Hide & Seek - James Patterson [52]
I finally appeared.
The bouquet of white calla lilies that I carried trembled in my arm.
I was used to large crowds, but I felt a little nervous here. I spotted my few remaining relatives from upstate, smiling tentatively. Jennie, my bridesmaid, stood solemnly near the altar. Mrs. Leigh sat in the front row, holding Allie, who wriggled in her arms. Will's aunts were there, Eleanor and Vannie, one matronly, the other strikingly attractive.
I did a double take! Will was standing next to them instead of at the altar … no, it wasn't Will, but Palmer. A smudged carbon copy.
I was escorted down the flower-strewn grass aisle by Barry. He looked somewhat rumpled in his tuxedo, his flower already drooping from his lapel.
“You're so beautiful. You actually have a glow,” he whispered as he let go of my arm and turned to find his seat in the front row.
I lifted my eyes to the white altar trimmed with pink and white roses. It was a bit too much, but it was beautiful. Will stood beside his best man, Winnie Lawrence. He was smiling at me.
Never, for a single second, had I thought of turning back.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the minister said. Will lifted my veil and gently kissed me. I could feel him through the tux. He always felt so good to me. The guests applauded. Camera flashes popped like yellow daisies all over the cascading lawn. Helicopters fluttered overhead. What an unforgettable scene!
Stiff, comically correct Day Dean waiters burst from the rear of the main house, with silver trays bearing glasses of champagne. Others circulated iced shellfish and caviar, canapés of crabmeat, tea sandwiches, cheeses, fruits, pâtés. A great orchestra led by Harry Connick Jr. began to play from a highly polished pine-wood platform installed at the entryway to an enormous yellow-and-white-striped tent, which would later serve as the ballroom.
Maybe not the wedding of the decade—but quite the blowout, I had to admit. I smiled, felt incredibly warm and fulfilled inside, and started to get into it.
A huge, striped tent shaded half an acre of lawn between the main house and the duck pond. Inside, bands of children ran between the dining tables covered with pale yellow linen cloths, and graced with wicker centerpieces filled with bachelor's buttons, baby's breath, and yellow rosebuds.
The music ranged from Strauss waltzes to Carly Simon to Patsy Cline. After a formal, sumptuous sit-down dinner, and just before dessert, Barry got up and sang his “Light of My Life” to a standing ovation from the guests, Will, and me.
Then my friend Harry Connick spoke, his voice cutting through the continuing murmur of the crowd: “The bride will now cut the cake. Maggie, get your butt up here. C'mon, shy girl. Time to be the center of attention again.”
Waiters arrived bearing three gargantuan wedding cakes. On each stood a marzipan man in a soccer outfit and a marzipan woman leaning against a piano. Will and I mashed cake into each other's mouths, photos of our messy bites eventually making the covers of People and Paris Match, and all sorts of other ridiculous magazines.
After dinner the tables were quickly removed. The band began to play. Will and I danced the first waltz (to “Starglow,” one of my songs), then the other guests joined us.
I was dancing with Barry when a man cut in, and two-stepped me away. “Are we finally happy now?” Peter O'Malley said. His speech was thick, whiskey-slurred, and he was as gray-faced as Patrick had been in death. Physically, he was a caricature of Patrick: recognizable features, but small beads for eyes, and fifty pounds heavier than his father had been.
“Let go of me,” I said. “Please, Peter.” He was holding my arms so tightly I could feel his nails digging into my flesh.
He was actually like a madman. “You cheap slut. Think how much you hurt me. You had my father, now you've got his house, his money, his death on your hands, a handsome new husband.”
I tried to pull away from the drunken man, but I couldn't. He wouldn't let me. “What do