Daisy James - The Runaway Bridesmaid

‘No, Dad. You know we agreed not to tell her until after the wedding.’

‘I’ll go and find her, Mr Hamilton. She can’t have gone far.’ Lauren flicked the sides of her bob behind her ears, hitched up her voluminous skirt and strode from the room.

Rosie registered Jack Hamilton’s lined, pale face wreathed in concern. His appearance was so suave in his charcoal-grey morning suit and baby-pink cravat – his back erect, his still-thick silver hair and beard neatly trimmed in honour of his youngest daughter’s wedding day. But he had a lot on his mind. Not only did he have the responsibility of walking his beloved daughter down the aisle but it was only the third day in twenty-five years that the Hamilton family’s hardware store had been closed to the service of Stonington Beach residents and curious tourists bemoaning the disappearance of such Aladdin’s caves in their home towns.

She recalled the pang of regret she’d experienced at the previous evening’s dress rehearsal when she witnessed her father’s slower, more deliberate movements. It had occurred to her that now Freya was to be married, she should maybe consider returning to Stonington Beach to take care of her father and help him in the store which, she’d noticed with a stab of concern, was looking a little shabby around the edges. Jack needed more help than Dot, now herself in her sixties. Would such a step-change relieve her of her constant anxiety about her father’s health, the stalking fear that she’d lose him too? Would it alleviate the weight of apprehension that pressed against her chest, maybe even allow her to make some of those human connections she found so elusive in Manhattan?

Gosh, no!

Having taken a year’s sabbatical to care for Jack and Freya after her mother’s passing, she had proceeded to squeeze every last ounce of knowledge from her studies at college and business school, squirreling away every morsel of offered wisdom into the recesses of her mind for future extraction. Why should she even be contemplating allowing it to drain away into a small town hardware store? New York City had many flaws, but she adored its vigour and vanity, its tenacity and traumas. The only tinge of sorrow that day was the absence of their beloved mother, but her presence would be with them all in the hollows of their hearts.

There had been no thanks from her sister for the long months of grief Rosie had endured in organising this spectacular occasion from one hundred and thirty miles away. For giving up numerous weekends to travel out to Connecticut to taste and select the menus, to advise on table décor and choice of linen, flower arrangements, wine lists, whilst Freya was just looking after number one.

A conversation with Dot popped into her mind; Dot had hugged her goodbye and noticed the deep hollows of tiredness around Rosie’s eyes. ‘I hope once this fiasco of a wedding has finally taken place, it won’t mean your visits down to Stonington Beach will be any less frequent, darling?’ Dot had said. ‘Jack adores having your sharp professional eye run over the store. No other business in Stonington can boast a high-flying New York City executive bestowing regular financial advice upon its eaves and coffers. We love you here, Rosie. Don’t be a stranger.’

A second wave of dizziness enveloped Rosie and she slumped down onto the pale blue sateen duvet. Her mind had suddenly seized. Her father managed a tight smile and joined her, resting his hand on her arm. She saw he was studying her as she fiddled with the huge gold hoop earrings Freya had presented both she and Lauren with that morning. Freya had mistaken Lauren’s look of abject horror as that of shock at the level of her generosity. Rosie prayed her photograph would never, ever appear in any publication covering the Jacob Bennett, Jr. and Freya Hamilton wedding. She would struggle to live down the fashion shame. She felt and looked like a gawky teenager.

‘All this will happen for you one day, darling. You’re so like your mother, worrying about everything and everyone. You’ve pulled off a miracle today, organising this wedding for Freya and Jacob.’ His eyes sought out hers. ‘She’s gorgeous, but so are you. You need to take some time for yourself now, darling. That crazy job of yours is squeezing all the sparkle from your eyes. I can see how tired you are, even if your mirror speaks differently to you. You career girls don’t understand what you’re leaving behind in your blinkered pursuit of corporate acceptance. Manhattan demands insane hours and produces crazy people, their dreams skewed by their ever-increasing obsession with stockpiling the dollars.

‘You need to slow down, Rosie. Take some time to smell those flowers you and your mother were named after. Get dating, meet your own Jacob who will love and nurture you. Goodness knows you deserve it.’

He held her to him, his familiar smell mingled with the tang of a forbidden cigar. Rosie didn’t trust herself to respond with any opposing argument.

‘I wish Mum were here to witness how proud I am of you both today. I’ve missed her every single day of the last fourteen years. But her love lingers on in the crevices of our hearts. The passage of time has no favourites, Rosie, it treats us all equally. But I knew your mum for thirty years before that disease stole her from her family and she would have wanted all this for you too – a happy life, not a slave to the accumulation of wealth for people who have more than enough to service several lifetimes already.’

Her father knew he’d struck a chord. ‘Promise me and your mum that it won’t be years before I walk down that aisle again? It was a promise I made to her before she left us that I would see you both settled before I, well… Hey, there are some great guys who come into the store. Want me to fix you up with a date?’

‘Dad!’

‘Look, Rosie, I’m sorry I can’t go to the UK for Bernice’s funeral. I would have loved to have seen Devon one last time.’ Tears threatened to mist Jack’s lashes for the first time on that emotional day. The sadness in her father’s eyes sent a shard of panic through Rosie’s heart. Was he hiding a health issue? Was there a secret he was protecting her from, another evil incursion by an incurable disease poised to steal away her only parent?

‘It’s okay, Rosie. I’m just tired. Long hours in the store, you know.’ Her father failed to see the irony of this last sentence, having spent the last ten minutes lecturing and berating his daughter against the vices of corporate Manhattan and her solitary lifestyle.

‘Rose adored Bernice, you know.’ His kind, wise eyes clouded as he grasped Rosie’s hand in his, its paper-thin skin stretched and liberally-flecked with age spots. ‘But she wished her sister had found a partner to spend her life with. Don’t end your days like Bernice, Rosie.’

‘Are you sure there’s no way you can close the store for the week whilst you go to the UK? Maybe the break from the routine will do you good?’

‘It’s not the store, Rosie.’ The look on her father’s face caused Rosie’s heart to contract and a giant fist squeezing the air from her lungs. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I could manage the trip. It’s a long flight, and what with the jet lag and… well. I know how much Bernice meant to you, darling. I’m sure she would understand why we can’t attend the funeral, what with the store and Freya on honeymoon and your work commitments. The UK is more than an arduous car ride away.’

With huge effort, Rosie refocused on the present. She glanced down into her lap where her slender fingers were entwined with her father’s arthritic ones. Her heart ballooned with love for him and the support he had given her and Freya. She knew he had struggled at times with the gargantuan task of raising two young girls – Rosie was eighteen but Freya had only just turned eight – whilst coping with his own grief. Her unconditional love for him had been one of the reasons she had so swiftly slotted her toes into her mother’s shoes to care for Freya – to help to alleviate his suffering in any way she could.