Chapter 1
The double doors at the back of the chapel were heavier than I expected and the rain had soaked right through my sweatshirt by the time I got them open. The organ was playing and the stone floor down the middle was wet and shiny from where the wind had blown rain inside, and every white rose tied to the pews looked too clean against it. I didn't stop to catch my breath. I ran.
At the front, under the big stained-glass window, she was at her peak. The bride stood with her shoulders back in her white sleeveless dress, her blonde hair pinned up with a few loose strands around her face, one hand holding flowers, the other holding his arm. He stood beside her in his black tuxedo and bow tie, his dark hair cut short, his stubble catching the light. They looked perfect and finished, like the picture was already taken. And I was dripping water down the middle of it, my pale blue sweatshirt stained dark down the front, my jeans sticking to my legs, the little plastic-wrapped parcel crushed tight in my right hand so the papers inside wouldn't get wet.
My name is Lucy. I was eleven that morning.
I had counted the pews from the doorway because Mom told me to count when I got scared. The guests turned one row at a time as I passed. I could hear my sneakers squeaking on the wet stone and my own breathing loud in my ears. The bride's smile dropped before I even reached the halfway point. Her mouth opened just a little and her eyes went wide and stayed there. The groom let go of her arm a few inches without realizing it. I kept running until the altar was close enough that I could see the dirt still smudged on my own hand around the plastic.
I stopped at the bottom of the steps and shouted before I lost my nerve. My hair was pasted to my cheeks and water kept dripping off the ends.
"Dad! Don't marry her."
My voice cracked on the last word and echoed off the vaulted arches. For a second nobody moved. The organ stuttered and stopped. I could feel every person in the pews staring at the water pooling around my shoes.
He stared down at me like he didn't know where to look first — my face, my soaked sweatshirt, the bundle in my hand. His brow pulled together and his mouth opened and closed once before any sound came out.
"Who are you?"
I swallowed and the plastic crinkled louder than I wanted it to. I held it tighter against my leg.
"I'm Lucy. Olivia's daughter."
The bride made a sound that was almost a laugh but wasn't. She stepped forward half a step, her white dress bright against the dark stone, and her shock sharpened into something else. Her hands tightened around her flowers.
"Olivia died nine damn years ago."
That was the lie. I had waited nine years to hear someone say it out loud to my face. I didn't look at the guests. I looked right at her.
"No, you paid mom to disappear."
The air went flat. Someone in the second pew whispered, "What is she talking about?" and the groom didn't answer. He just kept staring at me, his chest rising fast under his white shirt, his bow tie a little crooked now. I could see his throat work when he tried to swallow. He didn't step toward me. He didn't step toward her either. He just froze there between us.
I forced my fingers to loosen just enough to lift the parcel a few inches so they could see it. The clear plastic was fogged and creased from my grip, the papers inside pressed together in a thick stack.
"Mom kept every payment record. She's dying tonight."
The bride's eyes dropped to the parcel and stayed there. Her whole posture changed. The soft focus of her face from a second before was gone and her mouth pressed thin. She didn't look at the groom when she moved. She came down one step from the altar, her dress rustling, her hand out and shaking.
May you like
"Give me that!"
She lunged for my right hand and I jerked back half a step, my sneakers slipping on the wet stone. The chapel doors were still wide open behind me, rain blowing in across the reflective floor, and the groom's hand finally twitched at his side like he wanted to stop one of us but couldn't decide which one. None of us had moved far enough to end it. The parcel was still in my fist, her fingers still reaching, his mouth still open without words, and the ceremony music still silent.
