Rosie made a huge effort to shake off her melancholy and allowed her shoulders to relax. In her chosen wedding dress and with her loose platinum waves rippling down her back, Freya had presented every inch the Princess Bride image she had coveted since her teenage years. And Lauren, her only true ally, was there to bolster Rosie’s flagging spirits and don her matching, saccharine-sweet bridesmaid’s dress.
Rosie smiled when she thought back to the impish smile of her best friend, so bohemian in her own choice of attire, at the final dress fitting. Lauren eschewed the emulation of the images distributed in the magazines and fashion corridors of Manhattan of the supposedly-perfect female form. She never counted calories nor fell under the spell of the latest designer-inspired craze. Her idea of a perfect girly afternoon was to trawl the thrift shops on Second and Third Streets, delving into the racks of vintage clothing she could up-cycle. She frequently unearthed pieces of jewellery she could dismantle and reuse. Even her engagement and wedding rings had been ‘previously loved’, much to Brett’s delight. His fire fighter’s salary would never stretch as far as Tiffany’s.
She truly hoped that Freya had met her Prince Charming and that this was the fairy tale wedding she had wished for. She prayed that she had lost her heart to Jacob, a guy fifteen years her senior; or was she settling for a convenient companion with the means to support her in the manner to which she had become accustomed?
A strain of music floated on the air and her eyes picked out the string quartet – originally a five-piece but now minus the cellist who’d reportedly downed a bottle of Jack Daniels after an exhilarating performance at the Met the previous evening – as they struck up the first chord of a rendition of Dangerously in Love by Beyoncé, Freya’s favourite artist.
A wave of exhaustion threatened to buckle Rosie’s knees and she collapsed onto the kidney-shaped stool at the dressing table. Insomnia had plagued her for as long as she could remember but it had been especially potent last night, as the tortuous hours stretched before daybreak. Her perpetual lack of sleep ensured the retention of the dark smudges under her gold-flecked eyes. With a sigh, she realised there would be no rest this weekend either, with the ceremony and then partying until the small hours of the morning to the live band Freya had demanded at huge cost.
As she shook her freshly-teased caramel curls from her eyes, she thought of Giles – the handsome, charismatic, sexy man in her life. At last, she allowed a smile to play around her lips as she anticipated a whole weekend on his arm, showing him off to her father and Dot and Arnie who had been so supportive of the family after… after…
Thankfully, the continuation of Rosie’s reverie was spliced into by a frantic hammering on the bedroom door, followed by the urgent gravelly tones of her father’s voice.
‘Rosie? Rosie? Have you seen Freya? The hairdresser needs her and it seems she’s done one of her disappearing acts again.’
Rosie caught Lauren’s eye-roll as she rushed to open the door to admit her father. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as a spurt of nausea tickled at her throat. Typical Freya! Hadn’t she spent every spare moment of the last three months of her life organising Freya’s wedding so that it would run with the military precision she was famed for at the office? All Freya had to do was slip into her dress, plaster a smile on her face and turn up on time! So where was she?
‘You didn’t tell her about Aunt Bernice, did you?’ asked her father. As he leant in to kiss her cheek, Rosie caught a whiff of the baby shampoo her father still used, delivering a painful jolt of nostalgia to her nostrils.
‘No, Dad. You know we agreed not to tell her until after the wedding.’
‘I’ll go and find her, Mr Hamilton. She can’t have gone far.’ Lauren flicked the sides of her bob behind her ears, hitched up her voluminous skirt and strode from the room.
Rosie registered Jack Hamilton’s lined, pale face wreathed in concern. His appearance was so suave in his charcoal-grey morning suit and baby-pink cravat – his back erect, his still-thick silver hair and beard neatly trimmed in honour of his youngest daughter’s wedding day. But he had a lot on his mind. Not only did he have the responsibility of walking his beloved daughter down the aisle but it was only the third day in twenty-five years that the Hamilton family’s hardware store had been closed to the service of Stonington Beach residents and curious tourists bemoaning the disappearance of such Aladdin’s caves in their home towns.
She recalled the pang of regret she’d experienced at the previous evening’s dress rehearsal when she witnessed her father’s slower, more deliberate movements. It had occurred to her that now Freya was to be married, she should maybe consider returning to Stonington Beach to take care of her father and help him in the store which, she’d noticed with a stab of concern, was looking a little shabby around the edges. Jack needed more help than Dot, now herself in her sixties. Would such a step-change relieve her of her constant anxiety about her father’s health, the stalking fear that she’d lose him too? Would it alleviate the weight of apprehension that pressed against her chest, maybe even allow her to make some of those human connections she found so elusive in Manhattan?
Gosh, no!
Having taken a year’s sabbatical to care for Jack and Freya after her mother’s passing, she had proceeded to squeeze every last ounce of knowledge from her studies at college and business school, squirreling away every morsel of offered wisdom into the recesses of her mind for future extraction. Why should she even be contemplating allowing it to drain away into a small town hardware store? New York City had many flaws, but she adored its vigour and vanity, its tenacity and traumas. The only tinge of sorrow that day was the absence of their beloved mother, but her presence would be with them all in the hollows of their hearts.
There had been no thanks from her sister for the long months of grief Rosie had endured in organising this spectacular occasion from one hundred and thirty miles away. For giving up numerous weekends to travel out to Connecticut to taste and select the menus, to advise on table décor and choice of linen, flower arrangements, wine lists, whilst Freya was just looking after number one.
A conversation with Dot popped into her mind; Dot had hugged her goodbye and noticed the deep hollows of tiredness around Rosie’s eyes. ‘I hope once this fiasco of a wedding has finally taken place, it won’t mean your visits down to Stonington Beach will be any less frequent, darling?’ Dot had said. ‘Jack adores having your sharp professional eye run over the store. No other business in Stonington can boast a high-flying New York City executive bestowing regular financial advice upon its eaves and coffers. We love you here, Rosie. Don’t be a stranger.’
A second wave of dizziness enveloped Rosie and she slumped down onto the pale blue sateen duvet. Her mind had suddenly seized. Her father managed a tight smile and joined her, resting his hand on her arm. She saw he was studying her as she fiddled with the huge gold hoop earrings Freya had presented both she and Lauren with that morning. Freya had mistaken Lauren’s look of abject horror as that of shock at the level of her generosity. Rosie prayed her photograph would never, ever appear in any publication covering the Jacob Bennett, Jr. and Freya Hamilton wedding. She would struggle to live down the fashion shame. She felt and looked like a gawky teenager.
‘All this will happen for you one day, darling. You’re so like your mother, worrying about everything and everyone. You’ve pulled off a miracle today, organising this wedding for Freya and Jacob.’ His eyes sought out hers. ‘She’s gorgeous, but so are you. You need to take some time for yourself now, darling. That crazy job of yours is squeezing all the sparkle from your eyes. I can see how tired you are, even if your mirror speaks differently to you. You career girls don’t understand what you’re leaving behind in your blinkered pursuit of corporate acceptance. Manhattan demands insane hours