The Paris Wedding, page 17
“And that’s fine. My point is, in Europe it’s not unusual to not have a family, a career, or a mortgage before thirty.”
Rachael stared at her skirt, smoothing the perfectly pressed seams. “You know, someone asked me last night if I’d consider applying to fashion design school. Or for an internship with a designer.”
“Really.” He sounded unimpressed. “Who?”
“Yvette, Bonnie’s grandmother. She even took me to see a dressmaker’s studio this morning. It was wonderful.”
Antonio raised his eyebrows. “I know a little about Yvette. She and my father knew each other years ago. But she’s been retired a long time. Are you considering what she said?”
“Well . . .” Rachael felt both cautious and vulnerable. It was fine for Yvette to make suggestions, but reality was different. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
He shrugged. “Is that what you want? To make dresses for other people?”
Rachael frowned. She pulled her hand back from his. Somehow he’d turned what she loved into something unworthy.
“I like sewing,” she said. “It all just feels so weird.”
“What?”
“Trying to start out now. I feel as if I’ll never . . .” Catch up. Be anything. Make up for lost time.
He found her hand again and squeezed it, and his voice turned kind. “When else are you going to do it? Come out with me tomorrow. Let me show you the Louvre and we can talk about journalism at least.”
“I guess I could.”
“Good. I’ll come by the hotel at nine. And tonight . . . shall we just see what happens? I’ll be working most of the time.”
They shared a brief smile, and Rachael allowed the promise of yesterday to flow out of her memory and into this moment.
Antonio glanced out the window. “I think I know where we’re going. They’ve thought of everything.”
A few more turns and the car entered a park, pulling over beside a lake lined with willows. A posse of ducks patrolled the grass, and across the water was a lodge.
“Where are we?” Rachael asked.
“The Chalet des Îles,” Antonio said. “It’s an island. Nice and controlled.”
The guests were chattering, stilettos and leather soles clacking on the path as Evonne Grace herded them down to a dock festooned with ribbons. Alongside were half a dozen sleek white rowing boats. The water was a royal blue wash over a rich gray canvas, the island waiting and mysterious.
“You can choose to take the ferry,” Evonne said. “Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, row across with a guide.”
Rachael searched for Sammy, but she hadn’t yet arrived.
Antonio offered his arm. “Does the lady want to brave the water or take the ferry?”
A few guests were already climbing into the rowing boats, shrieking with laughter as the small crafts tilted.
“The lady will take the ferry,” she said.
“Are you sure? I thought you were adventurous.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to start the day soaked through. I can have adventures later.”
Antonio’s hand slid briefly over hers and a flurry of butterfly wings beat in her chest. “That sounds even better,” he said, his voice low with amusement. “Will you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you be my assistant? I need someone to help me for just a few minutes when we reach the other side.”
Rachael examined his face, looking for traces of mockery or deception, and found none. “Fine. As long as it’s on dry land.”
* * *
The chalet was situated on one of two islands in the middle of the lake within a great public park that was clearly popular with joggers, walkers, and ducks alike. Security had redirected the joggers and walkers, but could do nothing about the ducks that waddled fearlessly through the crowd. Evonne Grace kept trying to discreetly shoo them off. Rachael caught Antonio taking photos and had to hide her smile.
The classic Swiss A-frame building looked as if it had been transplanted directly from the Alps, which turned out to be pretty much true. The park, Rachael overheard, was a remnant of oak forest once used for hunting and had been the idea of Napoleon III. The chalet was a re-creation of one built for his wife, the Empress Eugénie, and became a popular literary café during the Belle Epoque. Even so, Rachael guessed it might be the first time it had met with the likes of Walter Quinn, who’d booked out the site, brought in a decorator, and filled the whole place with enough black-suited security guards to protect an important state official.
On the ferry across, the guests were served miniature flutes of clear sparkling liquid with tiny program cards attached with a red ribbon. The rehearsal required only the bridal party, so the guests were encouraged to explore the island and enjoy the open bar and the many street performers. Later would come a highlights show of Les Misérables, with performers flown in directly from London’s West End.
Mistaking the drink for water, Rachael took a slug and tasted fire. She nearly gagged. “What is this?”
“Sparkling vodka,” supplied a woman on her other side. “Seen everything now, huh?”
When they disembarked, the work of Walter Quinn’s decorator was evident everywhere. A broad clear deck flanked with green shrubs and flower gardens jutted out from under the chalet’s balcony, with chairs in bright primary shades arranged around low tables. Steps led into a pavilion, where technicians in black were setting up rows of chairs before an improvised stage. The only obvious nod to a wedding was a plinth on the deck crowned with an arch of flowing white gauze, the water and the park providing the perfect backdrop.
In the chalet itself, one room downstairs was set with comfortable couches, the other with tables prepared for the dinner. Delicious scents drifted down to the deck: basil and tomatoes, roast duck, caramelizing sugar. The whole place seemed miles from any city, let alone one like Paris. It was as though they’d slipped through space and found timelessness here beside the lake.
The ferry turned back to retrieve more guests, and the few brave occupants of the rowboats landed, pink-cheeked, and were helped up the slope by more security guards.
“So, what is it you need help with?” Rachael asked Antonio. “Do you want me to carry your bag?”
“No,” he said, lowering it to the ground and taking out a camera with a slim lens. He nodded toward the plinth, all business now. “Would you stand up there?”
“Up there? Why?” It was the most visible spot on the entire island.
“To test the light and the perspective. With this much sun, the sky can be overexposed.”
Rachael’s hand went automatically to her mouth to chew her nail. Instead she stabbed herself in the lip with one of the acrylics. She wiped a smudge of lipstick off her finger, then gripped her hands behind her back. “No, thank you.”
Antonio closed the space between them. “You’re shy?”
“Well, yes, a little,” she admitted in a low voice. “I don’t want to be up there in front of everyone. It’s for the bride and groom.”
She didn’t mention that she was worried what people would think of Matthew’s ex-girlfriend being up there.
Antonio wasn’t giving up. “Can I give you some advice?”
Rachael gripped her hands harder. “You’re the one behind the camera. It’s different for you.”
“I know. But this is something my mother told me when I was young.”
“All right.”
“She said, when you’re frightened and it’s only a small thing, laugh and pretend you’re having a great time. No one will notice and the moment will pass.”
“What about when it’s a big thing?”
“Then you ask for help.”
Rachael bit her lip, remembering the time she’d been too shy to try out for the school play, then been devastated when the parts went to other girls. “Everyone’s nervous all the time,” her mother had told her, taking Rachael in her arms. “We all care what other people think of us, and yet they really don’t spend any time thinking about us at all! Think of nerves as a give-way sign on the road. Pause, have a look around, make sure there’s no danger. They’re not a sign to stop.” She’d had a kind, knowing smile.
“Besides,” Antonio said now, “no one’s looking. They’re all heading for the champagne. It’s just you and me. Plus, of course, the paparazzi camped down the river.”
“What?”
“Joking.”
Rachael looked around and saw he was right. People were clustered inside the bar or exploring the grounds, and the ferry was still loading passengers on the other side. No sign of Matthew.
“All right. But just for a minute.”
She climbed the two steps up to the plinth with wobbly knees. The lake shone with captured sunshine, reflecting warmth into her cheeks like a kiss.
Antonio raised his camera. “Very nice. That red is magic against the green. Can you imagine this place in the fifties? You in that dress, swing music, a long afternoon in Paris . . .”
Rachael smiled, his words transporting her into the pages of the Vogue magazine that had inspired her. She unclasped her hands, plucked the edges of her skirt in her fingers, and dropped a curtsy.
Antonio laughed and she heard the camera click. “Very nice! But too demure for you. What about a cancan?”
“No way!” But she spun in a circle, swishing her skirt as she moved her feet, a dance step she’d done with Matthew once.
The thought flew through her mind like a sparrow, small and quick, barely disturbing the air. She almost chased it, but Antonio was still encouraging her. She turned to face the lake, looking back at him over her shoulder. The look that passed between them was surprisingly intimate, as if they’d spotted each other across the room at a party.
“Beautiful,” he said, his camera forgotten. “So beautiful.”
Rachael held his gaze, felt his eyes lingering on her, the fire of attraction catching and spreading inside her. The world shrank to just his dark eyes, the anticipation of his kiss. She imagined meeting him at the lake’s edge after dinner, the island dark but for the chalet lit up beyond the shadows. His hand sliding around her waist, his lips warm against hers . . .
She glanced away, without knowing why, and saw Matthew. He stood at the end of the chalet’s balcony watching her, his face still and stony.
Rachael’s stomach went over a cliff. She stumbled and reached a hand out for the arch. She grasped metal and gauze, swaying toward the water below. She felt giddy and sick. And guilty. As if she’d been caught doing something wrong with Antonio. As if she was somehow being unfaithful. Which was utterly stupid. She huffed a breath, shaking her head.
“Are you all right?”
She heard the concern in Antonio’s voice. The two men couldn’t have been more different: Antonio, the raw photojournalist; Matthew, the polished doctor.
“Just dizzy for a second,” she said, but then her head really did swim because Matthew was striding toward the plinth.
“Thought I could help,” he shot over his shoulder to Antonio, a grin on his lips. But his eyes bored into Rachael as if he was staking a claim. “After all, we want these photos perfect.”
Rachael froze, skewered between Antonio and Matthew, terrified of what Matthew was about to do.
“Dedication, I like it,” Antonio called back, clearly unaware of the tension. “Lucky you’re the one getting married or I’d be jealous!”
Rachael’s fear beat like an execution drum, but Matthew simply unbuttoned his suit jacket and struck a pose. A few claps and cheers came from the restaurant balcony. Rachael turned away in embarrassment. Great, so people were watching now.
“Hey, work with me here,” Matthew whispered.
When she looked at him, he raised his eyebrows, an appeal to play along. So, despite her dry and parched tongue, Rachael folded her hands under her chin and made a silly pose. Matthew countered with an Elvis move, toes turned in, one arm raised. Whoops from the balcony. Rachael stepped back to give him room, but clapped with delight.
Antonio laughed and stepped away, saying he needed to go over the photos.
Matthew gave the balcony a show’s-over bow and the applause died away as people lost interest. He slid his hands into his pockets and looked around discreetly to check they were alone.
“I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable last night,” he said. “I can’t apologize enough. That wasn’t my intention.”
Rachael pretended to inspect her nails. “I wasn’t even sure you’d remember.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “I meant what I said. I regret how things ended between us, especially that you had to go through all that with your mum alone.”
“I wasn’t alone; I had Sammy,” Rachael said quickly, to cover the hurt that came hurtling up from where she’d buried it deep inside. Many times when her mother had been ill, when she’d been lonely or frightened, she’d wanted Matthew. Wanted him with a soul-destroying pain that had left permanent marks on her.
She watched the ferry pulling up, the next batch of guests alighting from the rowboats, so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She knew she would lose it if she did. She wanted him to feel bad about abandoning her, wanted him to experience something of the torture she’d gone through. But if she told him all that, she would cry.
“Do you know why I asked my parents to invite you?” Matthew said abruptly. His hands were still in his pockets.
Rachael imagined they looked like a pair of unconnected people chatting idly, more interested in the scenery than each other. How perverse that internally she ached for him to show her whether he meant the things he had said.
“You invited a few people from home,” she said.
He nodded. “I’m proud of where I come from, even though I live in Sydney now. I wanted Mum and Dad’s friends from Milton here, and mine from school. And the Quinns know so many people I had to make up the numbers.” He said it with a smile, as if embarrassed, then the smile vanished. “At least, that’s what I told Bonnie. Truth is, I wanted you to come. I wanted to see you.”
Rachael’s heart drummed in her throat again. The other night he’d been stinking drunk, but now he was clearly sober.
He shot her a sideways glance, assessing her reaction. The lake was still, the clouds frozen overhead, as if the whole world had paused just to hear what he would say next.
“Rach, I still—”
“Matty!”
The stillness shattered into tiny pieces. Bonnie had appeared, a vision in a gauzy white minidress and blue heels. Antonio had evidently been showing her the photos.
“Ant says the light is perfect. Daddy’s just bringing the pastor down. You ready?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said, turning away.
Rachael swayed as he left her standing on the plinth, his incomplete declaration still resounding in her head. It was several long seconds before she could trust her legs to step down.
Matthew might not have finished his sentence, but her mind had done it for him. I still love you, it whispered, tormenting her.
Sure he did. He’d probably been going to say, I still feel bad about last night or I still think the Swans are an ace team. But she couldn’t know. And as much as she hated herself for feeling it, hope clung fast to those two unsaid words.
Chapter 14
The rehearsal began. The priest was short, round, and balding, but he had a warm smile and spent several seconds facing the lake with his arms spread, no doubt remarking on the view. Bonnie stood with two women who Rachael recognized from the hens’ party, and Yvette sat to one side, perched on a chair while a black-suited security man held a parasol over her. Antonio appeared to be having a disagreement with Evonne, who kept pointing in one direction while Antonio shook his head. Everyone else was watching from a respectful distance, or ignoring the rehearsal altogether as they drank and sought out seats for the performance of Les Misérables.
Despite the fact Yvette raised the end of her lit cigarette in Rachael’s direction, Rachael knew when she wasn’t needed. She went searching for Sammy. After two trips around the terrace and the lower bar, now filled with a noisy crowd, she found Sammy leaving the bathrooms on the far side. Sammy’s black dress made her face unusually gaunt, though she’d styled her hair into short waves, just like at her own wedding four years ago.
Rachael approached with trepidation. “Sam.”
Sammy’s face flooded with relief. “Rach. I’ve been looking for you. I’m really sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to know that you’re all right.”
Sammy glanced around, then led Rachael to a quiet corner of the terrace, where the woodland encroached on the chalet. “It’s been a bad week,” she admitted.
“It’s more than that,” Rachael said. “Is it Marty?”
Sammy’s face wobbled, and she took a breath that was clearly a stopper on a flood of emotion. “Things . . . things might be a bit worse there than I told you.”
“How much worse?”
“Bad. Like so bad I can’t see how we get out of it.”
Rachael was aghast. “But back home you said you were going to counseling.”
“We should have done that a year ago.” She shook her head, a single tear escaping. “I love him, Rach, and I’ve been trying to find ways to hold it together, but he’s just not engaged with me. No matter what I do, he’s just drifting farther away. We don’t even really talk to each other anymore. Every time I’ve called this week he’s made an excuse after five minutes.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t realize. And now you’re here without him. You should have said something.”
“It’s given me time to think,” Sammy said, straightening her back as if regaining control. “This is my problem. Shall we get a drink?”
“I guess.”
They took glasses of wine to one of the high tables, Sammy attempting to steer the conversation onto more neutral topics, and both of them working on reconnecting. But Rachael didn’t want to mention anything about seeing the dressmaker’s showroom, or her solo adventures in Paris. It seemed too much to set her own hopes alongside Sammy’s turmoil.
Rachael stared at her skirt, smoothing the perfectly pressed seams. “You know, someone asked me last night if I’d consider applying to fashion design school. Or for an internship with a designer.”
“Really.” He sounded unimpressed. “Who?”
“Yvette, Bonnie’s grandmother. She even took me to see a dressmaker’s studio this morning. It was wonderful.”
Antonio raised his eyebrows. “I know a little about Yvette. She and my father knew each other years ago. But she’s been retired a long time. Are you considering what she said?”
“Well . . .” Rachael felt both cautious and vulnerable. It was fine for Yvette to make suggestions, but reality was different. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
He shrugged. “Is that what you want? To make dresses for other people?”
Rachael frowned. She pulled her hand back from his. Somehow he’d turned what she loved into something unworthy.
“I like sewing,” she said. “It all just feels so weird.”
“What?”
“Trying to start out now. I feel as if I’ll never . . .” Catch up. Be anything. Make up for lost time.
He found her hand again and squeezed it, and his voice turned kind. “When else are you going to do it? Come out with me tomorrow. Let me show you the Louvre and we can talk about journalism at least.”
“I guess I could.”
“Good. I’ll come by the hotel at nine. And tonight . . . shall we just see what happens? I’ll be working most of the time.”
They shared a brief smile, and Rachael allowed the promise of yesterday to flow out of her memory and into this moment.
Antonio glanced out the window. “I think I know where we’re going. They’ve thought of everything.”
A few more turns and the car entered a park, pulling over beside a lake lined with willows. A posse of ducks patrolled the grass, and across the water was a lodge.
“Where are we?” Rachael asked.
“The Chalet des Îles,” Antonio said. “It’s an island. Nice and controlled.”
The guests were chattering, stilettos and leather soles clacking on the path as Evonne Grace herded them down to a dock festooned with ribbons. Alongside were half a dozen sleek white rowing boats. The water was a royal blue wash over a rich gray canvas, the island waiting and mysterious.
“You can choose to take the ferry,” Evonne said. “Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, row across with a guide.”
Rachael searched for Sammy, but she hadn’t yet arrived.
Antonio offered his arm. “Does the lady want to brave the water or take the ferry?”
A few guests were already climbing into the rowing boats, shrieking with laughter as the small crafts tilted.
“The lady will take the ferry,” she said.
“Are you sure? I thought you were adventurous.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to start the day soaked through. I can have adventures later.”
Antonio’s hand slid briefly over hers and a flurry of butterfly wings beat in her chest. “That sounds even better,” he said, his voice low with amusement. “Will you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you be my assistant? I need someone to help me for just a few minutes when we reach the other side.”
Rachael examined his face, looking for traces of mockery or deception, and found none. “Fine. As long as it’s on dry land.”
* * *
The chalet was situated on one of two islands in the middle of the lake within a great public park that was clearly popular with joggers, walkers, and ducks alike. Security had redirected the joggers and walkers, but could do nothing about the ducks that waddled fearlessly through the crowd. Evonne Grace kept trying to discreetly shoo them off. Rachael caught Antonio taking photos and had to hide her smile.
The classic Swiss A-frame building looked as if it had been transplanted directly from the Alps, which turned out to be pretty much true. The park, Rachael overheard, was a remnant of oak forest once used for hunting and had been the idea of Napoleon III. The chalet was a re-creation of one built for his wife, the Empress Eugénie, and became a popular literary café during the Belle Epoque. Even so, Rachael guessed it might be the first time it had met with the likes of Walter Quinn, who’d booked out the site, brought in a decorator, and filled the whole place with enough black-suited security guards to protect an important state official.
On the ferry across, the guests were served miniature flutes of clear sparkling liquid with tiny program cards attached with a red ribbon. The rehearsal required only the bridal party, so the guests were encouraged to explore the island and enjoy the open bar and the many street performers. Later would come a highlights show of Les Misérables, with performers flown in directly from London’s West End.
Mistaking the drink for water, Rachael took a slug and tasted fire. She nearly gagged. “What is this?”
“Sparkling vodka,” supplied a woman on her other side. “Seen everything now, huh?”
When they disembarked, the work of Walter Quinn’s decorator was evident everywhere. A broad clear deck flanked with green shrubs and flower gardens jutted out from under the chalet’s balcony, with chairs in bright primary shades arranged around low tables. Steps led into a pavilion, where technicians in black were setting up rows of chairs before an improvised stage. The only obvious nod to a wedding was a plinth on the deck crowned with an arch of flowing white gauze, the water and the park providing the perfect backdrop.
In the chalet itself, one room downstairs was set with comfortable couches, the other with tables prepared for the dinner. Delicious scents drifted down to the deck: basil and tomatoes, roast duck, caramelizing sugar. The whole place seemed miles from any city, let alone one like Paris. It was as though they’d slipped through space and found timelessness here beside the lake.
The ferry turned back to retrieve more guests, and the few brave occupants of the rowboats landed, pink-cheeked, and were helped up the slope by more security guards.
“So, what is it you need help with?” Rachael asked Antonio. “Do you want me to carry your bag?”
“No,” he said, lowering it to the ground and taking out a camera with a slim lens. He nodded toward the plinth, all business now. “Would you stand up there?”
“Up there? Why?” It was the most visible spot on the entire island.
“To test the light and the perspective. With this much sun, the sky can be overexposed.”
Rachael’s hand went automatically to her mouth to chew her nail. Instead she stabbed herself in the lip with one of the acrylics. She wiped a smudge of lipstick off her finger, then gripped her hands behind her back. “No, thank you.”
Antonio closed the space between them. “You’re shy?”
“Well, yes, a little,” she admitted in a low voice. “I don’t want to be up there in front of everyone. It’s for the bride and groom.”
She didn’t mention that she was worried what people would think of Matthew’s ex-girlfriend being up there.
Antonio wasn’t giving up. “Can I give you some advice?”
Rachael gripped her hands harder. “You’re the one behind the camera. It’s different for you.”
“I know. But this is something my mother told me when I was young.”
“All right.”
“She said, when you’re frightened and it’s only a small thing, laugh and pretend you’re having a great time. No one will notice and the moment will pass.”
“What about when it’s a big thing?”
“Then you ask for help.”
Rachael bit her lip, remembering the time she’d been too shy to try out for the school play, then been devastated when the parts went to other girls. “Everyone’s nervous all the time,” her mother had told her, taking Rachael in her arms. “We all care what other people think of us, and yet they really don’t spend any time thinking about us at all! Think of nerves as a give-way sign on the road. Pause, have a look around, make sure there’s no danger. They’re not a sign to stop.” She’d had a kind, knowing smile.
“Besides,” Antonio said now, “no one’s looking. They’re all heading for the champagne. It’s just you and me. Plus, of course, the paparazzi camped down the river.”
“What?”
“Joking.”
Rachael looked around and saw he was right. People were clustered inside the bar or exploring the grounds, and the ferry was still loading passengers on the other side. No sign of Matthew.
“All right. But just for a minute.”
She climbed the two steps up to the plinth with wobbly knees. The lake shone with captured sunshine, reflecting warmth into her cheeks like a kiss.
Antonio raised his camera. “Very nice. That red is magic against the green. Can you imagine this place in the fifties? You in that dress, swing music, a long afternoon in Paris . . .”
Rachael smiled, his words transporting her into the pages of the Vogue magazine that had inspired her. She unclasped her hands, plucked the edges of her skirt in her fingers, and dropped a curtsy.
Antonio laughed and she heard the camera click. “Very nice! But too demure for you. What about a cancan?”
“No way!” But she spun in a circle, swishing her skirt as she moved her feet, a dance step she’d done with Matthew once.
The thought flew through her mind like a sparrow, small and quick, barely disturbing the air. She almost chased it, but Antonio was still encouraging her. She turned to face the lake, looking back at him over her shoulder. The look that passed between them was surprisingly intimate, as if they’d spotted each other across the room at a party.
“Beautiful,” he said, his camera forgotten. “So beautiful.”
Rachael held his gaze, felt his eyes lingering on her, the fire of attraction catching and spreading inside her. The world shrank to just his dark eyes, the anticipation of his kiss. She imagined meeting him at the lake’s edge after dinner, the island dark but for the chalet lit up beyond the shadows. His hand sliding around her waist, his lips warm against hers . . .
She glanced away, without knowing why, and saw Matthew. He stood at the end of the chalet’s balcony watching her, his face still and stony.
Rachael’s stomach went over a cliff. She stumbled and reached a hand out for the arch. She grasped metal and gauze, swaying toward the water below. She felt giddy and sick. And guilty. As if she’d been caught doing something wrong with Antonio. As if she was somehow being unfaithful. Which was utterly stupid. She huffed a breath, shaking her head.
“Are you all right?”
She heard the concern in Antonio’s voice. The two men couldn’t have been more different: Antonio, the raw photojournalist; Matthew, the polished doctor.
“Just dizzy for a second,” she said, but then her head really did swim because Matthew was striding toward the plinth.
“Thought I could help,” he shot over his shoulder to Antonio, a grin on his lips. But his eyes bored into Rachael as if he was staking a claim. “After all, we want these photos perfect.”
Rachael froze, skewered between Antonio and Matthew, terrified of what Matthew was about to do.
“Dedication, I like it,” Antonio called back, clearly unaware of the tension. “Lucky you’re the one getting married or I’d be jealous!”
Rachael’s fear beat like an execution drum, but Matthew simply unbuttoned his suit jacket and struck a pose. A few claps and cheers came from the restaurant balcony. Rachael turned away in embarrassment. Great, so people were watching now.
“Hey, work with me here,” Matthew whispered.
When she looked at him, he raised his eyebrows, an appeal to play along. So, despite her dry and parched tongue, Rachael folded her hands under her chin and made a silly pose. Matthew countered with an Elvis move, toes turned in, one arm raised. Whoops from the balcony. Rachael stepped back to give him room, but clapped with delight.
Antonio laughed and stepped away, saying he needed to go over the photos.
Matthew gave the balcony a show’s-over bow and the applause died away as people lost interest. He slid his hands into his pockets and looked around discreetly to check they were alone.
“I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable last night,” he said. “I can’t apologize enough. That wasn’t my intention.”
Rachael pretended to inspect her nails. “I wasn’t even sure you’d remember.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “I meant what I said. I regret how things ended between us, especially that you had to go through all that with your mum alone.”
“I wasn’t alone; I had Sammy,” Rachael said quickly, to cover the hurt that came hurtling up from where she’d buried it deep inside. Many times when her mother had been ill, when she’d been lonely or frightened, she’d wanted Matthew. Wanted him with a soul-destroying pain that had left permanent marks on her.
She watched the ferry pulling up, the next batch of guests alighting from the rowboats, so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She knew she would lose it if she did. She wanted him to feel bad about abandoning her, wanted him to experience something of the torture she’d gone through. But if she told him all that, she would cry.
“Do you know why I asked my parents to invite you?” Matthew said abruptly. His hands were still in his pockets.
Rachael imagined they looked like a pair of unconnected people chatting idly, more interested in the scenery than each other. How perverse that internally she ached for him to show her whether he meant the things he had said.
“You invited a few people from home,” she said.
He nodded. “I’m proud of where I come from, even though I live in Sydney now. I wanted Mum and Dad’s friends from Milton here, and mine from school. And the Quinns know so many people I had to make up the numbers.” He said it with a smile, as if embarrassed, then the smile vanished. “At least, that’s what I told Bonnie. Truth is, I wanted you to come. I wanted to see you.”
Rachael’s heart drummed in her throat again. The other night he’d been stinking drunk, but now he was clearly sober.
He shot her a sideways glance, assessing her reaction. The lake was still, the clouds frozen overhead, as if the whole world had paused just to hear what he would say next.
“Rach, I still—”
“Matty!”
The stillness shattered into tiny pieces. Bonnie had appeared, a vision in a gauzy white minidress and blue heels. Antonio had evidently been showing her the photos.
“Ant says the light is perfect. Daddy’s just bringing the pastor down. You ready?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said, turning away.
Rachael swayed as he left her standing on the plinth, his incomplete declaration still resounding in her head. It was several long seconds before she could trust her legs to step down.
Matthew might not have finished his sentence, but her mind had done it for him. I still love you, it whispered, tormenting her.
Sure he did. He’d probably been going to say, I still feel bad about last night or I still think the Swans are an ace team. But she couldn’t know. And as much as she hated herself for feeling it, hope clung fast to those two unsaid words.
Chapter 14
The rehearsal began. The priest was short, round, and balding, but he had a warm smile and spent several seconds facing the lake with his arms spread, no doubt remarking on the view. Bonnie stood with two women who Rachael recognized from the hens’ party, and Yvette sat to one side, perched on a chair while a black-suited security man held a parasol over her. Antonio appeared to be having a disagreement with Evonne, who kept pointing in one direction while Antonio shook his head. Everyone else was watching from a respectful distance, or ignoring the rehearsal altogether as they drank and sought out seats for the performance of Les Misérables.
Despite the fact Yvette raised the end of her lit cigarette in Rachael’s direction, Rachael knew when she wasn’t needed. She went searching for Sammy. After two trips around the terrace and the lower bar, now filled with a noisy crowd, she found Sammy leaving the bathrooms on the far side. Sammy’s black dress made her face unusually gaunt, though she’d styled her hair into short waves, just like at her own wedding four years ago.
Rachael approached with trepidation. “Sam.”
Sammy’s face flooded with relief. “Rach. I’ve been looking for you. I’m really sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to know that you’re all right.”
Sammy glanced around, then led Rachael to a quiet corner of the terrace, where the woodland encroached on the chalet. “It’s been a bad week,” she admitted.
“It’s more than that,” Rachael said. “Is it Marty?”
Sammy’s face wobbled, and she took a breath that was clearly a stopper on a flood of emotion. “Things . . . things might be a bit worse there than I told you.”
“How much worse?”
“Bad. Like so bad I can’t see how we get out of it.”
Rachael was aghast. “But back home you said you were going to counseling.”
“We should have done that a year ago.” She shook her head, a single tear escaping. “I love him, Rach, and I’ve been trying to find ways to hold it together, but he’s just not engaged with me. No matter what I do, he’s just drifting farther away. We don’t even really talk to each other anymore. Every time I’ve called this week he’s made an excuse after five minutes.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t realize. And now you’re here without him. You should have said something.”
“It’s given me time to think,” Sammy said, straightening her back as if regaining control. “This is my problem. Shall we get a drink?”
“I guess.”
They took glasses of wine to one of the high tables, Sammy attempting to steer the conversation onto more neutral topics, and both of them working on reconnecting. But Rachael didn’t want to mention anything about seeing the dressmaker’s showroom, or her solo adventures in Paris. It seemed too much to set her own hopes alongside Sammy’s turmoil.
