Chapter 23
COLE
It’s customary, of course, for a groom not to see his bride before the ceremony. But it’s unusual to go four straight days before the joyous event without a single word of communication.
I know Kate went to New York. Charges came through from some boutique on Fifth Avenue called Gallagher Samson.
Caterers have been hired. Florists, too.
There’s an organist for the church, and a soloist too, along with a seven-piece band for a party back at the Lynch compound after the ceremony.
Valets have been hired to park cars. I’ve paid movers to transport Kate’s meager belongings to my home in Georgetown; they should be in transit now.
My credit card bill tells me I bought dresses for the maid of honor and the mother of the bride—the latter, some vintage Dior that cost upwards of ten grand.
I sprang for a new tuxedo for Barry Lynch too, along with cigars for him to hand out to all his crew—Cubans, not the cheap ones he picks up on his own dime.
I made a very generous donation to St. Brigid Catholic Church, enough for them to overlook the fact that Kate and I haven’t done any pre-marital counseling.
Enough for them to forget I’m not Catholic.
So I have every reason to believe my wedding is going forward today. I just haven’t heard from the bride or a single member of her family.
Which puts the Lynches in exactly the same category as my family.
Nutmeg hasn’t responded to my increasingly urgent texts.
I certainly haven’t told Mr. and Mrs. A that I’m doing this.
Their thirty-five-year-old loving marriage is nothing like the cold-hearted business transaction I’m attempting to complete.
The pews are filled with men, women, and children; I assume all of Baltimore’s Irish mob is present. The ushers didn’t bother asking if guests were friends of the bride or friends of the groom. It would have looked pitiful to leave half the church empty.
Glancing out at the congregation, I question my initial assumption.
Most of the crowd is affiliated with the Lynch clan.
That’s obvious from the easy camaraderie of men accustomed to standing together, from the emerald-green neckties and the tie-tacks, lapel pins, and large masculine rings all featuring Celtic knots and dark green stones.
But other guests round out the crowd. Halfway down the right side of the church, there’s a knot of men in jet-black suits. Every one of them could use a better tailor—they have the broad shoulders and barrel chests of bare-knuckle fighters.
Alert and uneasy, they’re gathered around a man with a close-trimmed graying beard. From my station in front of the altar, his narrowed eyes look like charred ebony. His jaw is set as various Lynch men turn to stare, as murmurs ripple their way through the crowd.
I’m not well-versed in Irish mob politics, but I recognize a brewing battle when I see one. Fault lines of power like that are bread and butter to a seasoned conman.
My guess is the intruders are a rival family. Mafia, I’m betting. No—these guys are more Eastern European. I shift my money to the Russian bratva, the Tarasov brotherhood I’ve heard about.
Apparently unconcerned, Kate’s grandmother sits in the front pew on the left side of the aisle, wearing a powder-blue dress with a corsage of sweetheart roses pinned to her chest. With her snow-white hair and deeply wrinkled skin, she looks like the type of mark Shannon dreamed of—ancient, gullible, and rich enough to make a decent scam worthwhile.
But when I met Fionnula Lynch in her Three Oaks room, she seemed a lot sharper than most of my mother’s targets. She managed to buy her own dress for today, without relying on my Amex card.
There are empty spaces next to her on the hard wooden bench. I’d expect Kate’s mother to be there—mother of the bride, proud and loving, or at least putting on an act for the crowd. But maybe the Lynches have some other tradition.
An altar boy comes running down the aisle in a black-and-white costume designed to make him look like an angel. He skids to a stop in front of the priest, whose name I haven’t caught. The kid tugs on the old man’s sleeve, then whispers something in his ear.
The priest nods and gives a clear signal to the organist. Music fills the cold stone church, one of those slow marches that goes on and on, something that can be repeated enough times for everyone to make it down the aisle.
I shoot my cuffs. In deference to the church, I’m wearing a white shirt beneath my tuxedo jacket, instead of my customary black. It looks like I’ll be standing alone—which seems right, given the way I’ve lived my life.
The door opens at the back of the church. I look up, expecting to see Orla Lynch soaking up the limelight.
But it isn’t Orla, framed in the arch.
It’s Nutmeg.
My sister is wearing a slender tuxedo, a perfect reflection of mine. She has on shiny black heels. Her hair is bright pink, cut shorter than it was when I left her at the Four Seasons. She’s holding a small bouquet of sweetheart roses, a softer shade than her hair.
Nut takes her time walking down the aisle, gliding from step to step like she’s been practicing for a while. She smiles the entire way, clearly on the verge of breaking out in laughter. When she gets to the end of the aisle, she winks at me.
Taking her place by my side, she turns to face me. I take the cue and brush a kiss against her cheek. “Cutting it a little close, Nutmeg,” I whisper.
“Come on, Cocoa Puff,” she whispers back. “You always knew I’d make it.”
I didn’t. But we can both pretend for the rest of the day.
The door opens again. Breagha Lynch is waiting, holding her own little bouquet of miniature roses, wearing a soft pink dress to match. Escorted by one of her father’s men, her smile is brilliant. Her eyes gleam like she’s having her best day ever.
Once more, the door opens to frame Barry Lynch and my bride.
Kate has managed to tame the wildfire of her hair.
The dress she chose is stunning; simple lines, flowing fabric, with a veil that covers her face.
She’s crossed a shawl over her chest, holding the edges close as if she’s cold.
I suspect she’s only grappling with a case of nerves.
Maybe that explains her silence since she took my credit card in her father’s office.
Kate’s roses are white, wrapped with a matching ribbon. She doesn’t manage the same stately walk that Nutmeg and Breagha achieved. Instead, she stalks down the aisle like she’s staking a claim, striding fast enough that her father has to waddle to keep up.
Once they reach the front of the church, Barry Lynch makes a show of lifting Kate’s veil, rocking onto his tiptoes to kiss her cheek. She stands as still as a coatrack, staring straight ahead. Lynch shuffles to his seat in the front row, where his mother pats his wrist.
I try to catch Kate’s eye. I want her to know I understand. She hasn’t made peace with her father, hasn’t forgiven him for launching this merger in the first place. She and I are practically strangers. This isn’t the wedding any little girl dreams of.
She picks out a spot somewhere above my left ear, concentrating like she’s trying to burn a hole in the church’s stone wall. I don’t know what battles she fought with her family these past four days, but they’ve left her tense. Her face is drawn, as if she’s lost weight.
I stare at the skirt of her dress. I wonder if she’s been cutting.
The door to the nave opens again. Orla Lynch steps forward like an actress taking the red carpet at the Oscars. Whispers ripple through the crowd. The belated mother of the bride is wearing white.
Her vintage Dior isn’t a bridal gown. She isn’t that obvious.
The dress is made out of some shiny fabric accented with pearls, cinched tight at the waist as if she’s a wasp, or maybe a praying mantis.
Her hair is pulled up in a tight twist, and her scarlet lipstick matches the polish on her nails.
Orla doesn’t carry a bouquet; instead, she has a heavy corsage strapped around one wrist—white roses, like her daughter.
Wedding rules aren’t carved in stone. No one goes to jail for breaking the rules of fashion. But Orla Lynch has done everything humanly possible to upstage her daughter.
I look at Kate to see how she’ll react, but she’s still studying that spot on the church’s stone wall. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t swallow. Doesn’t acknowledge her mother in any way.
Except she pulls her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.
Orla takes her seat, grinning like a shark.
The service that follows is textbook standard—a greeting from the priest, scripture readings, a responsive prayer. The priest drones on about something I forget before the words have stopped echoing in the church. Kate and I recite our vows. We exchange the rings I produce from my pocket.
We kiss like we’re children in a school pageant, lips closed, so fast the priest is caught by surprise and almost misses his next line. He tells us to go in peace, and we’re done.
That’s it. Nothing special. Nothing magic.
We’re married.
I reach for Kate’s hand. The least I can do is help her down the three steps to the aisle.
But she pulls away before we can head toward the crowd. Stalking to stand in front of the altar, she tosses her head hard enough to send her veil flying. Before I can sweep it up from the floor, Kate shouts: “Hey! Mam!”
Orla Lynch stands like she’s being sentenced by a judge.
Kate hollers, “What do you think of this?” At the same time, she rips the shawl from her shoulders, tossing it to the floor like it’s on fire.
She’s covered in ink, shoulder to shoulder, from the slope of her throat to the V framed by the top of her dress.
The drawing is a mess; it looks like a child scribbled on paper.
There are green rectangles with circles on them that might be dollar bills.
Red curves twist like a snake. In the middle, large black letters spell out Fuck You.
Orla staggers until the backs of her knees hit her pew.
Kate’s grandmother reaches up to steady her, but Orla just brushes away Fionnula’s veiny hand.
All the color has drained from Orla’s face, leaving only the scarlet slash of her lipstick.
“You didn’t,” she gasps. “You couldn’t. You have been locked in your room. ”
Kate’s laugh sounds like the screech of a parrot. “You locked me up. But I told Breagha I wanted to make you a card. I wanted to say I was wrong, that I was sorry. She brought me paper and markers.”
Breagha still stands by the altar. She’s shaking so hard I can hear her teeth rattle. “Kate…” she moans.
Kate just laughs again. “Here’s your card, Mam. Here’s everything I wanted to say.”
Orla starts to wail like she’s watching an infant get washed out to sea. She folds her talons into a fist and starts beating at her chest. White rose petals go flying.
Lynch takes one step toward his wife, then another toward his wayward daughter. He stops halfway between them, looking utterly confused.
Fionnula shakes her head, her lips curled into a bemused smile.
Kate gives another one of those eerie, crazy laughs. Holding out her hands to me, she asks, “So, beloved husband. Ready to fuck your bride? Let’s do it here, in front of the altar.”
Before I can answer, Orla staggers up the stairs to the dais. Pointing at Kate like she’s casting out a demon, she shouts, “You are a hateful child. You are impossible to love. I should have had an abortion the day I found out I was pregnant with you.”
Planting her hands on her wasplike hips, Orla sucks in a huge breath of air. But before she can spew more garbage, I step between her and Kate, moving fast, purposely making the spiteful witch take a full step back.
“Careful,” I say, towering over her. “You’re talking to my wife.”
Before Orla can figure out how to wrestle more pity from the crowd, I turn back to Kate. Lacing my fingers with hers, I pull her close to my side. Her eyes blaze as she raises her chin, and we walk out of a silent St. Brigid’s together.