Craig Blast was sixty, six-foot-two, and professionally unimpressed by the world. He offered Lizanne his arm outside the ceremony entrance and gave her a look that was almost, but not quite, fatherly.
“You look extraordinary,” he said, in the same tone he used for a multi-million-dollar syndication deal.
“Thanks, Craig.”
“Ready?”
“No. Let’s go.”
Rose had taken Lizanne’s specifications and turned them into something transcendent. The celestial canopy was thick and heavy, the scent hanging in the air like a physical presence. Five hundred faces turned as the music began. Lizanne walked down the aisle on Craig’s arm, smiling at people she recognized and feeling the whole thing happen at a distance—like she was watching a movie of her own life.
Then, she waited as they had planned.
Kayla came first, looking deliberate in deep green.
The music shifted.
Quinn appeared with Daisy. The girl held her basket of petals with the grim focus of a soldier. The yellow sash on her white dress had apparently been the result of a high-level negotiation. Daisy marched forward, flinging petals with total authority, until the basket caught the edge of a guest’s chair.
The basket flipped. Petals went everywhere, and Daisy hit the path on one knee. The sound she made was the sharp intake of breath that precedes a total meltdown.
Lizanne moved before she could think.
Four steps and she was on the ground, knees on the heavy red carpet that lined the aisle. She was crouching beside Daisy just as Quinn reached them. Lizanne gathered a handful of petals and stuffed them back into the basket. Daisy looked at her, eyes shimmering.
“The petals that get thrown at the end are the ones that matter,” Lizanne whispered. “You’ve still got the best ones ahead of you.”
Daisy looked at the basket. Then at Lizanne. She stood up, squared her shoulders, and finished the walk like a professional. The guests let out a warm, unscripted laugh that no producer could have coached, and Lizanne walked back to her spot under the canopy, her heart beating heavy in her chest.
Then she waited.
Rose appeared at the far end of the aisle on her mother’s arm.
Lizanne had been there when she’d first put the dress on, but seeing her here was different. The low afternoon sun caught the lace at Rose’s wrists and the soft, rolling waves of the skirt. Rose walked with her chin up, her back a straight line—the posture of someone who was terrified but refused to let it show. She was so uncomplicatedly beautiful that Lizanne’s brain just... stopped.
She knew it then. She knew what she wanted. Rose. The actual woman walking toward her through the goldenlight. Lizanne felt it with a directness that made negotiation impossible.
Rose reached the canopy. Her mother kissed her cheek and stepped back. Rose turned and took Lizanne’s hand.
Lizanne tried to read her face. Rose was composed, present, giving away nothing she hadn’t cleared for release. Lizanne realized, not for the first time, that Rose was a much better actress than she understood.
They stood under the white wisteria. The vows were a script—written by a romance specialist Pat had hired—and Lizanne said them, feeling them mean more than they should. Rose said hers in that clear, steady voice she used when she was holding herself together. She didn’t look at the cameras. She looked at Lizanne.
When the officiant told them to kiss, Lizanne leaned in. Rose met her halfway. It was brief and warm, and the roar from the crowd behind them was immediate. Five hundred people cheering for a lie, or for the truth—it didn’t really matter. Rose’s hand tightened in hers for a split second before they stepped apart.
They faced each other. Daisy was beaming in the front row. Confetti was falling from the rafters. Craig was clapping with the measured pride of a man seeing a solid return on investment.
Lizanne held Rose’s hand and thought about Pat’s advice. This was going to be infinitely more complicated than a one-year contract. She was going to have to live inside this tangle without breaking anything.
Rose squeezed her hand.
Lizanne squeezed back and gave her a smile—a real one. Rose’s mouth curved in response, and for that one moment, with the cameras rolling and the script playing out perfectly, it felt like the only honest thing Lizanne had done in years.
Chapter 19
Lizanne
Dusk at the vineyard did something with the light that no production designer could have faked—a heavy, gold warmth that draped over the terrace and made the whole world look magical. Long tables ran the length of the stone, dressed in cream linen and trailing ivy.
