It should, but it didn’t. He thought of telling Angie so, but there was something small and hard in his gut that clenched when he thought of having to apologize again, of always being wrong.

Without looking at him, Angie said, “Caroline has done a pretty good job of misleading everybody, including herself. She’s still at it, too.”

And just that easily all the aggravation and anger left him, as though she had stuck a tap in his head at exactly the right spot and drained it out of him. He was overcome by surprise and a deep sense of awe, that Angie should understand so easily, and offer him so much.

Her hand was resting on the arm of her chair. It would be a small matter to touch her, take her hand, try to bridge the gap. But they hadn’t come that far yet, and John kept thinking of Fran Mangiamele on the phone: You pushed her too hard you went too fast you wanted too much.

On the screen Patty-Cake was saying, “Notice how the ribbons on the flower arrangements echo the color scheme of the garden itself, an elegant touch in line with the bride’s superior sense of style.” Rob appeared behind her, looking grim, and went straight to the house.

This much even Patty-Cake couldn’t ignore. She said, “Of course, even the best-organized wedding will run into a bump or two. The trick is to be prepared for every eventuality.”

It was eleven o’clock, and the camera slid away from Patty-Cake’s face, now sporting a fine line of perspiration along the upper lip, and fixed on the house, where French doors had opened and a crowd of people could be seen poised to come out onto the gallery. A murmuring rose among the wedding guests, and the camera panned across them jerkily. John took in the familiar faces of his own cousins, friends he had grown up with, the few colleagues he had invited. All of them wondering where exactly he was, and if it was really possible that John Grant, steady, responsible, proper John Grant, could be missing in action from his own wedding. Most of his people would give him the benefit of the doubt, but Caroline’s were another matter. Especially if Patty-Cake started talking, something that might just happen if she lost the last bit of common sense she stilled called her own. Somewhere a child began to cry, and John wasn’t far from joining in.

Patty-Cake was talking to the cameraman in a harsh whisper and the picture lurched back in her direction, providing an excellent view of one heavily mascaraed eye, one flaring nostril, and half an angry scowl. Then it swung away again, as if pushed. Will, who seemed to have no real feel for camera work, somehow found Rivera. She was standing against the wall of the house, her camera cradled in her arms, her face drawn.