At the time, I did not understand the pause.
The cocktail hour began across the gardens.
Tall heaters stood between lounge areas.
Waiters served champagne and caviar.
A jazz trio played beneath a covered terrace.
Guests congratulated us, asked about the honeymoon, and commented on the flowers.
Eleanor appeared relaxed.
Almost joyful.
She hugged Julian repeatedly.
During one photograph, she placed both hands against his face and kissed his cheek.
I stood nearby.
Nobody invited me into the frame.
I told myself it was fine.
It was casual.
Not the formal portraits.
I had promised myself I would not interpret every moment through the old pattern.
Then Rachel found me.
Her face looked strained.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
She glanced toward Eleanor.
“Later.”
“Rachel.”
“It’s your wedding.”
“That is not reassuring.”
She took my empty glass and replaced it with water.
“Eat something.”
“Tell me.”
She leaned closer.
“Eleanor took another family photo while you were inside.”
My stomach tightened.
“What photo?”
“Her, Arthur, Julian, Caroline, Madeline, and Thomas.”
The exact grouping.
I looked toward Julian.
He stood twenty feet away laughing with a college friend.
“Who arranged it?”
“Eleanor.”
“Did Celeste know?”
“She said it wasn’t on the list.”
“What happened?”
“Eleanor told her it would only take a moment.”
