As expected, bottle-blonde Clarice Rhine gave us the pleasure of yet another rendition of From this Moment. She took to the microphone with a misty-lashed expression of overwhelm that seemed—to the untrained eye—brand new. But I’d seen the same token-tender smile on Clarice’s face just three months before, at Dayton Owen’s wedding—same song, same dress, different color. It was a wonder to me that there wasn’t more variety in the song list, or at least her presentation. But it’s well understood that the people of Roe are creatures of habit, and I was probably the only one within a 100-mile radius who was sick to death of Clarice’s best Shania Twain.
“Murray’s daughter has a lovely voice.” Miss Olivia leaned toward her husband, nodding her admiration.
Jake stifled a yawn and stretched his shoulders. For a moment, I considered demanding his earphones so I wouldn’t have to listen to I Swear, but what kind of example would that be? Instead, I studied the back of Miss Olivia’s head, pondering how she was able to get every curl the exact same circumference.
Finally, Clarice ended her last song. Applause rippled through the room, and when the Miss Helen began to play the piano, in streamed a current of ballet pink organza. I recognized each girl as the lively little gems in Brenda Stark’s social tiara and was unimpressed. Sadly, Jake seemed very much impressed, and he sat upright in his seat a little taller than before. I chalked it up to normal injudicious teenaged impulse and reassured myself it would wear off long before his own bride would trek the same path. And hopefully, if I prayed hard enough, his wife-to-be would be cut from an entirely different selection of cloth than were the bridesmaids of Brenda’s.
Doreen Meyer’s twins stumbled in next, decked in so much tulle, their rosy little faces were hardly visible. They flung flower petals from their baskets as if they were disemboweling a goosedown pillow, and their preschool aggression was only encouraged by the collective “Awwww…” that hummed around them.
Annie, Nanna, and Patience were no exception. They thought the Meyer’s twins were cute as a button, and no doubt, my girls were at that moment caught up in the fantasy of rose petals and petticoats. Annie beamed at the twin who passed closest to our pew, and when a petal fluttered down to her shoe, she carefully retrieved it and ever so tenderly placed it in her palm of her hand. I was sure the tiny souvenier was destined for Annie’s jewelry box, to keep the company of a pet rock, a long-deceased june bug, and sundry bits of metal and plastic collected over the few years of her life self-aware.
How unfortunate there would never be a mutual admiration there. The Meyer’s twins would never sit audience to the Graves girls in procession, and even if they might, they’d pay no attention to the aisle. Rather, they’d spend the time digging in their mother’s purse for Lifesavers and dollar bills, or taking turns crawling onto the pew to make faces at other fidgety children on the other side of the room.
Suddenly, the urgent wail of the organ broke like a battle cry. We rose to our feet, and all eyes turned to the chapel doors. There stood the bride Starks-soon-to-be-Miller in all her Hall-of-Fame splendor. Another collective sigh rolled through the room, and behind us, a camera clicked away like a swarm of crickets.
True to the press release and the family budget, Brenda was a gorgeous bride. Her slim torso seemed to float in midair above a cloud of winter white silk, and the warm glow of the new recessed lighting—courtesy of Jim Tyler & Sons Custom Construction—poured over her pale bare shoulders.
A crown of diamonds arched through her gleaming blonde hair, sparkling like a constellation above her smiling face. Her veil was as light and airy as incense smoke and spilled down her back, disappearing into the pools of material behind her.
“They must be so proud.” For once, Miss Olivia’s commentary was on the money, judging from the tears that had already found their way to Mr. Stark’s cheeks.
Indeed proud. But how else would it have turned out for Brenda? I was no teller of fortunes, nor was I a woman of exceptional insight, but I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that Mrs. Brenda Miller would no time soon stand at her husband’s memorial, wondering how on earth fairytale could so easily become massacre.
