Chapter 23: Dearly Beloved...

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

Mom was fashionably late—something to to with Aunt Francine's hair. Everyone mentions the bobbing bridge, between the end of the dock and the houseboat, but no one fell in. The ceremony itself went off without a hitch.

Mom was radiant. The published images manages to capture some of it—Justin won awards for his photography—but you need to watch the video to really catch it. Mom never missed a step, even though her eyes never left Dad.

Sean:

When the time came, I went to get dressed. I had had fittings while Sheila was on her trips to the city. I knew my traditional frock suit fit like a dream. All I had to do was put it on. There were still people to do my hair and nails, but you have to give Francine something. I was done in plenty of time. Naturally, the women were late. It gave me time to think about the morning.

Though she may not have recognized it at the time, Sheila had made a name for herself in the power structure. This is not to say that she was not well situated in the house. She had fit in more smoothly than I would have dared hope, had I stopped to think about her issues.

They make movies about the new person trying to fit in. Rebecca comes to mind. Parallels between my self and Max deWinter are non-trivial. Yet, in a bare week, Sheila was a functioning part of the household. She started well by impressing Gerald, then the Gilbert brothers. Nothing she had done was like that morning, after the package arrived.

Because of 9/11, people tend to forget Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. Two of the guys I knew at business school had lost family to Kaczynski. Suspicious packages were taken very seriously at work. Our home security is just as paranoid, but lacked the equipment. We took what precautions were possible, then held our breath while we watched a live feed.

When it turned out to be a gag gift from Francine, everyone else heaved a sigh of relief. I started toward the door, only to be stopped by Sheila. I doubt she ever appreciated the impact of her hand on my arm. Not even Gerald gets in my way when my head is down. It didn't hurt that she had already found the ideal solution—let Jo handle it.

The staff respected me. Sheila was fast becoming the Lady of the House. Jo was the brat with a mean streak. Where the joke was practical or verbal, everyone in the room had reason to tread lightly. They had since she was twelve. If you ever saw Private Benjamin, think of the RIT dye scene. Better yet, the dye bomb in Raising Arizona. Jo was ingenious, persistent and could not be bought. No one fucked with little sister.

It was that same little sister I saw coming down the hill, wearing a suit very much like Curtis'. There was a cadré of attendants, which concealed the bride, but Jo was out front. She looked in our direction and waved, then gave a thumbs up. They ran that picture as the cover shot of the Beacon's special section. Whatever had happened, Jo was satisfied with that result. Under most circumstances, I would be dying to know, but I could not see Sheila. It was maddening.

Our plan had been to form up in the boathouse, but that was sunk. We men proceeded to the houseboat, which proved wise. The water was a bit choppy. This caused the walkway connecting the dock to the houseboat to bounce. I was glad to be across, but I knew it would slow the bridal party down. I drew on my Army training and waited attentively.

As the parade of ladies came down the hillside, the band had switched from ragtime to Bach. Everyone sensed the change in mood, but had to wait through two whole preludes. Eventually a face appeared in the gloom at the back of the houseboat. Jo and Francine led the way, then CC came to stand opposite Curtis. I held my breath as the music changed to Handel. A spotlight appeared, which illuminated Sheila in all her glory.

I hired Justin Immons to do a kinky catalog. My fiancée made friends and hired him to do my wedding. Normally, that sort of presumption would have heads rolling. Given that shot—which was on the cover of a bridal magazine, in the New York Times Magazine, distributed globally by United Press International and is in the lobby of our headquarters—I was willing to forgive a lot.

Sheila was breathtaking and all the world knew it.

Siobhan:

When the time came, Sheila helped me reel Francine in. My arms were tired and Francine was red as a beet. Sheila hugged Francine and thanked her for the earrings. I glanced at Christine, who gave me a wink. Some submissive. Still, she had a point. This was not about the two of us.

Minions were summoned to repair the damage. All things considered, we did well to arrive at the boathouse only fifteen minutes late. It could have been much worse. I almost lost my balance on the gangplank and Christine shuffled along sideways. Francine regained her good humor watching us. How can ten feet get so long?