"No, no, move it left — yes, there, perfect."
The florist shifts the arrangement and I tilt my head and look at it and I look at the garden and I think about sightlines and photographs and I say, "Actually, can we try it by the arch instead?"
The florist smiles patiently and moves it again.
"Oh, I love that," I tell her, and I mean it, which is the strangest part of all of this. The flowers are genuinely beautiful. The garden is also beautiful. In another life, this would have been a beautiful wedding.
"The white roses along the aisle?" the florist asks, holding up a sample stem.
"All of it white," I confirm. "And greenery along the chairs, keep it simple."
Behind me, Mrs. Park is on her phone managing the catering timeline, and further back toward the house two men are arguing quietly about where the lighting rig should go and a woman with a clipboard is standing in the middle of the lawn looking up at the sky.
There was motion in every room, deliveries arriving before breakfast, my father moving through it all with barely contained delight. After all, he turned a family event into a campaign strategy and found the two things completely compatible.
There would be a dinner reception after the ceremony, a hundred and twenty guests, donors and journalists, and political allies, all of whom would watch Phillip Keller give his daughter away in marriage and feel warmly about him and his family values.
I smile at the florist.
"The arch needs more greenery," I tell Mrs. Park, without looking up from the clipboard. "Can you add that to the list?"
"Already on it," she replies.
My father appears at the top of the garden steps with Gerald a pace behind him. He looks at the garden and then at me and he laughs as he comes down the steps with his hands in his pockets. He looks around at the chaos of it all and he says, "Look at you. Finally grown."
I smile up at him. "I'm trying to get it right."
"It's perfect," he says, waving his hand at the garden. He looks at me for a moment with the appraising eyes he usually reserves for press opportunities and then he says, carefully.
Did you go out yesterday?"
I hold his gaze. "Just for some air," I tell him. "I couldn't sleep."
Something moves behind his eyes and he says, "You're a wife to be now, Nathalie. It doesn't look right, going out at that hour alone." He smiles, but the smile has an edge running underneath it. "Stay in."
"Of course," I reply. "You're right.
He nods, satisfied, and he looks back at the garden.
I watch his face and I say, "I just wish Mom was here."
It comes out sincere and I watch him for a flash of guilt. A flinch. Anything, any small involuntary signal.
His face does nothing.
"I wish she was too," he says pleasantly, already looking past me toward Gerald. "But let's not dwell on that. What matters now isthat you're getting married." He pats my shoulder once. "Carry on."
He goes back up the steps and Gerald follows and I watch them go and I think,that's enough. That is my answer and it is enough.He has no conscience.
I turn back to Mrs. Park.
"Can I look through the guest list?" I ask her. "I want to make sure I know everyone who's coming before the day."
"Of course," she replies, already reaching for her laptop. "Come up to the office."
The home office is quiet compared to the garden. Mrs. Park settles at the desk and opens the laptop and pulls up the guest list and I stand behind her and I look at the screen and lean forward and stop.
"Oh god," I say.
