Occasion of Revenge

Two years ago I didn't think I'd live long enough to make it to my next chemotherapy session, let alone see my widowed sister-in-law happily remarried. But God had been gracious, sending good health my way and Dennis Rutherford to Connie. Nothing less could have persuaded me to appear at St. Philip's that bright Saturday afternoon, to stand in the brides' room in front of a full-length mirror wearing an idiotic grin and the matron-of-honor dress from hell. Connie cheerfully assured me I would be able to wear it later on, but I secretly doubted that outfit would ever make it out of the plastic dry-cleaning bag I planned to hide it in once her wedding reception was over. While Connie hovered nearby, fussing with the veil on her Jackie Kennedyesque hat and looking radiant in a white linen sheath topped with an elaborately embroidered bolero jacket, I zipped myself into a dress with defensive shoulder pads that made me look like a wedge of lemon meringue pie. Frankly, with her artist's eye, I'd expected better from Connie, but for some reason she'd set her mind on this particular number, a cocktail dress in a bilious shade of yellow that turned my olive skin a sallow green. I leaned toward the mirror. I smiled. At least the low-cut bodice showed off the swell of my newly reconstructed breast to ad- vantage. The short, narrow skirt made the most of my ankles, too, slim above dyed-to-match T-strap pumps. But my daughter Emily was right: Even with camouflaging pearl-tone panty hose, my knees were not ready for prime time. Veil adjusted to her satisfaction, Connie picked up the bouquet of stephanotis and gardenias she would carry down the aisle. I had a single gardenia clamped to the side of my head with four hundred bobby pins, and my brownish hair had been tortured into a twist with so much hair spray that if a hurricane had swept through the church just then, leaving nothing of St. Philip's standing but its eighteenth-century pulpit, I'd have been found miles away in a tree, stone cold dead but with nary a hair out of place. A trumpet fanfare blared from the organ in the sanctuary. I shivered. I'm a sucker for trumpets. Even the Hallelujah chorus fromThe Messiahmakes me swoon. I pulled a tissue out of my sleeve and handed it to Connie so she could blot her lipstick. "Ready?" She gave me a hug. "Hannah, darling, I've been ready for this day for over a year!" My sister-in-law's parents had passed away years ago, so she had dispensed with the usual giving-the-bride-away bit. It was just me, marching down the aisle to Jeremiah Clarke with Connie trailing stunningly behind. I was so nervous Did I have the ring? Was everything set with the caterers? It wouldn't dare rain, would it? that the ceremony itself remains pretty much of a blur. I remember how yummy the best man looked in his tuxedo of course, I was married to him and holding my breath when Reverend Lattimore got to the speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-peace part. But the pregnant pause was filled only with the intrepid hum of the heat pump trying to warm up the church on that crisp November day, until Connie, hearing no objections, curled her free hand into a fist and pumped it toward herself:Yes!I couldn't suppress a nervous giggle. During the homily, while Reverend Lattimore droned on about Perfect Love, paraphrasing heavily from Hosea, Ruth, and Song of Solomon, I noticed Dennis's daughter, Maggie, looking like a daffodil perched on the edge of her pew in the first row on the groom's side. With her black hair and pale Irish skin, the color so complemented her that I began to suspect a conspiracy in the nuptial color scheme department. ConnieTalley, Marcia is the author of 'Occasion of Revenge' with ISBN 9780440235200 and ISBN 0440235200.