Page 43 of Bride By Coronation
P.S. - If you choose to accept the items, I've fulfilled something old, new, and blue. I'm still working on the borrowed. Please forgive me. I'm struggling a tad with that one.
A short laugh comes out of me as tears fall down my cheeks. I reread the letter and then reach for the ring. I slide it on my finger, and it fits perfectly.
My father did love my mother.
How could I have doubted it?
More tears fall, blurring the diamond. And maybe it's the stress of the last few days, but my tears turn to an outright sob.
After a few minutes, I pull it together. I keep the ring on my finger, then read the letter so many times I could recite it from memory.
Something about it rips through my heart while also frightening me.
What flaws are so bad that he doesn't think he deserves a wife?
Is he a horrible man?
I reread the letter again, deciding he can't be. If he were, why would he keep apologizing? And something about him sending me a letter seems overly kind. How could any man who took the time to writefive versions of this letter be unworthy of having a woman by his side?
I stare at his handwriting, wondering what he looks like and what his name is. Is he as old as my dad since they knew one another?
I wrinkle my nose. Older is fine, but there's a point I don't want to cross. I'm unsure what it is, but I know anyone my parents' age is too old.
I don't have a choice.
He's funny and complimentary, at least.
I stare at the writing, smiling at different parts, then finally set the letter down. I pick up the lingerie and the dress with the bird. Then I take them into my bedroom.
I take off my clothes, slide into the lingerie, and stand in front of my full-length mirror. Butterflies break out in my belly, and I mutter, "For a guy who claims to have no fashion sense, you have a knack for sexy lingerie."
Because he wants to fuck me.
The butterflies mix with dread. I swallow hard, then carefully undress. I pick up the dress, spend several minutes figuring out how to open it, then step into it. I secure it as best as I can and then return to the mirror.
More conflicting emotions erupt within me. The dress is a stunning piece of artwork. It showcases every curve I have in a tasteful way. The attention to detail is superb, better than most high-end pieces I deal with at work.
My mom would flip over this.
Oh my God! My mom!
A rush of panic and guilt fills me. Sean and Zara almost killed my mom when they got married without her.
I hightail it to the kitchen, grab my phone, and hit the button to call Zara.
It rings once, and she softly chirps, "Hey! I was hoping you'd call."
"My mom needs to be at the wedding," I blurt out.
Silence fills the line.
"Hello?" I fire in an irritated voice.
Zara replies, "Fiona. I'm sorry, but that can't happen."
"I'm not doing to her what you and Sean did!" I spout.
"Trust me. If it were possible, I'd tell you how. But it's not," she claims.
