Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
BECK
I should have had a clue about how big Hattie’s sister’s wedding would be when it takes me forever to find a place to park—and even then, it’s in an alley behind a giant three-story house on St. John Street.
But as I approach the cathedral, the street in front of it flanked with Lexuses, Cadillacs, and Beamers, I’m not sorry that my dusty, old truck with its farm vehicle plates is out of sight.
I’m also not sorry I wore my suit, even though Hattie insisted I didn’t have to. Mom’s funeral was the reason I bought it and the only other time I’ve worn it, but nobody here needs to know that. A quick scan of the crowd on the steps of the cathedral confirms that I’d look out of place without it.
And even if Hattie wouldn’t be embarrassed about that, her parents might be, and, no matter what, I definitely would be.
I’ve never been in the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, but not even the four-story Romanesque Revival facade prepares me for the marble grandeur inside.
Jesus Christ.
Literally.
Yesterday—in a quick call in between the wedding rehearsal and dinner—Hattie asked me to try to find a spot to sit on the inside aisle as close to the altar as I could, but even twenty minutes before the service begins, most of the pews are filling, if not full.
I find an empty space on the aisle just six rows from the rear, and I text Hattie to let her know I’m here. She may not have her phone handy, so I don’t expect to hear back. But when I do, I have to fight a laugh. As usual.
Hattie: SO.
MANY.
PICTURES.
Hattie: IF THAT PHOTOGRAPHER TELLS ME TO “SMILE, LIL SIS,” ONE MORE TIME, HE’S GOING TO BE EATING HIS NIKON.
When I bark a laugh, the woman next to me shoots me a sour look.
Me: Just give me the word, and I’ll ask him to step outside.
I add a series of emojis including a fist, a bang, and a skull and crossbones to make her laugh.
She hearts the message, and I’m guessing she’s been pulled away to bridesmaid duties when a few minutes pass. But then another text comes through.
Hattie: MY FEET HURT. MY FACE HURTS. EVEN MY HAIR HURTS FROM THESE STUPID FLOWERS AND BOBBY PINS. MOM MADE ME WEAR A brA—WITH UNDERWIRE—AND I’M LITERALLY SECONDS FROM RIPPING EVERYTHING OFF AND STREAKING THROUGH THE CHURCH, AND SCREAMING “LIL SIS BE CRASHING OUT!” AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.
Fuck.
Okay. She isn’t just letting off steam and trying to make me laugh. And I’d like to help my girl if I can.
I glance at the time. We still have ten minutes.
Me: Where are you right now?
Hattie: ???
WITH MARGARET AND THE OTHER brIDESMAIDS.
Me: But where exactly?
I look back toward the nave, but there’s no sign of the bridal party. My guess is that they’re tucked in an antechamber near the entrance.
Me: Never mind. I’ll find you.
I don’t want to lose my seat, so I whip off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of the pew.
Spot back, no spot jack.
And then I’m moving fast against the flow of ushers and guests. A scan of the nave reveals a promising corridor off to the right. In addition to restrooms, there are a few other doors that look like they could hide a bridal party, but I’m not about to open any to find out.
Me: I’m in the hallway by the bathrooms near you, I think. Can you come out?
I see when she’s read the message, but she may not be here at all. The church grounds are extensive. Maybe the bridal party isn’t even inside the cathedral proper. I’m just about to call her to find out where she is when a door at the end of the corridor opens, and Hattie pokes her head out.
“Beck!” she exclaims in a not-so-quiet whisper. She pops into the hall and closes the door behind her.
“You look beautiful—” I’m already regretting leaving my suit jacket as a placeholder.
Because with ivory rosebuds in her artfully dressed hair, the skirt of her floor length gown rippling like a sage sea as she moves, Hattie looks every inch the fairytale princess, and I—no surprise—am the country bumpkin gaping before her.
But she waves away my words with an agitated hand. “I don’t think I can do this.” She sounds panicked as she rushes to me. “I’m trying to hold it together, but my body—”
She tugs at one form-fitting three-quarter sleeve and then the other, shaking her head.
“It’s like I can’t breathe. And I’m being skewered each time I try.
” Then she grips her ribs under her breasts where the dress cinches in with an artificial waistline.
“Wires, Beckett. No one should be hemmed in with wires. They’re in my hair and under my boobs—”
Hattie lifts a hand and almost touches the rose buds tucked into her up-do, but she stops herself, blinking rapidly.
“I’m not supposed to touch it, but the hair pins might as well be pitchforks in my skull.
” She balls her hand into a shaking fist and rasps, voice strained. “I don’t want to cry. Not now. I—”
“Hattie, honey. Let me help.” I offer her my hands, and she grabs them with both of hers, clutching tight. I glance at the exit sign behind her and then steer her in that direction. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going? I have to line up in like two minutes—”
I hit the push bar and lead her outside.
We step out into the sunset. The early November sky is cloudless, and on the west side of the church, the low sun drenches Hattie in golden light. Her eyes widen as she takes it in, the hazel of her eyes flickering in the bronze rays, and she sucks in a deep breath.
I clasp my hands behind her nearly bare neck, massaging it firmly. A sigh leaves her.
“Point to where it hurts most,” I say gently.
She closes her eyes and jabs a finger over the tip of her right ear. Locks of her hair have been looped around rose stems, and with the help of the blazing sunset, I see the glint of maybe a half dozen pins.
With one finger, I trace her scalp just below the hairdresser’s construction site. “May I?”
“God, yes!”
Carefully, but wasting no time, I tug gently at the heads of a few of the hairpins, pulling each back just a fraction, but at the sound of another sigh, my guess is the relief must be immediate.
Hattie lets me spin her around so that the light falls on her opposite side, and when I make the same adjustments, I don’t miss the shiver that runs down her neck.
“When this is over,” I promise, working the last hair pin, “I’ll pull each one out and fling them into the street.”
Hattie huffs a laugh. “I don’t usually approve of littering, but as long as we can toss the bra with them, I’m good.” Her hands go back to the band under her breasts as she twists and wriggles with clear discomfort.
I check my watch. It’s 5:52. Maybe not enough time, but it’s worth a try.
I step directly behind her. “Do you trust me?”
Hattie whips her gaze over her shoulder at me. “Are you kidding? Of course I do.”
“I have to hurry,” I say, gripping the tab of her zipper. “Permission to—”
“Just do it, Beck,” she orders. “Whatever you’re going to do!”
I unzip the sage green gown, exposing Hattie’s lovely spine and shoulder blades. Even though I have to work fast, my mind still takes time to imagine slowly kissing my way down her back.
When the dress starts to slip from her shoulders, I gather my wits. “Hold it up. Just a sec—”
I reach into my pocket and produce my folding knife. “This might tickle,” I warn, running my fingers under the elastic of her bra until I feel the dizzyingly soft swell of her breast, just under her arm—and the offending underwire.
I tug the fabric toward me. “Hold still, angel.” The knife’s tip is sharp, so I only make the tiniest piercing in the fabric. A moment later, the tip of the metal ribbing pokes through, and I tug it out.
“Oh my God!” Hattie exclaims. “What—how did you—is that a knife?”
Hattie cranes her gaze over her shoulder as I make quick work of the underwire on the other side. The metal Us clatter to the ground as I zip her up.
“Let’s go.”
I yank open the cathedral’s side door to a sea of silvery sage.
“There she is!” someone cries before a half-dozen bridesmaids swarm Hattie. I have just enough time to stow my pocketknife before curious eyes spot me.
One of the women thrusts a bouquet into Hattie’s hands. I’m about to slip past the throng of women and try to get back to my seat before the procession starts when a hand closes around my elbow.
I turn back to find Hattie gazing up at me with a look that makes my heart somersault. She tugs me toward her, and I don’t resist. Of course, I don’t resist. When it comes to her, I have no idea how.
The kiss is hard, quick, but potent, despite the gasps and exclamations.
And when she releases me, all I can do is grin stupidly and jog back through the nave, cutting in front of several offended, middle-aged and older people who—I soon learn—are Hattie’s parents, grandparents, and those of her future brother-in-law.
The organist is already playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” when I take my seat, and an old crone who has got to be Hattie’s Grandma Eloise gives me a scowl as she comes up the aisle on a groomsman’s arm.
Shrugging back into my jacket, I give her my best smile.
Oh, well.
From what Hattie has shared about her, she was bound to find a reason to sneer at me. Considering what I’ve just done to her granddaughter’s undergarments, it’s worth it.
Minutes later, Hattie walks down the aisle on the arm of a guy I swear must be a bodybuilder. But she doesn’t even glance up at him.
She’s beaming.
At me.
Gorgeous. Glorious. Head held high.
Her eyes on me the whole time.
And as they pass my pew, Hattie, loud enough for the words to echo through the whole damn cathedral, says to me:
“You’re my hero, Beck Olivier.”
Maybe five hundred people stare at me.
And, yeah, worth it.