“Tell him to come to the wedding,” Tiernan says. “We can compare quotes.”
Pru rolls her eyes so hard they might stick. “Move the camera.”
Tiernan taps his earpiece and says something into the air; two men split off and head toward the back aisle like he just had the idea himself. He glances at Pru. “Happy?”
“Temporarily less homicidal,” she says. “Keep trending in that direction, pretty boy.”
Cayce leans toward me slightly. “Your friend is bad for my blood pressure.”
“She’s good for mine,” I say. “We balance each other out.”
“She threatened to have my brother, who is also my lieutenant, disappeared. In a room full of the families.”
“She did,” I say. “He’ll live.”
“Regrettably,” Tiernan calls without turning around.
“Regret nothing, cupcake,” Pru calls back. “It ages you. And your looks are the only thing you’ve got going for you.”
Nan laughs once, sharp and pleased, then schools her face as if she didn’t. I love her a little for it.
Aoife claps for attention and tells us to reset for the recessional. We practice the turn, the pivot to face the aisle, the step off the riser that no one wants me to trip over. I find myself wishing I’d worn a dress, just to make sure I can do it in a skirt.
We do it twice because at the end of the first pass, an uncle in the third pew starts clapping like this is a play and Aoife threatens to revoke his invitation.
When she finally dismisses the room, the noise swells—talk, footsteps, the shuffle of coats. People come up to shake my hand. A woman in her sixties tells me my grandmother would be proud if she’d lived to see this. I don’t know which grandmother she means. I say thank you like I do.
Nan waits at the end of the pew as if she and the wood are old friends. When I reach her, she takes my hand between both of hers and turns it palm-up like she is reading a map.
“Are you frightened?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “Be frightened until you’re not. Then be stubborn.”
“I can do stubborn,” I say.
“I suspected,” she says. “You look like a girl who learned too early not to cry in public.”
“I did.”
“You can cry in my kitchen,” she says. “Or on my porch. I keep tissues, and I don’t tell stories that aren’t mine. If you want to run, I’ll help you run. If you want to stand, I’ll stand behind you and glare.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it in my bones. “I might take you up on the glaring.”
“Good,” she says. “It keeps me young.”
She releases my hand and pats my cheek, then turns to watch two men argue about whether the back door should be propped. She enjoys other people’s competence almost as much as she enjoys their mistakes.
Cayce is at my shoulder again. “We’re going to dinner after this,” he says. It is a statement that could be a question if I wanted it to be. “Family table. Short. Then you’re free with Pru.”
“Free,” I repeat.
“You have your bachelorette plans.”
“I don’t,” I say truthfully. “Pru does.”
He nods. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you that security will be close enough to matter and far enough to pretend. You can ignore them. They’ll pretend to ignore you.”
