Chapter Thirty Seven

Three weeks later...

“Where the hell is he?” Dad asks. He’s nervous. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and he wipes his upper lip. “Damn it, he’s late. Everybody is seated.”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. I suddenly feel awkward and defensive. Does Dad… know?

“You haven’t been in touch with him at all?”

“No!” I lie. “Why would I?”

The truth is that I left Pierce naked in bed this morning. He was still sleeping, utterly still on his back, while I watched the news. Fallon and the Russian gangster Mogilovich were sentenced to jail for possession of illegal firearms as well as drugs. There was also blood in the trunk of the Jaguar that matched the DNA of a murder victim.

Thank God that Jag was locked…

I had left Pierce to go get my hair done. Now I’ve got my hair smooth and straight and looking the best it ever has, and Pierce is nowhere in sight. I left him a note reminding him not to be late… I don’t know what I expected, honestly.

“Damn it,” Dad says, fidgeting. He looks around at the small gathering, mostly just some friends. He was right when he said that neither him nor Isabelle had large extended families.

This would be a modest wedding turnout by any standard. That’s not a bad thing, either. I’ve always hated the idea of having a huge wedding. All that excess for what? Love isn’t about putting on a show for the extended family. It’s about a promise to one person. That’s all it should ever be about.

Isabelle looks beautiful and elegant today, but as severe as ever. Sometimes, I wonder if she ever smiles. Of all the times I met her back home in Chicago, it never seemed like she was having much fun.

There’s a small prick of guilt in me, and it reminds me that this is a woman Dad loves. I should at least try my hardest to approve.

But after what Mom did to him… how can I expect this to turn out any better? She doesn’t strike me as the overly affectionate or loving type, and if I know Dad, I know that’s what he needs…

“Where is that boy?” Isabelle snarls, before giving me a polite smile. “I’m sorry. He’s always been like this. Impossible.”

“It’s fine, Issy,” Dad says. Again, he looks out at the small crowd. Everyone is seated, ready for the ceremony. We’re back inside the cottage that Dad rented – along with its lush back garden. The seating is arranged in two narrow columns outside, and there’s a runner leading up to an altar on a raised platform.

“For heaven’s sake,” Isabelle says. “We’re not going to wait for him.”

I turn wide eyes on Pierce’s mother. “Are you sure? I’m sure he won’t be much longer.”

“Oh?” she asks, lip curling. “How can you be sure? You hardly know him. I do.”

My voice fades. The irony of it all? I do know him. And him being late is just the sort of Pierce thing to do.

“Yes,” she says, nodding at Dad. “I’d like to marry you now.”

Dad’s mouth pulls into a broad grin, and I swear I see his eyes go liquid. He nods, and takes her hand. “Okay.”

“I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the actual wedding,” I tease.

“At my age, Penelope,” Isabelle tells me. “You just don’t give a crap about arbitrary tradition.”

She motions for me to go outside and take my seat, and when I’m seated, I still can’t believe that Pierce is late to his own mother’s wedding.

He’s never going to change…

The hushed whispering around me is quieted when the ceremony starts, and Isabelle begins to walk up the aisle. It’s a white runner, and on both sides rose petals have been sprinkled.

Dad seems genuinely happy, and definitely nervous. He’s already done this once before, but I guess you just never, ever get used to it.

That’s when I see him, Pierce. He strutting out of the house, leaving the French doors open behind him. He’s got a cigar in his mouth, a swagger in his step, and his tie loosened and top button undone.

Unbelievably, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder as if he was posing for a freaking modeling shoot.

I can only shake my head and grin.

Pierce joins his mother on the aisle, and she gives him a disapproving look. He holds his arm out, and she slips hers into it, and together they walk up, his cigar still smoking, leaving a grey trail behind them like a coal train.

When they get to the altar, I hear him say, “I give you away, Mother.”

And then I hear her say, “I’m a woman. Nobody is going to give me away for dowry.”

Pierce laughs, and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Tradition be damned, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I wish you happiness.”

“Thank you for showing up,” she says. I swear, for a second, I see a smile.

Pierce sits down in the empty seat next to me, and gives me an innocent ‘what?’ look.

“Did you have to be late?” I hiss, bunching my brow.

He doesn’t reply. He looks me up and down, and then sucks in a deep breath of air.

“God, you look fuckable in that dress,” he says.

“You’ve got cigar breath.”

“I’m going to fuck you in every room of that house,” he says, jerking his head behind us.

I cover the smile on my mouth with a hand. “We’ll be eating in there later.”

“We’ll find a way to do it in the dining room.”

The only thing I can do is shake my head.

At the altar, Isabelle says, “I do.”

The priest says, “You may kiss the bride.”

My father and my new stepmother kiss.

My new stepbrother’s fingers sidle over my thigh, leaving tingles and buzzing in their wake.

“Stop it!” I whisper, slapping his hand away.

He just grins, gets up, and swaggers off.

I watch him over my shoulder. The ceremony is not even fully finished, and already he’s disappeared into the cottage. Moments later his figure appears in one of the upstairs windows. He beckons me through the glass.

Everybody is starting to chat and mill about now, and so I use the opportunity to sneak away. Nobody notices me as I recede slowly from the congratulating crowd.

I enter the cottage, walk up the creaky steps, and into the room that Pierce is in. It’s a small bedroom, fully furnished, though no doubt it’s all for show. A four-poster bed lies against the wall; it looks old, a little too grand for this small cottage. A folded card sits on top, and it reads: Do not sit.

“What do you want?” I ask. Pierce is standing at the window, leaning out of it, smoking cigar clasped between his thumb and index finger. “Why did you come up here?”

He turns around, a smirk prying his lips apart. “Why do you think?”

“Gross,” I say, grimacing. “God knows when this place was last properly cleaned. God knows who last… you know, did it in this bed. I’m sure somebody has.”