Chapter 2 - The Return of the Wandering Pair
Ethan parked diagonally across two stalls marked *RESERVED FOR CHAPEL VISITORS*.
He stepped out first, smoothing the lapels of his charcoal coat with both hands. He looked impeccably handsome—the kind of corporate athletic build that made real estate clients trust him on sight. He was adjusting his silver cufflinks, laughing over his shoulder at whatever Zoe had said from the passenger side.
Zoe emerged, holding a bright pink box from Sugar & Rye by its striped bakery twine. She had kicked off her heels and was walking barefoot across the scorching asphalt, her pale blue chiffon dress gathered in one arm, showing off a golden summer tan. She had pinned my veil into her blonde chignon with two bobby pins, letting the fine tulle trail behind her like a festival banner.
“Claire!” Zoe’s voice carried across the courtyard, bright and musical. “Oh, thank god you’re outside. Is your mom awake? We brought the almond raspberry torte—the one from that place on Market Street! You wouldn't believe the line.”
Ethan came jogging up the stone steps two at a time, his polished oxfords striking the slate. He reached out to grab my waist, his expression a practiced cocktail of exasperation and boyish charm.
“Babe, I am so sorry,” he said, his lips already aiming for my cheek. “The bridge traffic was completely backed up because of some maritime festival, and then Zoe realized she’d left her purse at the bakery, so we had to loop back around Third Street. But look—we’re here. Let's do this before the lighting goes.”
He smelled of lemon cologne, river breeze, and bourbon.
I took half a step backward. His hands caught empty air, falling awkwardly to his sides.
“Claire?” His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his manufactured remorse. “Come on. Don't be like that. We were gone for an hour and a half. It’s not like the preacher was waiting—we didn’t even hire an officiant, remember? It's just a symbolic thing for Margaret.”
“An hour and forty-seven minutes,” I said. My voice was level, almost quiet.
Zoe reached the top of the terrace, breathing a little hard, her cheeks flushed with the rosy glow of an afternoon spent flirting in the sun. “Claire, honey, don't give him that look. It was totally my fault! I had this absolute panic attack about standing up there in front of the nurses. I told him I needed fifteen minutes of normal air or I was going to throw up. He was just being sweet. He took care of your maid of honor so I wouldn't ruin your big moment.”
She held out the pink box like an olive branch.
“They even gave us the bride-and-groom discount because they thought Ethan and I were eloping,” she giggled, rolling her eyes. “I told them he was way too high-maintenance for me, but—”
“Take it off,” I said.
Zoe paused, her smile freezing at the corners. “What?”
“The veil. Take it off your head.”
Zoe blinked, her hand rising defensively to touch the tulle. “Claire, I was just keeping it from getting crushed in the back seat. It’s not a big deal—”
“Take it off,” I repeated.
Ethan stepped between us, his shoulders squaring. This was his favorite posture: the reasonable man mediating between irrational women. “Claire, stop it. You’re being hysterical. We apologized. We got the cake. Now let’s go inside, pull Margaret’s chair over by the window, say the damn vows, and get out of these clothes. It’s ninety degrees out here.”
“She won't be looking at the window, Ethan,” I said.
He squinted at me, his jaw tightening. “What does that mean?”
“She died.”
The word did not echo; it dropped like an iron weight into the thick August air.
Zoe’s fingers slipped from the bakery twine. The pink box hit the flagstones with a dull thud. The cardboard lid popped open, exposing the pale pink buttercream and crushed almonds to the dust.
“What?” Zoe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
Ethan stared at me, his eyes searching my face for the punchline, for the theatrical exaggeration he assumed all women engaged in when they were angry. “Claire, that’s not funny. That's a sick thing to say just because you're mad at us.”
“She died at 3:47,” I told him. I looked at the watch on his wrist—the vintage Omega I had saved three months of salary to buy him for his thirtieth birthday. “It is now 4:16. You were thirty minutes late to her death. You were three hours late to the ceremony.”
Ethan’s face went pasty white under his tan. “Claire... no. She was fine this morning. She was sitting up.”
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“She held my hand,” I said, looking directly into his widening eyes. “She asked if you were coming. I told her yes. She asked if Zoe was coming. I told her yes. And then she stopped breathing while you were letting Zoe wear my veil at the boardwalk.”
***
