The room smelled of expensive hairspray and stale champagne. Vanessa stood on a velvet-covered pedestal, her gold designer watch flashing as she waved her hand toward her six bridesmaids.
“The shoes are wrong,” Vanessa said, her voice rising to a rapid, high-pitched clip. “They are ecru. I specifically wrote cream on the itinerary.”
Nobody answered her. One of the girls immediately began unbuckling her straps, her face flushed.
I stood near the vanity, out of the direct line of fire. On the marble counter lay a pile of linen cocktail napkins, each embroidered with Vanessa’s initials in thick gold thread.
I reached out and quietly slipped one of the napkins into my coat pocket. It was a silly, small impulse, a tiny piece of her perfect day that I could hold in my hand.
“Emily, tell them,” Vanessa demanded, turning her sharp gaze toward me. “They look like they are wearing dirty bandages.”
“They look fine, Vanessa,” I said.
She adjusted her watch strap with a quick, nervous jerk of her wrist.
“Fine is not the standard for this family,” she said.
By four o’clock that afternoon, Caleb and I were sitting in my parents’ living room. The light outside had turned a dull, heavy gray, casting long shadows across the Persian rugs.
Arthur stood by the mahogany sideboard, pouring scotch into crystal tumblers. He smoothed his silk necktie, his chest puffed out under his tailored blazer.
“A man must protect his assets, Caleb,” my father said, his voice booming with false confidence. “I just moved another fifty thousand into the municipal bond portfolio.”
Caleb took the glass my father offered but did not drink. He tapped his knuckles against the arm of the leather chair.
“I believe in keeping things simple,” Caleb said.
Arthur laughed, a loud, barking sound that did not reach his eyes. He reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out three gold watches, laying them side by side on the polished wood.
