you?”
“Yep. We just left before Chael and couldn’t find him to say good night.” I throw my arms around her, “Mom, I can’t believe how great you’re being about—well, you know.”
She hugs me back. “Anna, when I think of all the time I wasted being critical of you, I could kick myself. I’m so happy that you’re here, now, that you’ve agreed to share this day with us. That you’ve forgiven me for the way I treated you.”
The last is said quietly and with great emotion. There is regret and sadness in her voice, and my heart catches because I sense what she is not putting into words. That she will not waste any of the time left to her being petty or judgmental. That, finally, I have her approval.
There could be no better wedding present.
She and I chat while I drink coffee and she polishes off the croissants. She catches my lingering gaze as she pops bits of the buttery pastry in her mouth. “Do you miss this?” she asks.
“Do I. Especially Italian food and chocolate.”
She nods appreciatively. “One of the good things about being ill,” she says, “is being able to eat anything I want. Modern medicine is wonderful.”
My shoulders tense. Wonderful? Her tone is cheery, but it chills me to the bone. If modern medicine is so wonderful, why can’t it do more than improve her appetite?
Mom sees my reaction. She leans toward me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry I said that. This is your day. No more talk of illness.” She makes a motion across her lips, a key turning. “Promise.”
After a long moment, we’re off to other subjects, the weather (perfect for a late-morning garden wedding), the caterers (already setting up in the kitchen), the last-minute prep to the garden (chairs positioned, the archway decorated with flowers, the carpet being laid down).
At eight exactly, there is a discreet knock on the door and Dad shows the hairdresser in. His eyes are wide as he steps aside to let her pass into the bedroom. “Lisette,” he says simply.
I understand immediately why Dad looks slightly uncertain when he shows her in. Lisette is a woman in her thirties, pretty in the way a wildflower is pretty, bright, tenacious, unconventional. Her arms are covered in tattoos, elaborate designs of intertwined vines and roses that climb her neck and up one cheek. She’s dressed in dark slacks and a bright peasant blouse, leather sandals on her feet.
I leave the three to chat while I shower, wash my hair, towel dry it and return to take a seat at the vanity.
Mom hands Dad Frey’s clothes then, and they leave me with the stylist.
Lisette is friendly and obviously comfortable with working in front of a mirror that reflects only her own image. She blow-dries my hair, fluffing and smoothing it as if the heft of it will determine what style to choose. I tell her not to do anything fancy, that I want a simple, slightly more polished look. That’s all.
She assures me she knows exactly what I want, brandishing her hairbrush with a flourish. In a minute, she’s done. Next, she applies a little eye makeup and blush. I haven’t had makeup on in so long, I start feeling nervous that Frey will like this version of me better than the original and it’s a look I can never hope to duplicate. Since becoming vampire, I only tried once to apply mascara without a mirror. After poking myself in the eye twice, I gave up.
While she works, she chatters in broken but passable English about what a beautiful bride I will be. Then she asks, “Is your groom also de vampire?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “And you can’t mention vampires to anyone else, okay?”
“Not to worry. Chael explained all to me.”
Curious, I ask, “How do you know Chael?”
She gets one of those love-struck smiles that answers the question more eloquently than words. “We have been friends for many years. He spends a lot of time in Paris. It’s where I live.”
“Paris is almost five hundred miles away.” I know. I ran it. “You came all that way to help today?”
“Ah, if Chael asks, I cannot refuse.” She sighs. “Besides, he sent a first-class airline ticket to Cannes and the limo to drive me back to the airport is waiting outside. Chael is a very generous man.”
Whew. Chael to the rescue once again. My thank-you note to him is going to be pages long.
Lisette finishes up, pinning the one simple rosebud I chose as my hairpiece over my right ear. She stands back, nods and proclaims me done. I take her down the hall to Mom’s room where I know she and Trish will be waiting. I have to duck quickly back to my room when John-John’s door opens. After all Dad went through to keep at least one wedding tradition intact, I’m not taking any chances. He’s got me half believing in the superstition now.
It’s almost nine.
Nervousness nibbles away at my self-assurance. After battling almost every conceivable enemy both mortal and not, why would the idea of getting married make me nervous?
I touch my hair. Wonder what I look like? I run a gentle fingertip over mascara-thickened lashes. Is it too much?
A sound from downstairs draws me to the window. Dad is greeting the first guests, the family from next door. He looks so handsome in his suit, white hair brushed straight back from a smooth forehead, smile erasing some of the worry lines that have formed around his mouth since my mother’s illness. Father of the bride. A title that probably surprises him as much as it does me!
At ten, a knock and Mom and Trish walk in.
Trish looks radiant. Lisette pulled her buttercream hair back from her face, fastened it at the crown with a garland of flowers and ribbon the same rose color as her dress. The rest falls to her shoulders in soft curls. I can only shake my head at how splendid she looks.
As does my mother. Her hair, thinned by illness and medicine, has been transformed through the magic of a hairpiece. Lisette matched Mom’s hair perfectly, adding fullness at the top and back by expertly blending a short cascade of curls with her real hair. She did Mom’s makeup, too.
“No one is going to be looking at me,” I say, hugging first Mom and then Trish. “They’ll be too busy looking at you two.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Trish says. “Look at yourself.”
She says it in the offhand, casual way one does, but Mom and I know that’s not something that’s going to happen.
Unless—
“Mom. Do you have a digital camera?”
“I do.” She turns to Trish. “It’s downstairs on Grandpa’s desk. Will you get it please?” When Trish is out the door, she raises an eyebrow at me. “You can be photographed?”
“Not on film. But digitally . . .”
“Then quick, let’s get your dress on. When Trish comes back we’ll take a couple of pictures.”
I take off my robe and Mom helps me slip into the dress. She stands back, eyes shining, her expression saying more than words. Trish is back, camera in hand, and she, too, gives me the nod of approval.
Mom takes the camera, but before she can start snapping away, Trish yelps. “We almost forgot! The ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing!” It comes out in a rush, one long hyphenated word.
“You’re right.” Mom lays the camera down and pulls three small packages from the pocket of her jacket. She hands two to Trish, the third to me. “Your beautiful dress is something new. This is something old.”
My hands are suddenly trembling. I tear at the tissue to find a small jewelry box. When I open it, there is a pair of pearl earrings nestled against black velvet. “Oh, Mom.” I touch the earrings. I recognize them. “These were your mother’s.”
“And now they’re yours.” She turns to Trish.
Trish is grinning. “Something borrowed.”
“Uh-oh,” I tease. “Something borrowed from a teenager? What is this? Your iPod?”
But when I open the package, it’s a simple gold bracelet of dainty heart-shaped links. “Trish, this is beautiful.”
“It’s the only thing I have from my dad,” she says wistfully. “Mom said he gave it to her when he found out she was pregnant.”
