Page 57

The limo stops in front of St. Augustine's and Rémy has my door open before I can blink twice. His eyes go red the way they did at my graduation. "She's here," he says into his collar, and at the top of the steps Denis sees me and makes the sign of the cross, which I intend to mock him for until one of us dies.

My father is standing at the foot of the steps, looking dashing with his hands at his sides.

He doesn't speak until I'm directly in front of him.

"Are you all right, mon cœur?" he asks, and his eyes go over me once, head to toe, landing on my hands. I scrubbed them three times in Laszlo's shower. There is nothing on them, nothing under my nails, but there are a few scratches, and my father stares at them for longer than comfortable.

"I'm fine. There was traffic."

"Traffic," he says.

"Yes," I agree.

He takes me by the chin and turns my face to the light. Whatever he finds there he keeps to himself. Then he kisses my forehead, one hand heavy on my shoulder, and offers me his arm.

"You look like your mother did on our wedding day," he says, and we go up the steps together.

The doors open and hundreds of heads turn at once. The organ starts up on cue, and the smells of incense and lilies hit me at once. Then I look down the aisle and every other thought leaves my head.

Laszlo Novak stands at the altar in a black suit—guess he decided against the tux, which is a tad disappointing—freshly showered, immaculate, not a hair out of place, looking as though he has spent the afternoon at leisure and not beating a man to death with his bare hands. We start walking toward him and his expression softens as I approach. The pull in my stomach as we get closer is not simply lust. I’d rather not figure it out or I’ll put myself in a state of panic.

The priest is pale and looks worn out. I wonder how much Laszlo paid the other couple to postpone their wedding. I should find out. If I have to be sold for my brother’s life, I'd like to know the going rate for other people.

Constantine stands beside his brother in the best man's place. My father puts my hand into Laszlo's, and the two of them look at each other for exactly as long as courtesy requires, then my father steps back into the front pew beside my mother.

"You're late," Laszlo murmurs.

"You made me late."

"I did," he agrees pleasantly, closing his hand around mine. "Worth it."

The priest clears his throat and begins. As his words wash over me, I can still feel the man beside me between my legs, even though I know it's just in my head. I did take a good shower when I got to his house. I swallow hard and lower my head. This has to be exactly what he wanted, for me to stand at his altar in his church thinking of what just happened between us. Me in my perfect dress holding a bouquet of ranunculus, and it takes me until the second reading to understand what's bothering me about it.

Ranunculus. Not roses, not lilies or peonies or whatever brides are supposed to carry. Ranunculus, which I loved as a girl because my grandmother grew them in her garden—one piece of information I have never once mentioned to Laszlo Novak, because when would I have? We've known each other for a few weeks and most of our conversations have been arguments, threats, or foreplay, and sometimes all three at once.

A good florist then? A lucky guess?

I don't remember most of what the priest says. I remember Laszlo’s vows, though, or one part of them, because people laughed at something he said before he started, and I nearly did too before my brain caught up. Catholics don’t make up vows, either. It’s against tradition. I wonder how much he paid or threatened to get the priest to consent.

"I promise to love you in sickness and in health," he says, his thumb moving slowly over my knuckles, "although we both know you'll insist on handling the sickness part yourself, badly, while telling everyone you're perfectly fine, the way you did with the ribs you cracked two winters ago and taped at your house because you didn't want to sit in the hospital waiting room." Oh yeah, he broke tradition. The great Laszlo Novak gets away with anything.

Laughter, warm and easy, all through the church. What a charming groom. How well he knows her.

I cracked two ribs two winters ago. I taped them at my kitchen table. I never told anyone about it because I was embarrassed I'd slipped on my own steps. I wore loose scrubs for six weeks and lied to my colleagues about a pulled muscle.

I look up at Laszlo, and he holds my gaze. The moment passes because the priest is speaking again, and people are watching. What am I going to do anyway? Stop my own wedding to ask my groom how he knows about that incident?

The ring slides onto my finger like it grew around it.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest says, sounding genuinely relieved. Laszlo takes my face in both hands and kisses me slowly, thoroughly, indecently, in front of the priest and God, until my knees go weak and applause breaks over us. Once more, somewhere in my chest something twists that isn't quite hatred, which is the part I find disturbing.

"Mrs. Novak," he says against my mouth.

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself."

"I'm the most pleased I've ever been," he says, "and I once acquired three crematoriums in one afternoon."

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