I guess she was right not to make me the maid of honor.
“So please join me in raising a glass to Marigold and Jonathan,” she said quickly, rushing off the dance floor and toward the house before anyone could stop her.
CHAPTER FOURMarigold
Marigold woke up but resisted opening her eyes. Today was her last full day as a single woman, and she wanted to savor every second. The moment her eyelids fluttered open, the countdown would begin.
Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. She wasn’t on death row. She didn’t even have cold feet. Shewantedto marry Jonathan. He was the best man she’d ever met. Marigold rolled over and buried her face in her pillow, conjuring her favorite images from the previous night: Lulu beaming with pride and love as she watched the festivities; Jonathan snapping into doctor mode when Bill’s aunt Jessie fainted during dessert. Was it weird to be turned on by the sight of her fiancé tending to an eighty-four-year-old woman with low blood pressure? Whatever. She’d deserved a little pick-me-up after Olivia’s “tribute.” Marigold knew that the toast reflected much worse on her sister than it did onher, but it still hadn’t felt great to sit there while seventy-five people tried not to think about her missing undergarments.
She got out of bed, pulled on the pajama shorts she’d wriggled out of in the night, and padded downstairs barefoot. Everyone else in her family wore slippers or flip-flops, depending on the season, to protect their feet from the ancient floorboards. But Marigold never worried about splinters, one of her many so-called quirks that drove Olivia crazy.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, then went to join her mother on the porch where Lulu was drawing with watercolor pencils, a sketch pad balanced on her lap. Marigold lowered herself into a creaky wicker rocking chair, then leaned over for a better look. Lulu had drawn a variety of birds, all incredibly realistic, save for their human accessories. The blue jay wore a top hat; the robin clutched an ornate walking stick; and a large swan smoothed the skirt of her high-necked Victorian wedding dress.
“Oh, wow,” Marigold said. “They’re gorgeous. I wish they were coming to the wedding instead of Jonathan’s cousins.” It made her happy to see her mother drawing again—the chemo generally made her too sick to do more than listen to audiobooks and nap. The wedding festivities were clearly a source of artistic inspiration.
A sound grabbed her attention, and she looked up to see Olivia crunching up the gravel drive, red-faced from her run.
“Morning, hon!” Lulu called. “Everything okay at the inn?” Olivia had apologized to them both at the end of the night—and then sent about a dozen more apology texts to the family group chat—but it still irked Marigold to hear their mother greet her so warmly.
Olivia came to a stop and held up aone secondfinger as sheleaned over to catch her breath. Marigold rolled her eyes. Her sister regularly ran half marathons. There was no way three miles would’ve left her winded. Olivia couldn’t resist playing the martyr; she seemed happiest when showing off her capacity for pain, whether bringing a stack of legal documents to the beach, ordering a plain chicken breast at a restaurant famous for pasta, or getting up before dawn to run.
Olivia’s phone must’ve buzzed, because she pulled it out and said, “Hello?” in a normal voice, miraculously no longer gasping for breath. “Yes, she’s right here… No, I have no idea why she never answers her phone… Bruce, stop, you’re not supposed to share privileged attorney/client information… I know she’s my sister, but it’s still not professional… Okay, hold on…” Olivia trudged up the porch steps and shoved her phone at Marigold. “It’s Bruce.”
Bruce was their family’s Maine lawyer, the one they used for things like boat permits and work visas for their summer staff. Why would he be calling today?
“Hi, Bruce,” Marigold said. “How are you? How’s Lucy?” Bruce and his wife bred dairy goats; Lucy was their current cherished prizewinner and there were no fewer than three framed photos of her in Bruce’s office.
“We’re all fine,” he said in his Down-Easter accent. “Listen, I’m calling about your marriage license.”
Marigold frowned. It was highly unusual for Bruce to skip the small talk. “Jonathan and I are picking it up from the registrar today.”
“She doesn’t have her marriage license yet?!” Olivia hissed to Lulu, correctly interpreting Marigold’s side of the conversation. “This is ridiculous, even for her.”
Seriously?Marigold mouthed, then made ayou’re still on thin iceface.
“There’s been a slight setback,” Bruce continued. “My paralegal was preparing your paperwork and discovered that, well…” He lowered his voice. “It appears that you’re already married.”
Marigold jerked the phone from her ear as if scalded. “That’s not possible,” she said in the most relaxed, cheerful voice she could muster despite the panic mounting in her chest. She headed into the house, aware of Lulu’s and Olivia’s eyes on her.
“Jessica performed a standard search using your social security number and found a certificate of marriage between you and a gentleman named… hold on a sec… Hugo Berlanger?”
The name knocked the air from her chest, and she grabbed on to the back of an armchair for balance. “Hugo Berlanger,” she repeated in a daze.
“Does it… ring a bell?” Bruce asked.
Hugo Berlanger.The name didn’t sound right coming from Bruce—it felt like he was quoting from Marigold’s own dreams. She’d barely heard anyone say Hugo’s full name aloud before; they’d cut themselves off from the world for those few stolen weeks, creating a reality that belonged to them alone. She’d almost managed to convince herself that she’d imagined the whole thing.
“That was… a long time ago.” Marigold’s voice sounded hoarse. “We got a divorce. I can’t imagine why that’d be a problem now.”
“And everything was finalized? Do you have copy of the paperwork?”
“I’ll… I’ll need to check with my New York lawyers. I’m sure it’s all in order.” It had to be, right? SheknewHugo had signed thepapers—her lawyer had confirmed receipt. Marigold had been at a restaurant opening in Brooklyn, and she’d slipped out the back door to take the call. “We’ve received Mr. Berlanger’s signed papers, so all you need to do is return yours,” the lawyer had said cheerfully. Marigold remembered slumping against a pile of empty produce crates, unsure if the sudden weakness was the result of relief or shock that it was really all over. And then, of course, she’d mailed her signed copy. Or dropped them off at the office. She must have, right? Who forgets to finalize their own divorce?
“Do you want me to call?” Bruce asked. He often coordinated with their family’s New York lawyers.
“Sure… yeah.” Marigold stumbled through the kitchen and out into the backyard, where she’d be out of earshot. “If, for whatever reason, they never got my signed document, what happens then? My wedding is tomorrow, and I can’t… I mean, I need to…” How could she tell Jonathan they needed to postpone? How could she tellher mother? There was no way. She had to figure this out.
“Given how much time has passed, you’ll need to sign new copies. If you and Mr. Berlanger sign and get them notarized today, we should be able to get everything in order by tomorrow.”
