Page 20 of Grift

Patrick

There’s a starkness to the white steepled church, surrounded by a perfectly manicured town green and an explosion of snow-covered trees visible through the tall windows, that suits the day. And my mood.

My damned tux is too tight through the shoulders and Callan’s smug enough I’m wishing I’d picked Finn to be my best man. Of course, Finn’s giving me a shit-eating grin from the front pew that’s only pissing me off more. His girlfriend Sasha sits beside him, and when she sees the look on his face, gives him a warning pinch that makes me like her.

“Stop squirming,” Callan says, his voice low and harsh.

Right. This is all about the optics.

Two hundred pairs of eyes are on me while a tasteful string quartet from the Boston Symphony plays something that’s supposed to be soothing. Every pluck of the strings sets me further on edge.

Boston’s oldest families, New England’s rich and powerful, and a bunch of DC politicians I only recognize from the news fill the pews. Families you’ve never heard of whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and founded Vermont, Maine, and the rest of New England are scattered throughout the pews.

And some Irish trash. Those guys are with me. The idea gives me pleasure, and I can’t help but grin.

My sister Siobhan stepped in and helped put a stamp of the Carneys on this day, in an event otherwise meticulously planned to the smallest detail by Marlana Kensington. At least that’s what they tell me. Her cool eyes assess me from her spot in the front pew, clearly unimpressed. She has a similar build to her daughter, but otherwise the resemblance stops there. The fake blonde hair and the icy eyes aren’t the problem; it’s the calculation and the threat of manipulation that she doesn’t even bother to even disguise under the polished surface.

My sisters told me my mother was largely uninterested in the planning after Mrs. Kensington shot down her ideas as tacky. I hadn’t been consulted about any of the details, thankfully.

They’d commandeered the church and completely repurposed an upscale Inn they own on a nearby lake, pulling together a wedding in days that took others a year to plan.

Unlimited wealth, power, and desperation will do that, I guess.

Someone told me the church was originally built by Jessica’s mother’s family 200 years ago. Their roots go deep in Vermont, and Callan told me that one of the reasons Kensington married the Cabot maple heiress is her deep pockets could fund his political career. It wasn’t as clear why the powerhouse lady hitched her wagon to his star. Maybe the Senator hadn’t always been a self-obsessed and career-focused asshole, although that seems a stretch. Maybe that’s just the kind of man that Marlana Kensington likes.

Speaking of women making questionable life choices, my bride’s about to enter.

Siobhan moves elegantly to the front of the church, and takes up her violin. She’s going to play Jessica down the aisle. I remember that detail from the endless briefing that Mrs. Kensington’s assistant gave me yesterday, pushing through the alcohol-fueled hangover of my rushed bachelor party the night before.

In the end, my brothers and some friends and I settled for heavy drinking and high stakes cards. When someone proposed female company, I declined. The only woman in my head right now is Jessica, and the last thing I need is another reason to feel bad. Or to make her feel bad.

These vows might be temporary, but we are making them. And the moment I decided to do so, I decided to honor them. A commitment isn’t something I make lightly. When I give my word, it’s a done deal.

I expect the same of her. So she has my faithfulness. Besides, what woman could seem like anything other than a pale reflection of Jessica’s light?

Damn it, this is complicated.

“Last chance,” mouths Rory. His eyes sparkle and part of me is glad that this life hasn’t destroyed his brightness completely. I think about flipping him off, but this is already enough of a mess.

But then Siobhan’s violin starts to play, an aching, haunting sound that hits the right note for the day.

How many grooms have stood at the front of this church, hopeful for the years that lay ahead?

How many have been dragged by family or community to do the right thing, dreading being tethered to the wrong person for eternity?

The truth is, neither of those sentiments are quite right.

It’s not what I imagined.

Hell, I can’t say I ever imagined getting married. I’d assumed I would. But I thought that it would just happen, the way it does.

Enough of my friends meet a woman, and the months of dating turned into years. Obligation, comfort, and love melt into something else and they propose.

I always watch their faces when I attend the weddings. You can always tell by the face whether they’re doing it out of obligation or love. It’s primal. It’s either there or it’s not. People don’t think I’m observant, and I can’t tell you what song they’re playing right now or the names of the famous artists that had enthralled Jessica that night in the gallery.

But I understand the energy that moves people, and moves between them.

Walking into the church, I’d tell you this is straight up obligation at its finest. I’ll make sure that my family is safe, and try to do right by Jessica in the process.

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