Page 7 of Good as Gold
I still feel guilty sometimes. And if I get my wish, the town will have plenty more to gossip about in the coming year.
But I’m ready for it. I’m braced. And I’m dressed to kill, in an eye-catching peach Boho dress with a chrysanthemum pattern and a triple-tiered skirt. The V-neck is provocative but stops short of scandalous. I’ve paired it with strappy heels, earrings strung with clusters of seed pearls, and a collection of thin, little, gold bangle bracelets. So let ’em stare.
And if my ex is in this church, let him stare, too.
“Bride, or groom?” the elderly usher asks as he hands me a wedding program.
“Mr. Vespucci,” I whisper, scandalized. “It’s a really small town. Are you seriously asking me to choose sides?”
“It’s a tradition, Miss Giltmaker.” He chuckles. “I don’t make the rules.”
I give him a wink and then take the program he’s offering me. Then I proceed down the aisle.
The bride—May Shipley—is a lawyer, and an acquaintance of mine. Her family are lovely people. They grow apples and make award-winning cider from their picturesque orchard on a hilltop.
But I feel a stronger connection with the groom’s family, so I slide into a pew on the right, amid the friends and extended family of the Rossi clan. Maybe it’s because my father does business with the Rossis. Or maybe it’s because I like a good underdog story.
The Rossis had it tough for years. Without her wayward husband’s help, Maria Rossi raised five kids on nothing but hard work and sheer grit. She had four sons—all of them stupidly handsome—and a fun-loving, rule-breaking daughter.
These days, the Rossis are pillars of the community. Except Matteo, of course. My former best friend is the groom’s brother. I sayformerbecause I haven’t seen his face in fifteen years. He left home right after his high school graduation and barely ever came back.
Just like his fatherpeople whisper sometimes. But that’s not really fair. At least, I hope it isn’t. The Matteo I knew was serious about loyalty. He felt things deeply. He looked after the people who mattered to him.
Until he didn’t anymore.
When I was a teen, I thought he was the most glamorous boy I knew. Maybe that says more about my teenage expectations than his sophistication. But he was always cool in a way that money can’t buy, with his serious frown and his knowing gaze. He could build a fire with nothing but some scraps of wood and a piece of flint he carried in his pocket. He could find his way out of the woods by looking at the stars overhead. And he learned to land a frontside alley-oop in the halfpipe before the rest of us had mastered it.
When he finally skipped town after my junior year of high school, I was so mad at him I cried. Although I thought he’d be back. He’d told me he would. There was even a moment there after he left when I thought he’d come back forme.
But clearly I was hallucinating. Because he eventually just dropped me as a friend. He stopped returning my calls. He faded from my life.
I’m still mad about it, if I’m honest. When I flip open the wedding program and skim the list of names of the wedding party, I’m not the least bit surprised to note that Matteo’s is not there.
The last time I tried to contact him was about twelve years ago. I’d sent him a wedding invitation, but I didn’t have the right Colorado address, and it was returned to sender.
Perhaps I could have asked his family to forward it, but Rory had told me to drop it. “He doesn’t want anything to do with us,” he’d said.
I hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t argued. That was on-brand for me at the time, unfortunately. There were so many things in my life I should have questioned—like my relationship to Rory, for example.
He loved me in his own way. Not that it was a good way. Heneededme, though, and I fed on that. It was intoxicating to be so important to another human, I guess. And my family hated him, and it gave me a rebellious rush.
Those are all terrible reasons to marry someone, though.
Ask me how I know.
The string quartet changes their tune, breaking my reverie as a hush falls over the crowd. All eyes swivel toward the door, where the processional is beginning.
It’s been a while since I’ve attended a wedding, and I’d forgotten the communal hush that falls over the crowd. The held-breath moment as we ready ourselves to witness something rare—big promises made. Lives merged.
The first one to walk down the aisle is the mother of the bride. She’s beaming. Next comes the flower girl. Nicole is a cute little redhead, almost four years old, who attends my preschool. She’s the groom’s niece. She stops in the middle of the aisle, plunges her hand into the basket of rose petals, and then hurls them onto the red rug before marching onward toward the front.
The whole church chuckles.
Alec, the groom, is next. He’s a handsome, clean-cut guy, and when I catch sight of his smile, I feel a little thump of emotion in the center of my chest. Because his eyes are clear and bright, and his smile says he just won the lottery.
I honestly don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that. My husband sure didn’t. In fact, Rory was high during our wedding ceremony all those years ago. Red eyes. Bleary expression. That was on-brand for him, too.
I’d been so ashamed, but I’d smiled through it. I’d known we weren’t the perfect couple, but I’d gone through with the wedding, because I thought I could fix him.Love will see us through, and all that.
