws me to the window. Dad is greeting the first guests, the family from next door. He looks so handsome in his suit, white hair brushed straight back from a smooth forehead, smile erasing some of the worry lines that have formed around his mouth since my mother’s illness. Father of the bride. A title that probably surprises him as much as it does me!
At ten, a knock and Mom and Trish walk in.
Trish looks radiant. Lisette pulled her buttercream hair back from her face, fastened it at the crown with a garland of flowers and ribbon the same rose color as her dress. The rest falls to her shoulders in soft curls. I can only shake my head at how splendid she looks.
As does my mother. Her hair, thinned by illness and medicine, has been transformed through the magic of a hairpiece. Lisette matched Mom’s hair perfectly, adding fullness at the top and back by expertly blending a short cascade of curls with her real hair. She did Mom’s makeup, too.
“No one is going to be looking at me,” I say, hugging first Mom and then Trish. “They’ll be too busy looking at you two.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Trish says. “Look at yourself.”
She says it in the offhand, casual way one does, but Mom and I know that’s not something that’s going to happen.
Unless—
“Mom. Do you have a digital camera?”
“I do.” She turns to Trish. “It’s downstairs on Grandpa’s desk. Will you get it please?” When Trish is out the door, she raises an eyebrow at me. “You can be photographed?”
“Not on film. But digitally . . .”
“Then quick, let’s get your dress on. When Trish comes back we’ll take a couple of pictures.”
I take off my robe and Mom helps me slip into the dress. She stands back, eyes shining, her expression saying more than words. Trish is back, camera in hand, and she, too, gives me the nod of approval.
Mom takes the camera, but before she can start snapping away, Trish yelps. “We almost forgot! The ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing!” It comes out in a rush, one long hyphenated word.
“You’re right.” Mom lays the camera down and pulls three small packages from the pocket of her jacket. She hands two to Trish, the third to me. “Your beautiful dress is something new. This is something old.”
My hands are suddenly trembling. I tear at the tissue to find a small jewelry box. When I open it, there is a pair of pearl earrings nestled against black velvet. “Oh, Mom.” I touch the earrings. I recognize them. “These were your mother’s.”
“And now they’re yours.” She turns to Trish.
Trish is grinning. “Something borrowed.”
“Uh-oh,” I tease. “Something borrowed from a teenager? What is this? Your iPod?”
But when I open the package, it’s a simple gold bracelet of dainty heart-shaped links. “Trish, this is beautiful.”
“It’s the only thing I have from my dad,” she says wistfully. “Mom said he gave it to her when he found out she was pregnant.”
God. I have to fight to keep my expression from betraying a sudden wave of anger. Another in her mother’s web of lies. The bracelet couldn’t be from my brother. He died before knowing Trish’s mother was pregnant. With another man’s child.
But I’m lying, too.
Every minute of every day. Because I’ve perpetuated the lie.
When I look at the strong, courageous young woman Trish has become because of that lie, though, I know I made the right choice.
I accept the bracelet with a smile and slip it on.
Trish holds out the last package. “Your fiancé picked this out,” she says with a mischievous smile.
“He did, did he?” I tear off the paper. A blue garter. I hold it up. “Hmmmm. Now whatever is he going to do with this?”
Trish is laughing and Mom motions for me to put it on so I slip the garter over my knee. Then she waits until I’ve made the last adjustment, putting on the earrings, to stand back and give me the once-over.
“You are a beautiful bride, Anna.”
“Take a picture, take a picture,” Trish says excitedly. Then, “Wait, wait. We forgot the bouquet.” And she’s out the door running down the hall for Mom’s bedroom. There’s a gasp as we hear her say next, “No. Don’t look in. Aunt Anna has her gown on. It’s bad luck. Go on downstairs.”
Mom and I smile at each other. Frey must have snuck upstairs for a peek. He grumbles something, but we hear his tread on the stairs so he’s heeding Trish’s heated admonition.
Trish is back with the bouquet. Roses. The same pale color as my dress. When I’m holding the bouquet, Mom starts snapping. After half a dozen shots, I’m too impatient to wait any longer. “Let me see,” I say, almost dancing with excitement. I haven’t seen what I look like in over a year . . . and that was a fuzzy newspaper photo.
Mom hands me the camera and stands back to watch, her arms around Trish’s shoulders, her eyes shining.
My hands tremble as I work the display. I can’t believe I’m looking at my own image. My hair is lighter than I remember, honey blonde, with even paler streaks highlighting a face I expected to look drastically different. It doesn’t. My eyes are softer than I would have imagined, still human, even after all they’ve seen. Lisette did a great job with a simple, subtle application of makeup that gives my tanned skin a glow. The dress hugs the curves of my body, my legs look long and lean, my arms toned.
“I don’t look half bad.” I don’t realize I’ve said that aloud until Trish snorts.
“Are you kidding? Didn’t you look in the mirror? You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
Mom winks at me over her head and goes to the window. “I hear the orchestra. I think everyone’s here.” She hustles Trish out the door. “Go see if it’s time, will you?”
When Trish has left, Mom takes my hands and stands back as if taking her own mental snapshot. We don’t speak, don’t move, either of us. She looks happy, content. I feel happy, content. It’s so strange and wonderful. Unexpected. Magical.