Take it in, said the wedding advice. Notice everything. You’ll never get married again.
If things went well with Bradley, that might even be true.
“It looks beautiful out there,” Hannah said.
Melissa again glanced out her window, relishing the view, the splendor. The tide was almost out, and there were people and dogs in the distance. Someone was clamming, which was so romantic and perfect for the moment. This place was real. Coming here had been the absolute right decision.
As for the guests, there were four of the New York mothers and their husbands here. Curiosity, Melissa knew, and possible jealousy. They were sipping champagne, all dressed to kill. As they should be for the wedding of the year! There were Vanessa and Charles Fairchild. Strange, to have in-laws this time around. At first, they’d been totally on Lillie’s side, until Bradley had told them—when she was out of the room, of course—that if they ever wanted to see him again, they would have to accept and love Melissa. She’d helped with the wording, and it had gone perfectly. Then, when she came back in, she’d been so warm and welcoming. If they were still stiff and awkward, well, who really cared?
So many eyes on her, soaking in her style and good taste, her money, her power. Oh, and her love for Bradley, because she did love him. He fit the bill—older, handsome, educated. Not as impressive as an orthopedic surgeon, of course, but not bad, either.
“Stay right there,” said one of the photographers. “That light is incredible on you. You look radiant.”
“I’ve never been happier,” she said. “Everything is so perfect, Hannah! I can’t wait to get out there.”
“I’ll get Brad ready for the First Look. And you do look incredible.”
A few moments later, Melissa floated down the stairs in front of the camera crew, the Swarovski crystals sparkling in the golden afternoon light. Out the front door, over to the First Look area. Where was Ophelia? Oh, for crying out loud. Lying in the hammock, biting a fingernail and getting all wrinkled. Melissa chose not to dwell.
Bradley stood on the lush front lawn between two brilliant red maple trees, his back to her. This was the moment! A photographer’s assistant fluffed her dress so the train was perfect, and when the photographer said “Go,” Melissa walked slowly up to Bradley. The camera whirred in a stream of clicks as Melissa tapped his shoulder. He turned around, covered his mouth with his hand, and tears filled his gorgeous blue eyes.
“My God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, and she laughed and posed, the gown tossing off the light. She kissed him, then turned to the makeup artist, who dabbed her lips with a bit more gloss as the photographer captured Bradley’s tears.
“Let’s get this wedding started,” Hannah said when fifteen more minutes of First Look had passed. She handed Melissa the bouquet, a mass of white and blush blossoms, gave Ophelia her basket of flower petals, and went around the house to give the reverend the heads-up.
“I love you so much,” Bradley whispered.
“Oh, darling, I love you, too,” she said back. “See you at the altar.”
“You’re perfect. This day is perfect. Our life is perfect.”
Enough with that word. “I know. Now go! Get up there!” She beamed at him, her slight irritation fading. After all, he knew his place. To adore her. Full stop.
Bradley went up to the arch and waited, alone except for Reverend White. Sadly, Dylan had refused to come for the wedding and be his best man, which would have been nice for Bradley, but you know what? It was better this way. No reminders of Lillie, except for her sister. And former in-laws. And every guest from Wellfleet.
It didn’t matter. There was a new Mrs. Fairchild in town.
She peeked around the corner. Bradley was smiling at the crowd—one hundred and seventy-four guests.
And then, the string quartet began playing Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus,” a beautiful song, the meaning of which she didn’t know, but the melody of which she loved.
“Ophelia, you’re up,” Melissa said, patting her shoulder. “Have fun, sweetheart!”
Ophelia rolled her eyes, clenched the basket in her hand and stomped toward Bradley.
One more fluff of her dress, one touch from the makeup artist. Then off she went, walking slowly, smiling with bliss in her heart, her entire soul soaring at the sight of all these people, all this admiration. It seemed like the entire world was watching. There was what’s-her-name from the yoga studio. Mirabelle and Libby and their husbands from New York. Yes! Let them see her in her glory! They’d dropped her fast enough after Dennis died. The reverend’s wife, the lesbians from the arts council, the first selectman. Everyone had their phones out, too. Oh, she hoped they’d use the hashtag she’d come up with—#HappilyEverFairchild. It was encouraged on all the programs and the three chalkboards they’d had custom painted.