I almost laughed. My wedding, and his old flame would be the one playing piano to warm up the room.
The planner added one more thing. "Mr. Gilbert picked the piece, too. He said Miss Simmons knows it well."
I asked, "Which piece?"
She gave me a name, and I went still for a long moment.
I'd heard that piece before. The night Orson got drunk, slumped against the couch, humming it low under his breath.
He'd said it was the most regretful melody he'd ever heard, back when he was young.
At the time I actually believed that his willingness to tell me about that regret meant I had become his present.
That night, when Orson came home, I was sitting in the living room waiting for him.
He shrugged off his coat. "Why aren't the lights on?"
I pushed the tablet across to him. "You're having Sheila play piano at the wedding?"
Orson barely glanced at it. "She's only helping out. She's won awards before. She's a better fit than hiring some outside musician."
I asked, "A better fit how?"
He looked up. "Silvia, can you not be so sensitive? A wedding is a public occasion for two families. It's not an outlet for your moods."
I nodded. "So at my own wedding, I don't get to decide the music, I don't get to decide the photos, and I don't get to decide who wears my veil."
Orson unfastened his cufflinks, his patience thinning. "I already explained the veil thing."
"You didn't explain. You just told me to accept it."
He was quiet for two seconds. "Sheila left in a hurry back then. I owe her a proper goodbye. All she wants now is a little dignity. You can't even allow her that?"
He owed her a goodbye. And me? I'd carried him through the two worst years the Gilbert family ever had.
When the board pushed him until two in the morning, I was the one in his office reworking the documents with him.
When his stomach hurt so badly his face went white, I was the one who drove three blocks to buy the medicine.
The first time his mother softened enough to let me through her door, that came from the two weeks I'd kept watch at the hospital.
Whose dignity did I owe?
That was when Sheila's call came in.
Orson glanced at the screen, picked up. "What is it?"
I could faintly hear crying on the other end.
"Orson, should I not have agreed to play? Will Miss Harding hate me for it?"
Orson pressed at his brow. "No. She's just tired."
Sheila spoke again. "Then could you come over for a bit? My old wrist injury is acting up. It hurts."
Orson picked up his car keys.
I asked, "Now?"
His movements stopped. "She has no family here."
"And what about me?"
Orson shot me a look. "Don't compare yourself to someone who's hurt."
When the door closed, the wind chime in the entryway gave a soft little ring.
I'd bought it in Old Harbor last year.
Orson said the sound was noisy, but I'd never been able to bring myself to take it down.
Tonight it rang very softly, like it was reminding me.
Some people don't fail to hear. They just don't want to.
Three days out from the wedding, Angela asked me to come fit the gowns.
When I arrived, Sheila was there too.
She wore a champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, turning in front of the mirror.
Angela smiled. "Sheila has such a lovely figure. Anything looks beautiful on her."
I pushed the door open, and the smile froze on my face.
Because that bridesmaid dress was my reception dress.
That day, Orson had rarely made time to come try on clothes with me.
He sat on the couch reading documents. I changed through seven dresses, and the only time he lifted his head was when I came out in that one.
He said, "This one's fine."
I'd thought that single glance meant, at the very least, he had really looked at me.
When Sheila saw me, she scrambled to undo the zipper. "Miss Harding, don't get the wrong idea. Auntie said no one was wearing this one yet, so she had me try it on to see how it looked."
Angela frowned. "Silvia, don't make that face. Sheila's helped out with so much. What's the harm in her trying on a dress?"
