When Tiffany floated down the aisle on her father’s arm, she looked undeniably breathtaking. Her gown was a towering masterpiece of French lace and hand-sewn seed pearls, trailing eight feet behind her like a frothing sea wave. But behind the gossamer veil, her eyes were hard, scanning the crowd not with the tender warmth of a young woman entering holy matrimony, but with the cold, calculating inventory of an auditor ensuring that every asset was in place.
Arthur Vance walked beside her, his chest puffed out like a pouter pigeon. He was a man built entirely of bluster, expensive cologne, and silver hairspray. He gave his daughter away with a flourish of theatrical sentimentality, dabbing an imaginary tear from his eye before turning to shoot a smug, self-congratulatory grin to his cronies in the second row.
He had not contributed a single copper penny to the day.
When the minister asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer, I closed my eyes and tried to summon Robert’s presence. I tried to imagine him standing beside me in his dark Sunday suit, smelling of Old Spice and fresh-cut pine. *“Hold your head up, Maggie,”* I imagined him whispering. *“A Bennett doesn’t bend to wind.”*
The vows were contemporary, self-indulgent poetry written by Tiffany herself, heavy on promises of “achieving mutual greatness” and light on the traditional covenants of sickness, poverty, and sorrow. When Daniel recited his lines, his voice wavered. He kept glancing down at his cue card as though reading the terms of a surrender treaty under duress.
When the minister finally pronounced them husband and wife, a smattering of applause broke out, followed immediately by the collective glow of two hundred smartphones held aloft. Tiffany didn’t look at Daniel as they walked back down the aisle. She looked directly into the camera lens of her hired videographer, her smile frozen, radiant, and utterly devoid of blood.
The reception was held in the Great Ballroom—a cavernous hall featuring crystal chandeliers that looked like frozen explosions of starlight, suspended beneath a gilded ceiling. I had paid sixteen thousand dollars just for the rental of this single room for six hours.
As guests began trickling in, I stood near the entrance, fulfilling the traditional duties of the mother of the groom. I smiled until my facial muscles ached. I accepted polite, shallow compliments from strangers who didn’t care to know my name.
“You must be Daniel’s mother,” said a woman in an emerald silk sheath, her neck encircled by diamonds that looked suspiciously like cubic zirconia. “Fabulous party. Arthur Vance certainly knows how to throw an affair, doesn’t he? He spares no expense for his little girl.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag. “It has been quite an undertaking,” I replied evenly.
“Oh, Arthur’s always been like that,” the woman laughed, waving an olive on a toothpick. “First class all the way. He told my husband he had to pull strings all across Europe just to secure the wine list for tonight.”
I smiled, my lips pressed thin. The wine list had been selected by me from a regional distributor’s catalog, chosen specifically because it was the only vineyard that offered an elegant Cabernet Sauvignon within the rapidly shrinking perimeter of my checking account.
Across the room, Tiffany held court like a minor European monarch. She stood beneath a towering floral arch shaped like a crescent moon, flanked by her six bridesmaids dressed in champagne silk. Daniel stood three paces behind her, holding her silver clutch purse and a glass of seltzer, looking less like a bridegroom and more like an exhausted personal assistant waiting for permission to sit down.
I watched Arthur Vance approach the main bar at the far end of the ballroom. I had spent two hours the previous afternoon arguing with the banquet manager, Marcus Vance (no relation to Tiffany, thank heaven), trying to keep the bar package under control. We had agreed upon a high-end regional sparkling wine for the general toasts and an open bar of premium spirits—bourbon, gin, vodka, and scotch—up to a pre-paid limit of ten thousand dollars.
Arthur leaned over the marble bar, snapping his fingers at the young bartender—a college kid who looked entirely overwhelmed.
“Where is the Laurent Reserve?” Arthur’s booming voice carried over the soft jazz playing through the surround-sound system. “I asked for a magnum of Laurent Reserve at this station by six o’clock.”
The bartender fumbled with his ledger. “I’m sorry, sir. That vintage isn’t on the event manifest.”
“Nonsense,” Arthur barked, his face reddening above his wing collar. “Check again, son. Tiffany Vance’s wedding. The father of the bride’s private stock for the head table toast. Don’t make me get your manager.”
I stood by the doorway, my pulse hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against my temples.
