“Sucha good girl,” I whisper, kissing her cheek. “Are you ready?”
“I’m not certain it matters, but sure.” She straightens her shoulders and pastes on a pleasant social smile.
The enormous ballroom at the country club is struggling to contain another suffocating overload of flowers. They’re draped in swags on the walls, centerpieces crowding every table and huge arrangements flanking the small stage where a string quartet is playing.
“They must have deforested half of Holland to get this many tulips,” Afton says, eyes watering a little.
“Are you allergic?”
“Only to ostentatious excess,” she murmurs. “My little sister told me that Mimi, the wedding planner, set all this up.” She chuckles quietly, “She said Mimi is like Voldemort in a pantsuit.”
That surprises me into a chuckle. It is also the last quiet moment we have. Afton’s mother pulls her away, chattering excitedly and I accept a glass of scotch from my father.
“Congratulations, lad.” He nods toward Afton. “She’s a bonnie thing, aye?”
“Aye, she is.” I didn't tell my father about Cavendish slapping my wife before the ceremony. There will be time to teach him a lesson, but Dad’s more of an “in the moment” type. We can’t pull a gun at the reception, though it’s happened more than once at a MacTavish wedding.
“Do ye understand what to do on your wedding night?” Dad arranges his face into an expression of mock solemnity. “Do ye have any questions?”
“They showed us a film in PE,” I say. My father thinks he’s funny and it is exhausting. “I think I remember all the key points.”
“To a long and happy life together.” He toasts me, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Even if I know the thought of that is appalling to ye.”
I watch as my mother and Aunt Mala join Afton’s little group. I knew my mother would immediately feel sympathy for my bride, she knows what it’s like to get dragged into her own wedding. Even though she runs the King Industries empire with an iron fist, she’s as soft as a marshmallow when it comes to situations like these. Her kindness is so sincere that I can see Afton’s shoulders relax from clear across the room.
For the next three hours, I nod politely, manufacture a smile and brush off a cloying attempt from Mimi - an older woman with a giant bush of red hair and an expression of permanent anxiety - to get Afton and me to dance “to our special song,” whatever she’s decided it is.
Then, the speeches.
It starts with a lengthy, rambling one from Cavendish highlighting all his greatest successes and mentions my bride once. There’s a quick, clever one from Dad, who knows how to move things along. Then, a speech from Martha, Afton’s brother Sam, two higher-ups in Cavendish’s organization… I abandon the head table in search of the bar.
Leaning against the bar, I gulp half the drink in one go, an insult to a fine Macallan.
“Something wrong, cousin?” Michael settles next to me, watching the exits, the guests, the placement of our security, the same visual circuit I’m making.
“Aside from these interminable speeches? Nothing.”
“Interminable?” he repeats, still scanning the crowd.
“It means endless, or never finishing.”
He ceases his surveillance to glare at me. “I know what interminable means, arsehole.”
“Of course,” I shrug. “Do you think it’s been an appropriate length of time? I’d like to take my bride and leave. I’m looking forward to stabbing her father in the kidney, but that can’t happen here.”
Choking on a mouthful of scotch, Michael manages to smother his laugh. “Aye, I’m thinking now is the right time to make your exit, then. Cavendish is, if possible, becoming even more of an arsehole as the evening progresses.”
We watch Afton’s father lean over her chair, speaking sharply. I’m not close enough to hear what he’s saying, but the way she stiffens, face pale and refusing to look at him says enough.
I’m back at the head table in five large strides. “Darling? It’s time for us to leave.” I step between her and Cavendish, who huffs angrily.
“You can’t wait to get your hands on my daughter?” His voice is loud. “She’s been saved for this moment, virginity is guaranteed.”
Afton sucks in a deep breath and coughs it out again.
“William!” Martha gasps, “You’re embarrassing her. Please don’t be so crude.”
He ignores her, because he’s an arsehole. “You’re going to be very pleased, son.”
