Chapter 4 - The Uniform
Margaret ceased her weeping instantly. She detached herself from Jason’s side, her eyes narrowing as Jessica strode across the flooded bedroom toward the cedar-lined wardrobe at the far end of the suite.
"What are you doing?" Margaret demanded, wiping away her ruined foundation with the back of a wet sleeve. "The wedding is canceled. You heard my son. You are leaving this property this instant, or I will have the private security detail remove you in handcuffs!"
"Security detail?" Jessica’s voice drifted out from the wardrobe with a cold, amused chuckle. "You mean the four retired mall cops you hired from the private agency in Stamford? I saw them at the gate, Mrs. Wilson. Two of them have expired firearm certifications and the other two were asleep in their golf cart. Send them up. We could use the cardio."
Jessica stepped out of the closet carrying a long, heavy, midnight-blue garment bag. It didn't hold lace. It didn't hold chiffon or pearls.
It held nine pounds of high-grade wool, polyester blend, gold bullion thread, and the absolute, unyielding authority of the United States Army.
My Army Service Uniform. The Mess Dress.
I unzipped the bag. The scent of clean, pressed wool and dry-cleaning solvent filled the air, cutting through the stench of the burnt lace and the damp carpet.
"You're not wearing that," Jason said, his voice dropping into a register of sheer disbelief. "Katie, be serious. You can't wear a military uniform to our wedding. This is a black-tie civilian ceremony at a private country estate! You'll look ridiculous. You'll make a mockery of the entire family!"
"Your mother already made a mockery of this family twenty minutes ago," I said, stripping off the soaked silk robe without a shred of hesitation.
Beneath it, I was wearing a black compression tank top and running shorts—the gear I had worn while setting up the suite earlier that morning. I didn't care about their presence. In the military, privacy is a luxury of civilians; we had lived in forward operating bases where forty people shared a single plywood shower trailer.
I picked up the crisp white dress shirt with its pleated front, sliding my arms into the sleeves. The fabric was stiff, cool, and undeniably real.
"Katherine, stop this insanity!" Margaret shrieked, advancing two steps before Jessica stepped directly into her path, crossing her arms over her chest. "Jason, do something! She’s doing this to spite me! She’s turning my son's wedding into a military stunt!"
"I am not turning your son's wedding into anything, Margaret," I said as I buttoned the front of the shirt with steady, rhythmic precision. "Your son isn't getting married today."
The room went dead silent.
Even the dripping of the fire sprinklers seemed to slow down.
Jason froze. The color drained from his face until he looked nearly as pale as his mother. "What... what did you just say?"
"I said, you are not getting married today," I repeated, reaching into the garment bag for the dark blue high-waisted trousers with the continuous gold lace stripe running down the outer seams. "You asked me to compromise. You asked me to apologize for your mother’s arson. You told me that my dignity, my service, and my family’s sacrifice are worth less than a Tribeca penthouse and your mother's trust fund."
I stepped into the trousers, fastening the brass hook and the inner button. I pulled on my polished low-quarter shoes, the leather gleaming like obsidian mirrors against the wet floor.
"Katie, listen to me," Jason stammered, stepping toward me, his hands raised in surrender. "I was stressed. I didn't mean it like that. You know how my mother is—she’s volatile! I was just trying to keep the peace until we got through the ceremony! Once we’re married, we’re out! We can move to the city! We don't have to see her!"
"You've been telling me that lie for two years, Jason," I said, picking up the short, dark-blue Mess jacket.
The jacket was a masterwork of military tailoring. Gold bullion lace adorned the cuffs, indicating my rank as Captain. Above the right pocket was the Unit Commendation ribbon. And above the left pocket, arranged in immaculate precedence according to Army Regulation 670-1, were my medals.
The National Defense Service Medal. The Afghanistan Campaign Medal with two campaign stars. The Global War on Terrorism Service Medal. The Army Commendation Medal with two oak leaf clusters.
And at the very top, centered perfectly over the ribbon rack, hung the Bronze Star with the bronze 'V' device for Valor in combat.
I slid my arms into the jacket. The weight settled onto my shoulders like an old, trusted friend. It didn't feel like the fragile, suffocating lace of the fourteen-thousand-dollar wedding gown. It felt like armor.
I looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me wasn't a victim standing over the ashes of her wedding day. She wasn't a prospective daughter-in-law begging for crumbs of acceptance from an arrogant socialite.
She was Captain Katherine Harvey, United States Army.
"Jessica," I said, straightening my tie.
"Captain?"
"Call the motor pool. Have the transport brought around to the front drive."
May you like
"Already done, ma'am," Jessica smiled, a razor-sharp, lethal grin. "Lieutenant Harris and the boys from the 10th Mountain are already waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase."
***
