Fortunately, she’d brought along something old, a necklace that had once belonged to her grandmother that Jessica still wore regularly. With her stunning new dress and a blue garter belt borrowed from the bridal salon, she was ready.
At exactly sunset, a solo violinist played the first notes of the “Wedding March.” Jessica emerged from her private bridal suite holding a bouquet of roses, orchids, and assorted tropical blooms. It’s odd, she thought, that no one will ever see me as a bride in the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn. But when she locked eyes with Jon, standing beside a robed minister beneath a white gazebo overlooking the ocean, she realized she was seen by the only one who mattered.
Orchids, roses, and assorted greenery overflowed the white pots lining the aisle as she walked toward him, their heady fragrance nearly overwhelming her senses.
“You’re even more breathtaking than I imagined,” Jon whispered into her ear as she reached his side.
A delicate breeze cooled the heat rising in her cheeks. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she said.
“If it’s a dream, do you want to wake up?” he asked.
She shook her head.
The minister, who she presumed was nondenominational from his simple attire, opened a slender book and beamed at them over its pages. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he began to speak in lilting, lightly accented English.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here to join Jessica and Jon in the union of marriage,” he said. “This contract is not to be entered into lightly, but thoughtfully and seriously, and with a deep realization of its obligations and responsibilities . . .”
Jessica was more sure than ever that she was still asleep, that any second she was going to wake up on the lounge chair with only a melted margarita by her side. Yet she’d never felt so awake and alive.
“Do you take this woman, Jessica Rae Meyers, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” Jon said.
Jessica’s heart soared as the smiling officiant turned to her.
“And do you, Jessica, take this man, Jonathan Mitchell Wright III, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
HOLLY
Remember that white horse? Sometimes, you’re going to get saddle sore.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
Halfway through cocktail hour and Jack still hadn’t shown up. The Hay Bale Ball was finally underway: the band was playing, guests were arriving, and she still hadn’t gotten more than a few stray texts from her husband since the day he left for Cancún.
Who knew where he’d spent the week after his return?
Jessica had been with him on the trip—that was certain. Her car hadn’t left the space behind the apartment building, and a nonsense email Holly had sent from a made-up Gmail account to [email protected] triggered an out-of-office reply:
Thank you for your email. I am out of the country attending a conference with sporadic access to email and my response may be delayed.
Holly wondered whether Jack knew his girlfriend was being so sloppy. She was tempted to ask him, if and when he ever showed up tonight, but had resolved not to tell him everything she knew. To see if she could trick him into making a mistake.
“No Jack?” asked Brian, passing by with a stack of programs that had had to be reprinted due to a typo and that a volunteer would now distribute to every place setting before guests were seated for dinner.
“He wouldn’t dare disappoint us,” she said, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded.
Brian gave her forearm a discreet squeeze and hurried off.
Holly, standing at the top of the stairs leading into the ornate, vaulted Preston Bradley Hall, turned to greet more arriving guests, pointing them toward the coat check station and the several bars scattered throughout the room. It was snowing outside, and melted snowflakes glittered on their shoulders, sleeves, and hair.
To get through the night, she told herself, she would think of Jack as professional party help.
And then he was there, newly tan, head thrown back in laughter as he came around the corner onto the landing with . . . Theresa and Larry Yadao?
Holly was so flabbergasted she couldn’t speak or move a muscle as the trio made their way toward her up the final flight of stairs. The Yadaos did not share Jack’s level of hilarity but were smiling and did seem at ease.
After a fifteen-second eternity, they were in front of her.
“Theresa . . . Larry . . . what a pleasant surprise,” said Holly with effort.
Jack squeezed Larry’s shoulder. “I took the liberty of inviting our neighbors. In a way, I think it’s our fault they haven’t been fully welcomed by the Barrington Hills community. I asked if they would be willing to let us buy them dinner and drinks so they could get acquainted with some truly fine equestrians—and they bravely said yes.”
“He was very persistent,” said Theresa.
“Fortunately, we happened to be back in town for another event,” added Larry. “We usually don’t come back until March.”
“Well—welcome,” said Holly, recovering. “Jack certainly has a way of bringing people together. I’m so grateful we’ll have this chance to get to know you better.”
“We’re happy to be here,” said Theresa politely.
“Let’s get out of these coats and into a few cocktails,” said Jack, gesturing toward the coat check.
As Theresa and Larry moved on, Holly whispered, “Do you think this is really going to work?”
Jack winked. “We’re halfway there.”
So many thoughts were racing through her head. She was grateful she hadn’t put anything about the bridle-path issue in any of their written materials, although she was going to have to amend her welcoming remarks to make a shortsighted challenge to
