Now, as she stood with Roger at the altar in her picture-perfect white dress, in front of their friends and family, holding her flawless bouquet of white and blush peonies, ranunculus and heirloom roses, and listened to the minister proclaim marriage sacred—something that should not be entered into lightly and only after much consideration—her doubts and fears waged all-out warfare, like a terrifying premonition that Elle watched come to life in slow motion.
The minister asked, “Do you, Roger, take Elizabeth to be your wife?”
Roger paused for what seemed an eternity. Elizabeth watched the color drain from his face and then he reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, causing his bow tie to cock to the side like an uncanny smirk.
A hiccup of nervous laughter echoed in the crowded church. Elizabeth tried to snare Roger’s gaze. If he would just look at her, they would take a deep breath together and everything would be fine. But Roger was staring off into the distance somewhere over her left shoulder, in an anxious trance.
Stay with me, Roger. It’s just nerves. Everything will be fine.
He’d never liked being the center of attention. She knew that about her husband-to-be, but for as far back as Elizabeth could remember, she’d dreamed of a humongous wedding. She’d wanted the big white dress, the court of bridesmaids and bushels of flowers.
Most of all, she’d dreamed that this day would be perfect. And it would be. They just had to get through their vows and to the other side of “I do” and everything would be fine.
Elizabeth stole a glance at the 256 people who had gathered at the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah to watch the high school sweethearts marry.
Rogabeth. Elloger. They’d been together so long that many already thought of them as one entity.
The minister cleared his throat. “Roger, do you take Elizabeth to be your lawfully wedded wife? If so, please answer, ‘I do.’”
Good God, was he holding his breath now?
If Roger would just look at her, she’d silently remind him to breathe. And not to lock his knees.
Come on, Roger. Don’t pass out on me now.
Reverend Chambers put his hand on Roger’s arm. “Roger? We need an answer, son.”
Roger opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he snapped it shut again before he could make a sound.
Now Elizabeth was the one holding her breath.
She stole a glance at the congregation. Could a person actually die from self-suffocation...or humiliation?
Breathing was overrated.
Then again, nothing would wreck a wedding faster than the bride dying at the altar. She gulped a breath of air like a drowning swimmer who’d broken the surface.
Now, if Roger would just answer, or nod, or something. Anything. Reverend Chambers could pronounce them husband and wife and they’d walk down the aisle arm in arm and out the doors at the front of the church. She’d fix his tie and they’d take pictures. They’d laugh about how he’d almost passed out in the middle of the ceremony and had given her a case of hives.
Come on, Roger.
Elizabeth was entertaining the thought of nudging him with the toe of her shoe. God knew her dress was big enough to hide the prod. But before she could do it, she locked gazes with Daniel Quindlin, best man.
He reached out and gave Roger’s shoulder a firm shake.
“Come on, man,” he said. “Do the right thing.”
For a moment Elizabeth thought Daniel was trying to help. Until Roger found his voice. “I’m...sorry. I can’t do this. Daniel’s right, Elle. I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”
Roger gave Daniel a resolute nod. “Thanks, man.”
As the world moved in slow motion, Elle watched her groom exit through a side door. Her sister Jane slid her arm around Elle’s waist, propping her up and shielding her from the astonished faces greedily gobbling up the drama.
Elle couldn’t feel her legs. Through the blood pulsing in her ears, she heard Jane hiss in a low, venomous voice, “How could you, Daniel? Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”
Six years later
Elizabeth Clark had been back in Savannah less than twenty-four hours and already she was questioning whether coming home had been the right decision.
Home was the Forsyth Galloway Inn, the sprawling mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast on Whitaker Street that had been in her family for six generations—more than one hundred fifty years—and had been a thriving business since 1874. She’d grown up in the big Victorian house with its turret, ornate gingerbread and creaking mahogany floors. The place was simultaneously comforting and claustrophobic. It evoked a certain nostalgia, not so dissimilar to memories of Great-Aunt Gertie’s overzealous bear hugs. Everyone tried to avoid her hugs, until she’d cornered them and they had no choice but to be smothered in the pillow of her enormous bosom. But years later, when Great-Aunt Gertie and her propensity to invade personal space was gone, her hugs seemed kind of sweet, a throwback to simpler times.