Tracy Kiely: Murder on the Bride’s Side

“Yes?”

“Peter hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

Bridget waved her hand. “A minor detail and one I’m sure he’ll rectify soon.”

I rolled my eyes. With Bridget to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. “Nice try,” I said with a laugh, “but no dice. You are getting married. Here. Tomorrow . Not me.”

Bridget placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t you want to marry Peter?”

I felt my face flush. “I don’t know... ” I sputtered. “We’ve been dating less than a year... ”

With an arch look, she said, “Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.”

That caught me by surprise. “Is that... ?”

Bridget grinned smugly. “Jane Austen? It is indeed. Now answer me this: you are in love with him, aren’t you? I mean, he is the ‘one,’ isn’t he?”

“Bridget, I don’t know. And keep your voice down. I mean, I like him. A lot. But, well, we haven’t really discussed it and—”

Bridget cut me off with a derisive snort. “You ‘like him’!? Coldhearted Elizabeth! Oh! worse than coldhearted. Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment.”

After a beat, I said, “Okay, now you’re scaring the crap out of me.”

“Well, what do you expect? You’ve played that damn Sense and Sensibility DVD so many times over the past month that now you’ve got me quoting it.” She paused. “Actually, to be honest, I’m beginning to see the attraction.”

Rallying my composure, I said, “Bridget, this weekend is about you , not me. Besides, after this past year, going through another wedding is the farthest thing from my mind.”

Bridget didn’t say anything, but from the sudden twist of her mouth, I don’t think she believed me.

Which was only fair, considering that I didn’t quite believe me, either.

“What do you say, Elizabeth? Let’s make it a double wedding.”

We were standing in the back room of Richmond’s most romantic restaurant. The private room boasted dark paneling on three of its walls with a polished bank of windows making up the fourth. The city below shimmered silver and white against the dusky, indigo sky. The low melody from a strings ensemble mingled with the occasional clink of crystal and murmured laughter. It was the perfect place and moment for a proposal. Unfortunately, these words were whispered to me not by Peter but by Bridget’s cousin, Harry Matthews. Ten years ago I would have jumped at a proposal from Harry. Hell, who am I kidding? I would have jumped at a mere proposition from the man. Harry is three years older than me and for a long time had been my idea of perfection. Tall, with light blond hair, cobalt blue eyes, and a cleft that rivaled Cary Grant’s, he was easy to fall for. But as I grew older, I realized he had a bad-boy streak a mile wide. Trouble didn’t just follow Harry; it stalked him.

I gently unclasped my hand from his. “Harry, please. What makes you think I want to marry you? I asked you to put a fried scallop on my plate.”

“Yes, but it was the way you asked that gave away your true feelings.”

“I think I should tell you, fried food and I have a very special relationship.”

“We could be good together,” he persisted. “Don’t you know I’ve been in love with you since I was thirteen? It’s always been you.”

“And all those other girls, they were... ?”

“Mere distractions.”

“Apparently you get distracted mighty easily,” I scoffed, thinking of the endless parade of girls through Harry’s door over the years.

“Not anymore,” he said softly. He took a step closer to me and I could smell his spicy aftershave. Like most of the other men in the room, he was wearing the standard Southern uniform: a blue blazer with khaki pants. Unlike the other men, Harry’s clothes were, as usual, slightly rumpled. Rather than making him look unkempt, it only gave him the look of an errant little boy. Over the years, Harry had cultivated this look to great advantage.

“Really?” I said, closing my eyes. “Then tell me, what color are my eyes?”

There was a pause. “Blue?”

I laughed. “Nice try. They’re green.” I thrust my plate forward. “May I have my scallops now?”

Harry sighed and took my plate, deftly spearing three large scallops from the hors d’oeuvre table next to us. After he handed it back to me, he said, “It’s because of this Peter fellow, isn’t it? Is it true you two are getting married?”

I paused in surprise, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Who told you that?”

“Elsie. She said it was a done deal.”

“She actually said that Peter and I are getting married?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, not in so many words, but she inferred it.”

“Implied it.”

“Whatever. Is it true?”

“Not as far as I know. Elsie appears to know more about it than I do,” I said with what I hoped was casual indifference.

“Well, are you going to marry him?” Harry pressed.

I made a noncommittal gesture. What was it about being in a wedding that made people feel they had the right to query you on your own matrimonial plans? Since Bridget had gotten engaged, everyone around me felt quite free to ask if Peter and I had any plans of our own. From my mother (who stated outright that I wasn’t getting any younger) to my sister (who kept hinting that I’d better not “blow this relationship, too”) to my boss (who flat out told me that she didn’t want me to run off and get married and pregnant and leave her “high and dry”), the subject of Peter and me was a popular one. The only person who hadn’t asked me about it was Peter.

“Well, if he’s so wonderful,” Harry persisted, “then why isn’t he here?”

“I’ve told you, he should be here any minute. His flight only got in at six.”

As if on cue, a tall man walked into the room, pausing uncertainly in the doorway. With his presence, the room suddenly seemed a brighter place. His dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends. His nose was patrician, his eyes were an unusual shade of amber, and he had a large mole on his right forearm. Not that this was visible underneath his tailored pin-striped suit; I just knew it was there. My heart gave a happy leap. Smoothing the folds of my navy blue sheath dress, I shoved my plate into Harry’s hand, turned, and rushed over to him.

“Hey, stranger,” I said as I approached. Peter smiled and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you,” he said into my ear. “Are people watching or can I ravish you right here?”

“People are indeed watching, but don’t let that stop you.”

Peter gave an appreciative growl but gave me only a chaste kiss. He talks big, but at heart he’s an old-fashioned guy.

Before I could respond with a kiss of my own, I heard a shriek of excitement behind me and was abruptly pushed aside by Bridget. “Peter!” she cried, enveloping him in a bear hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. Thanks again for coming: I know you must be tired.”

“A little,” admitted Peter. “But I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“Did you get my fax?” Bridget asked.

A small smile played on Peter’s lips. “I did. Thank you.”

“What fax?” I asked. “Why did you send him a fax?”

“For the reading he’s doing tomorrow,” Bridget explained. “I sent him a copy and underlined the words that he needs to emphasize.”