smile.
TRIP drove off with the satisfaction of a decent score for thirty minutes of work. That was easily a down payment. He checked his cell messages. There were two. His mother, asking him to come home for dinner on Monday. And Mike, who was panicked and yelling into the machine. “She saw you! That woman from Reggie’s said she saw you coming out of the bar! What the fuck do we do now? Call me!”
Trip slammed the phone against the steering wheel. Bullshit. Mike needed to calm the fuck down. There was no way anyone saw him. It had been dark. No one was around. But he’d check it out. And then he smiled, remembering the ID card from the purse Mike had showed him. He smirked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. “Might even be fun.”
ELEVEN
ABBY sat in a middle pew along the aisle to get a good view. Waiting for the service to begin, she focused on the architecture to avoid any unintentional eye contact with David, who was ushering people to their seats. Fourth Presbyterian was sandwiched between all the shopping of North Michigan Avenue, and Abby had walked by it hundreds of times, but she’d never been inside. The limestone brick walls must have been forty feet high. She counted fourteen angel statues, each at least seven feet tall, propped on piers along the sides of the sanctuary. Massive arched timber supports, each painted with more angels, graced the ceiling. Gothic pendant lights suspended by old black chains hung from above. As the organ music began, all eyes turned toward the back.
The setting sun cast light through the stained glass windows, creating a multicolored spotlight on the action at the altar. Abby focused on David, who stood beside Rick, serious and engrossed in the moment. David was always a casual guy, but she had loved seeing him in suits when they went to weddings together, and now, to see him in a tuxedo, he took her breath away. His typically disheveled hair, longer now with a few natural curls at the ends, had been tamed for the occasion. And when the priest instructed Sarah and Rick to kiss, David led the cheers and wiped his eyes. He was always sentimental, never embarrassed to cry. She remembered the tears they both shared the night she had finally said yes. She scanned the pews, guessing who might be taking her place in his life.
The guessing was over once the cocktail hour began.
Though David and the rest of the bridal party were taking horse-drawn carriages from the church to the Drake Hotel, Abby and the other guests had hurried, en masse, the two blocks to the reception, where they were greeted with champagne at the entrance of the grand ballroom. After a few minutes of soaking in the space—marveling at the forty or so round tables draped in satin, the second level balcony encircling the room, and the hundreds of guests already there—Abby had convinced herself she might not even notice David and her replacement in this crowd. But when the wedding party walked in, they stood out against all others. They seemed taller somehow, and once she saw a groomsman, her gaze quickly found the others among the crowd.
David was escorting his future wife up to the bar to get a drink. They were holding onto each other tightly. He looked happy. She was beautiful. She did not look anything like Abby. Olive skin, dark hair, taller. Maybe Latin or Italian or something else exotic. Suddenly, Abby’s dress felt like a tent and her up-do felt like curlers in a rag. Her stomach ached. She felt incredibly thirsty.
She grabbed a champagne glass off the tray of a passing waiter and walked toward the exit. Collapsing onto a big upholstered chair by the grand piano on the mezzanine level, she secretly freed her feet from their torture devices under the ottoman directly in front of her, and sipped her champagne. She was already exhausted by the small talk, her spiked heels, and the David-spotting. She still could not believe that he would marry another woman.
“Marry me,” he’d said to
TRIP drove off with the satisfaction of a decent score for thirty minutes of work. That was easily a down payment. He checked his cell messages. There were two. His mother, asking him to come home for dinner on Monday. And Mike, who was panicked and yelling into the machine. “She saw you! That woman from Reggie’s said she saw you coming out of the bar! What the fuck do we do now? Call me!”
Trip slammed the phone against the steering wheel. Bullshit. Mike needed to calm the fuck down. There was no way anyone saw him. It had been dark. No one was around. But he’d check it out. And then he smiled, remembering the ID card from the purse Mike had showed him. He smirked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. “Might even be fun.”
ELEVEN
ABBY sat in a middle pew along the aisle to get a good view. Waiting for the service to begin, she focused on the architecture to avoid any unintentional eye contact with David, who was ushering people to their seats. Fourth Presbyterian was sandwiched between all the shopping of North Michigan Avenue, and Abby had walked by it hundreds of times, but she’d never been inside. The limestone brick walls must have been forty feet high. She counted fourteen angel statues, each at least seven feet tall, propped on piers along the sides of the sanctuary. Massive arched timber supports, each painted with more angels, graced the ceiling. Gothic pendant lights suspended by old black chains hung from above. As the organ music began, all eyes turned toward the back.
The setting sun cast light through the stained glass windows, creating a multicolored spotlight on the action at the altar. Abby focused on David, who stood beside Rick, serious and engrossed in the moment. David was always a casual guy, but she had loved seeing him in suits when they went to weddings together, and now, to see him in a tuxedo, he took her breath away. His typically disheveled hair, longer now with a few natural curls at the ends, had been tamed for the occasion. And when the priest instructed Sarah and Rick to kiss, David led the cheers and wiped his eyes. He was always sentimental, never embarrassed to cry. She remembered the tears they both shared the night she had finally said yes. She scanned the pews, guessing who might be taking her place in his life.
The guessing was over once the cocktail hour began.
Though David and the rest of the bridal party were taking horse-drawn carriages from the church to the Drake Hotel, Abby and the other guests had hurried, en masse, the two blocks to the reception, where they were greeted with champagne at the entrance of the grand ballroom. After a few minutes of soaking in the space—marveling at the forty or so round tables draped in satin, the second level balcony encircling the room, and the hundreds of guests already there—Abby had convinced herself she might not even notice David and her replacement in this crowd. But when the wedding party walked in, they stood out against all others. They seemed taller somehow, and once she saw a groomsman, her gaze quickly found the others among the crowd.
David was escorting his future wife up to the bar to get a drink. They were holding onto each other tightly. He looked happy. She was beautiful. She did not look anything like Abby. Olive skin, dark hair, taller. Maybe Latin or Italian or something else exotic. Suddenly, Abby’s dress felt like a tent and her up-do felt like curlers in a rag. Her stomach ached. She felt incredibly thirsty.
She grabbed a champagne glass off the tray of a passing waiter and walked toward the exit. Collapsing onto a big upholstered chair by the grand piano on the mezzanine level, she secretly freed her feet from their torture devices under the ottoman directly in front of her, and sipped her champagne. She was already exhausted by the small talk, her spiked heels, and the David-spotting. She still could not believe that he would marry another woman.
“Marry me,” he’d said to
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