Chapter 3 - The Gathering in the Nave
The sanctuary of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis smelled of beeswax, frankincense, and expensive floral arrangements that had been delivered four hours earlier by Callie’s preferred vendors.
Through the heavy oak doors of the bride's waiting room at the rear of the nave, the low, resonant rumble of the organ prelude vibrated through the limestone floorboards. Two hundred people were seated in the carved walnut pews: logistics executives from across the Midwest, my colleagues from the rail terminal, Bennett’s extended engineering family, and the entire Holloway clan, who had driven down from Peoria in three chartered vans.
Aunt Marlene was seated in the front pew on the bride's side, wearing a lilac chiffon dress that looked like a cloud of aggressive perfume. Beside her sat my father, Arthur.
He had adjusted his tie three times in five minutes. His face was flushed, his collar visibly tight against his throat, but his shoulders were squared with that peculiar, stubborn pride he always wore when he believed he had successfully handled an inconvenient situation.
"She’s going to make a scene, Arthur," Marlene hissed, leaning over the aisle, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper beneath the organ's pedal notes. "I saw her car in the courtyard. If she walks down this aisle with a torn veil or crying her eyes out, it will reflect on all of us. Miles is sitting in row four with the vice president of Horizon. This was supposed to be Callie's weekend to close that account."
"She won't make a scene," Arthur muttered, checking his watch again. "I told her to pull herself together. She knows what’s at stake. She’s always been dramatic, Marlene, ever since she was six years old and threw a fit because Callie got the bigger bedroom."
"She’s jealous," Marlene agreed, smoothing her lace cuffs. "Callie has an agency. Callie moves in circles with investors. Tessa sits in a trailer behind a rail yard counting boxcars. It’s natural that she’d feel insecure on a day like this."
The organ music ceased abruptly.
The heavy bronze bells in the cathedral tower chimed two o'clock.
The double doors at the rear of the center aisle swung wide, letting in the blinding, late-afternoon autumn sunlight that cut through the cool, dim interior of the nave like a broadsword.
The congregation stood as one, the rustle of silk and wool filling the space as heads turned toward the back of the church.
Arthur stepped into the aisle, smoothing the lapels of his tuxedo, preparing to take his position beside me for the traditional walk down the flagstones. He had rehearsed the father-of-the-bride smile in the rearview mirror of his Buick all morning: benevolent, slightly misty-eyed, the picture of an honorable small-town patriarch giving away his younger child.
He turned toward the vestibule.
His smile died before it reached his eyes.
I stood framed by the limestone archway.
I was not wearing a veil. I had discarded the lace cathedral-length netting in the suite trash can. My hair was completely gone on the sides, tapered down to a clean, velvety fade that exposed the sharp, elegant contour of my jawline and the high, sculpted plane of my cheekbones. On top, Maya had worked the dark waves into an austere, modern sweep that curved back from my forehead like a polished helmet.
Against the pale skin of my exposed neck, the pearl drop earrings swung with icy precision. A narrow strip of sterile, skin-toned liquid bandage covered the two-inch laceration beneath my ear, barely visible under the warm glow of the chandeliers, but impossible to mistake for anything other than an injury.
My gown was an architectural masterpiece of heavy crepe—no frills, no lace, no soft romantic tulle. It fell in an unyielding column from my shoulders to the floor, clean and sharp as a scalpel.
A collective, audible gasp rippled down the center aisle.
In row four, Callie froze. She was wearing her emerald-green maid-of-honor gown, her long, styled blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, her fingers clutched around a bouquet of white lilies. Her mouth parted in a tiny, ugly circle of pure disbelief. She had expected a weeping, humiliated girl hiding beneath three layers of tulle or an empty aisle that would allow her to step forward and offer a tearful apology on behalf of her "unstable" sister.
She had not expected an executioner.
Arthur took two stumbling steps toward me, his hands half-extended, his face drained of all color until he looked like damp paper. "Tessa... what... what have you done to your head?"
I looked down at him from the top of the chancel steps. My eyes were entirely dead.
"You told me to clean myself up, Arthur," I said, my voice carrying clearly over the hushed sanctuary, audible to the first six rows of pews. "I cleaned myself up."
"You... you can't walk down the aisle looking like this," he whispered frantically, his hand darting out to catch my forearm. "People are staring! Marlene is looking right at you! Miles Keene is—"
I pulled my arm back with a sharp, violent snap that made his fingers slide off my sleeve.
"Do not touch me," I said.
The organist struck the opening chord of the bridal processional—a massive, triumphant blast of brass and wind that vibrated through the stone columns.
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I didn't take Arthur’s arm. I didn't wait for his permission.
I lifted the hem of my crepe gown with my left hand and began my walk down the center of the Cathedral Basilica alone, my chin up, my eyes fixed entirely on Bennett, who stood at the altar waiting for me with his hands clasped before him, his shoulders squared, and a look of absolute, unshakeable reverence burning in his eyes.
