Scarlet, the resort owner, looked absolutely serene in that way that Darla recognized from the mirror as a polite, trained mask. “The sun will be setting in that direction,” she indicated. “But the final part of the ceremony should be just before it is low enough to cause any discomfort. By the time it is on the horizon, everyone will be back in the event hall for the evening reception and dancing.”
“Hmm,” Jubilee said, standing in various positions experimentally. “But is the view better this way? Maybe we should move the platform.”
“No one will be looking at the view, mother,” Darla said shortly. That earned her a surprised look from everyone there, except the guitar player. She had been dutifully, politely quiet while her mother steamrolled everything, up until now. She gave a tiny, apologetic smile.
“Oh, you’re right,” Jubilee said quickly. “We wouldn’t want the view to be better than the view of you, of course! This will do. Come, I want to see the event hall. Are you sure it’s big enough?”
The two men assembling the archway exchanged amused looks behind Jubilee’s back as she and Scarlet left across the lawn, her assistant and the bridesmaids straggling behind.
Darla remained at the half-built platform, staring at the contraption that was going to seal her in a cage.
It could be worse, she reminded herself. She could be marrying Eugene.
It could be better, her snow leopard reminded her. Darla had given up trying to explain why she wasn’t marrying her mate, why they weren’t together now, like her animal insisted they should be.
“Your mother is not very nice,” the woman standing with the musician said frankly, with a shake of her head. She had long, untidy braids on either side of her face. Darla had at first thought she had black and white ribbons woven into her hair, but it was actually locks of dark hair mixed with pure white strands.
“She’s under a lot of stress,” Darla tried to apologize for her. “With the wedding and everything.”
“You’re under more,” the woman said critically, giving her a piercing look. She was oddly forward, and strangely shy at the same time. “I’m Gizelle. You’ve already met Conall.” She hung back behind Conall slightly, not offering to shake hands.
“Thank you for agreeing to play at the wedding,” Darla told him politely. Her mother had been delighted when she realized that the famous classical guitar player Conall Grant was living at the resort, and had been relentless in her attempts to get him to play at the wedding.
He was glancing after the rest of the wedding party and didn’t respond.
Gizelle smiled. “He can’t hear you,” she said in explanation, just as Conall looked back and said, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
Darla furrowed her brow. “I… thought you could hear now,” she said slowly, wondering if it was rude. “I understood that the island had fixed your hearing.”
“He’s not something to fix,” Gizelle said with unexpected defensiveness that gentled into amusement with dizzying quickness. “But he can hear with my ears if he’s touching me!” She took his hand and gleefully announced, “He’s my mate!”
Conall’s tender glance down at Gizelle cut Darla to the heart.
That was what a mate should be.
That was what she would never have.
Her chest feeling very tight, Darla politely repeated what she’d said earlier when Conall couldn’t see her. “Thank you for agreeing to play at the wedding.” The wedding. Not her wedding.
But Gizelle was giving Conall a quizzical look. “Are you going to play at our wedding?” Then her eyes got big and she clung to his arm earnestly. “Can we have a wedding? With cake and a white lacy dress like Jenny’s and flowers that Graham doesn’t roar about?”
Conall smiled at her slowly. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Gizelle was still for a moment, then began capering around like a child wound up on Christmas candy. “I am! I am! I am! I will marry you! I will!”
She launched herself at Conall, who caught her effortlessly and lifted her into the air with a laugh of delight. “You will be the most beautiful bride in the world,” he said. “And I will be the luckiest groom.”
“Wait, wait!” Gizelle cried. “Do I have to wear shoes?”
“You do not,” Conall assured her.
“Do I have to wear…?” she suddenly looked around, and whispered the rest into Conall’s closest ear.
“You do not,” Conall repeated, grinning ear-to-ear.
Darla tried to resolve the musician with the grim, dramatic portraits on the covers of his discs, and entirely failed.
“That’s a pretty bracelet,” Gizelle said out of the blue, wriggling out of Conall’s arms and circling Darla curiously. “It’s in your skin.”