The laughter of the crowd made her aware of her surroundings again. George was finishing strong, with his wish that Penny and Chase could both remain in this moment and, at the same time, grow with each other in the years to come. “Joan Didion wrote that ‘Marriage is memory. Marriage is time. Marriage is not only time; it is, paradoxically, the denial of time.’ Penny and Chase, look at each other and then look around the room at the people who love you. Imprint this. This is memory. This is time. This is marriage. We wish you a healthy heaping of all three. To Penny and Chase!”

With a lump in her throat, Abigail lifted her glass and she was back at her own country club wedding thirty-one years ago. In her white dress with the capelet and George by her side in his gingham tie. Memory. Time. Marriage. Her George had done it again. Let Timothy Lynch come at them with Irish poets. And Lord Simon Fox with that accent. Her George would not be bested. “To Penny and Chase.”

Chapter 35
The Day Of

The Mother of the Bride

The guest quarters above the pavilion at La Mariposa were quiet. The buzz of the MOB, the MOG, and the bridesmaid having their hair and makeup done was over. The popping of champagne and blaring of music was done. It was only Penny and her mother in the ready room waiting for the signal from Madison that it was time. Alexa and Penny, as it always had been.

Alexa was afraid that if she studied her daughter too closely, a flood of tears would ruin her carefully crafted makeup. She couldn’t have tears running down her neck to stain her silk dress. (Kalliope Moon had sold her a mermaid-silhouette dress, more figure-hugging than the original flowing caftan Alexa had bought. The designer named the swirling blue creation the Thetis dress, after the sea nymph in Greek mythology.) The moment was so much bigger, more meaningful than Alexa had imagined. Had the venue and the pomp and circumstance made it so? Or would she have been as emotional at a City Hall ceremony with a Chinese restaurant reception? Based on the weight of her emotions, Alexa surmised that she would have cried either way.

“Penny—” she started.

“Don’t. Please. We can’t cry. It will ruin all the photos,” Penny answered, her voice thick.

“I want to say one thing. Please.”

Penny, her face framed by her deep brown hair against the white tulle veil embellished with light-blue butterflies, nodded. “Is this where you tell me about you and Mayor Lynch?”

“No, it’s not. I’ll tell you about that another time. It’s where I tell you what this day means to me.”

“Fine,” the bride said, turning toward the window and the darkening skies. “But I can’t look at you. And no crying.”