PROLOGUE #2
“It was a loan. I can explain. Let’s talk outside.”
Dante didn’t move.
“You had weeks to explain.”
I lowered the bouquet, trying to find words that wouldn’t bring the whole story into this chapel.
“I know. I should have told you sooner. But it’s not what you think.”
“You know what I’m thinking?”
“I’m asking you to listen to me.”
“Then talk.”
It was so quiet I could hear someone shifting at the back. I looked at my mother. She was already on her feet.
Marina sat rigid, watching me.
I wasn’t going to do that to her.
“In private. Please.”
Dante gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Now you care about privacy?”
It took a second for his meaning to sink in.
Then another, worse one to realize he meant it.
“You think I had something to do with that article?”
He unfolded the page the rest of the way. Messages had been printed below the transfer receipt.
“‘Thanks for taking care of it. Dante can’t know about this right now.’ Did you send that?”
I knew every word.
“Yes. But you need to…”
“You took the money. Asked for it to be kept quiet. And days later a reporter published conversations I’d had in my own home.”
“I never spoke to a reporter.”
My voice rose. It echoed off the walls, sounding strange to me, and I was suddenly ashamed of having to defend myself like this.
I looked for Augusto.
He was beside his mother, two rows back, watching Dante with a grave expression.
“Augusto knows,” I said. “He was the one who…”
“Don’t drag my brother into this.”
I stopped.
Dante held the paper closer, as if a closer look would get him the confession he wanted.
“That company provides services to the group. Did you think I wouldn’t find out where the money came from?”
“I signed a receipt for the loan. Ask him.”
“Why, Cecília? So I can hear the same story again?”
The officiant laid a hand gently on Dante’s arm.
“Perhaps we should take a few minutes.”
Dante pulled his arm away.
“I won’t need that long.”
My mother stepped into the aisle.
“Then lower your voice when you speak to my daughter.”
His face changed when he looked at her. A brief attempt to pull himself together, to remember his manners. He’d made no such effort for me.
“Dona Dalva, this is between us.”
“You’re the one who brought the whole chapel into it.”
I wanted to go to her. To get away from where I stood and lean on someone who still knew me. But Dante was folding the page again. Watching him, I understood that he’d already made up his mind.
He wasn’t waiting for an answer.
He was waiting for me to confirm his.
“I didn’t sell anything of yours,” I said. “Not a conversation. Not a single piece of information. Look at me, Dante.”
He looked.
It was worse.
There was barely any doubt in his face. Not enough for me to get through to him.
“I can explain the money. I just need you to come with me. Five minutes. After that, if you still want to call it off…”
My voice broke on the words.
Call it off.
I couldn’t make those words fit with everything we’d planned. The room waiting for us. Our packed bags. The appointment I still had to make. The good news I’d spent all morning keeping safe.
Dante turned slightly toward the officiant.
“There will be no wedding.”
I caught his jacket sleeve.
“I’m pregnant, Dante. You’re going to be a father.”
He stopped.
I saw it.
I saw it register. Saw his eyes drop to my belly, hidden behind the flowers. Saw his throat move as he swallowed.
For a second, I waited.
Even then, I waited.
Then he looked at my hand on his sleeve.
“Now you’re pregnant? Just when I find out about the money?”
The bouquet slipped in my hand. I tightened my grip on the stems.
“I found out on Wednesday. I was going to tell you today. After the ceremony.”
“Of course.”
He said it almost kindly. That hollow kindness was what started me shaking.
“It’s true.”
“You lied about the money. Why should I believe you about the baby?”
Someone behind me made a sound. A stifled cry—my mother, perhaps, or someone else. I couldn’t look.
“Because it’s yours. Because I’ve never cheated on you.”
I tried to take his hand.
He pulled his hand away before I could close mine around it.
Everyone could see what he’d done. It hung there between us.
“I don’t accept that this child is mine. And I’m not marrying you.”
I stepped back without meaning to. My heel caught in the hem. A flower fell from the bouquet and landed beside his shoe.
I stared at that flower.
I needed to look at something other than his face.
“Are you listening to me?” I asked.
I barely recognized my own voice.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m telling you I’m carrying your child.”
I pressed my hand to my belly, spreading my fingers over the silk, trying to protect what I’d just made so vulnerable.
“I heard what you said.”
I looked up.
Dante stared at me without touching me.
“And you can still say that?”
He held my gaze.
“Yes.”
When my fingers finally loosened, my mother was there to take the bouquet.
I hadn’t heard her come up. Her hand was firm and familiar against my back. I leaned so hard on her it must have hurt.
Marina stood on my other side.
“Cecília, I’ll tell them,” she whispered through her tears. “I’ll tell them everything, right now.”
I looked at my sister.
The girl who’d been complaining about her shoe was disappearing in front of me. Shoulders hunched. Hands clasped. Ready to lay her life bare in front of everyone because someone had decided neither of us had a right to privacy.
I shook my head.
“No.”
She tried to speak again. I squeezed her fingers.
“Not here.”
Dante looked from me to Marina. He asked nothing.
I would remember that, too.
He’d heard me say I was pregnant. Seen my sister offer to explain. My mother stood beside me, waiting for him to do something, anything, that might bring this to a stop.
And he didn’t ask.
Dalva leaned close to my ear.
“Let’s get you out of here, sweetheart.”
I nodded, but it took a moment to make my feet move. People were standing in the aisle, turning to look. Someone by the door held up a phone. A hotel employee went toward them.
I didn’t need him to stop them from filming.
I needed Dante to tell me he’d made a mistake.
I looked back at Dante one last time. That hope, still there after everything, was what shamed me most.
He was slipping the paper back into his jacket.
In the anteroom, my mother took the scissors from her purse. My veil was caught under Marina’s arm and I couldn’t walk. She snipped the thread attaching it to the comb. The fabric slipped away, leaving my head horribly light.
I sat down on the bench by the door.
The garden was still ready for a celebration. Through the glass, a waitress stood with a tray of glasses, unsure where to take them.
Marina knelt in front of me.
“I’m sorry.”
I took her face in my hands before she could say any more.
“This wasn’t your fault.”
I got the words out in pieces. But I got them out.
My mother asked for the car. Asked for water. Asked everyone to give us some space. Her brisk voice cut through the noise, and I tried to breathe between her instructions.
Marina laid her hand over mine, still pressed to my belly.
“Is it true?”
I nodded.
My sister began crying again. She rested her forehead on my fingers and stayed there.
My mother sat on my other side and held my shoulder.
That morning, I’d pictured telling him so many times I’d even decided where his hand would go.
Now there was my sister’s hand. My mother’s. Mine.
His had pulled away.
I bowed my head and cried for what he’d just rejected.