“Yes, she does.” Jane waved a hand over her face. “So beautiful I’m going to cry.”
“Don’t you dare,” Patsy said, “because then I will, too, and we’ll both have mascara running down our cheeks.”
Betty had been fighting tears all day, but she’d grown used to that over the past weeks, and once again managed to blink them away without affecting her mascara. She was still numb inside, merely going through the motions of living as one goes through the motions of washing dishes, a mere repetitiveness of dunk, wash, dunk, rinse, put aside to dry. “You both know I’m the ugly duckling,” Betty said, “and you are the swans.” They were in her eyes, they always had been, from cute little sisters, to beautiful young women. She loved them dearly.
“Horsefeathers,” Jane said. “Swans are taller than ducks, and you are the tallest.”
“Tall?” Betty laughed. It felt good to pretend all was normal. That they could joke with each other. “The three of us are short, shorter, and shortest.” Her breath snagged in her lungs as she looked at Patsy and Jane, wondering if her children would love each other this much. Or if she would only have the one child. Henry’s child.
No. She couldn’t do that. Not now. Not here. This was her child.
“Girls,” Mother said, stepping into the little side room of the church. “It’s time.”
Betty suddenly felt as if she was freezing, from the inside. So cold even her teeth were chattering. She pressed four fingers to her mouth, but couldn’t make the chattering stop.
“Jane, you walk in first, and walk slowly,” Mother said. “Patsy, you’ll follow, and then you, Betty. Your father is waiting to walk you down the aisle.” Mother’s eyes lit up even brighter. “Smile, dear. There are a lot of people here.”
Before Betty attempted to pull up a smile, Jane reached up and flipped the netted veil over her face.
“She is smiling, Mother,” Jane said.
Betty wasn’t. She might never smile again, but at least the chattering had stopped. She drew in a deep breath, and silently thanked Jane for pulling the veil over her face. No one would notice that she wasn’t smiling. That she looked like she was walking to the gallows instead of to the altar to be united in marriage.
She had to become united in marriage because in eight months, she would be having a baby. Her sisters kept reminding her of what a joyous occasion that would be. What wonderful aunties they would make. They would, and it would be a very joyous occasion the first time she held her baby in her arms. That was the thought that kept her going every day.
Her mother left the room, leaving the door open, and Jane stood there, watching until it was time for her to exit.
By the time it was Betty’s turn to leave the room, she was trembling so hard she could barely move. She hooked her arm through her father’s and started walking. She had to go through with this. That was all there was to it.
There were people sitting in the pews. That had been Patsy’s doing, and Betty did appreciate her sister’s support. Both Jane’s and Patsy’s support in this whole farce.
That was what it was. A farce.
The wedding.
Her.
All of it.
Her insides sank deeper and deeper with each step she took toward the altar, where the big cross hung overhead. A shiver coursed down her spine.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Her footsteps stumbled. Father grasped her arm, kept her moving forward.
Toward the cross. Toward James.
She had to lie. For her baby. The tiny life growing inside her. The tiny boy or girl who would never know their father.
Henry.
That was the worst farce of all. She’d hurt him so badly. Had seen it on his face, in his eyes. A sob got caught in the back of her throat. Choking her.
She got it out, sucked in air.
She glanced at Jane.
At Patsy.
What had she been thinking?
This wasn’t setting a good example.
This was wrong.
So wrong.
What she’d done to Henry was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Her father stopped. James took her hand, held it as she took her final steps up to the altar. Chills raced over her, and she closed her eyes, wishing at that moment that it was Henry who had taken her hand.
He wasn’t holding her hand. James was. It was wrong what she was doing to him, too. All this time, she’d thought about him as a means to an end. An imaginary person who, in an odd sense, wasn’t even real. But he was real. He was a good person, too. He’d thanked her about standing up to her father because of the building codes. He hadn’t dared to do that. He wouldn’t dare not marry her, either. That wasn’t fair. He truly didn’t deserve to be deceived.
She couldn’t do that to him.
She couldn’t do this.
This wasn’t who she was. This was not her.
It was not.
And if it was, it was not who she wanted to be. Who she would be.
A warmth washed away the chills. The same one that used to appear whenever Henry was near. She pulled her hand free from James. It may be her imagination, but she’d felt a flutter in her stomach, and pressed her hand against it.
The baby didn’t want her to do this, either.
Tears filled her eyes, but they weren’t sad ones. They were tears of hope. Of finding her true self. She had her sisters. She had her baby. She had a life. Her life. Broken rules or not, it was her life. One that she had control over. She just had to take that control. She’d thought she had been, in some ways, but not enough.
“I object,” she blurted out.
The priest frowned and shook his head.
She squared her shoulders, nodded, and louder, repeated, “I object.”
“Betty?” James asked.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this,” she told him. “Not to you, and you shouldn’t have to do it, either.” Glancing the other way, toward her
