by Daisy James
Lauren had been adamant that, unlike Rosie, she was no doormat and would not deign to bow to Freya’s demands. Why on earth would she want to be her bridesmaid, she had argued. She wasn’t Rosie – willing to perform the supporting nuptial role at least once every six months for a procession of former school friends and colleagues. Lauren’s own spectacular wedding to her college boyfriend, Brett, in the Terrace Room at the Plaza had been the most recent of Rosie’s ‘best supporting bridesmaid’ opportunities a mere four months ago.
However, Lauren had relented when Rosie had pleaded with her to do this for her, if not for her sister, sadness at Freya’s predicament clouding her amber-flecked eyes. But Lauren would not allow her friend to forget her sacrifice. She continued with her monologue on Rosie’s doormat tendencies and her sister’s self-centred, ever-escalating demands.
‘Okay, okay, so your mom died when Freya was only eight years old. But she was your mother too, Rosie. How about Freya supporting you for a change, just once thinking of someone else other than herself? Did she rush to your aid last year when Carlos ditched you? Does she even realise that her monopoly on your time may have played an integral part in that? No, instead she just continued to chase around Europe, floating from one handsome guy to the next gullible girlfriend, or any acquaintance willing to offer her a sofa and a good time. Jacob is the best thing that’s ever happened to that girl – like, ever! And she doesn’t even appreciate her good fortune. Someone needs to have a serious talk with that little madam. She’s about to become a married woman – it’s an opportunity for you to make sure she knows how lucky she is. It can’t go on, Rosie!’ Lauren’s face flushed with annoyance.
As she cowered from the arrows of blame slung by her best friend’s words of wisdom, Rosie felt like she had been kicked in the head and the solar plexus at once. Then she began to quail in her pearl-and-sequined stilettos as she watched Lauren’s eyes, the colour of Irish luck, narrow.
‘If you like, I’ll do it. I’ll tell her how grown-ups are supposed to act. You’re too soft on her gallivanting and selfishness. I’m sorry, Rosie, you’re a wet blanket when it comes to baby-blue-eyed and supposedly-innocent Freya; butter wouldn’t melt in that rosebud mouth. She does not deserve the sacrifices you’ve made, are still making, for her. She’s an adult now – twenty-two for God’s sake. She can take care of herself – and if not, Jacob can. It’s your turn, Rosie, to make a life for yourself outside Freya’s orbit.’
Lauren’s mischievous glint returned, but her eyes softened. After all, she put in the same hours at Harlow Fenton as Rosie did. Of anyone, she understood the pressures of keeping all the plates spinning in the air when the vagaries of the world’s stock exchanges ate into their family or leisure time.
‘Stop taking responsibility, Rosie. It’s not healthy. For either of you.’
Rosie gifted Lauren with a watery smile as she moved over to the sash window where white gauze curtains floated like a bride’s veil in the light breeze. Pale tendrils of sunshine breached the horizon as she took in the pristine gardens, battling to calm her emotional demons. Serenity would play for the opposing team on this her beloved sister and Jacob’s wedding day, and for that she was saddened. Not only were there a myriad of things that could go awry, despite her meticulous attention to detail in the arduous preparations for this auspicious day, but Lauren was right – Freya’s demands had increased to scatter-gun proportions since her arrival the previous evening for the rehearsal dinner.
That morning as she had dragged herself from the single bed of her childhood, her limbs stiff and her head pulsating, nausea had twisted knots into her stomach. Her baby sister’s wedding day! She should be suffused with joy but, with a jolt of guilt as she stepped into the freezing relief of the shower, she recognised that in the place where happiness should be, loneliness lodged. She was ten years older than Freya and she’d had to almost beg Giles to be her date for her sister’s wedding.
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.’
Chapter Two
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 bear
d 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 and produces crazy people, their dreams skewed by their ever-increasing obsession with stockpiling the dollars.
‘You need to slow down, Rosie. Take some time to smell those flowers you and your mother were named after. Get dating, meet your own Jacob who will love and nurture you. Goodness knows you deserve it.’
He held her to him, his familiar smell mingled with the tang of a forbidden cigar. Rosie didn’t trust herself to respond with any opposing argument.
‘I wish Mum were here to witness how proud I am of you both today. I’ve missed her every single day of the last fourteen years. But her love lingers on in the crevices of our hearts. The passage of time has no favourites, Rosie, it treats us all equally. But I knew your mum for thirty years before that disease stole her from her family and she would have wanted all this for you too – a happy life, not a slave to the accumulation of wealth for people who have more than enough to service several lifetimes already.’
Her father knew he’d struck a chord. ‘Promise me and your mum that it won’t be years before I walk down that aisle again? It was a promise I made to her before she left us that I would see you both settled before I, well… Hey, there are some great guys who come into the store. Want me to fix you up with a date?’
‘Dad!’
‘Look, Rosie, I’m sorry I can’t go to the UK for Bernice’s funeral. I would have loved to have seen Devon one last time.’ Tears threatened to mist Jack’s lashes for the first time on that emotional day. The sadness in her father’s eyes sent a shard of panic through Rosie’s heart. Was he hiding a health issue? Was there a secret he was protecting her from, another evil incursion by an incurable disease poised to steal away her only parent?
‘It’s okay, Rosie. I’m just tired. Long hours in the store, you know.’ Her father failed to see the irony of this last sentence, having spent the last ten minutes lecturing and berating his daughter against the vices of corporate Manhattan and her solitary lifestyle.
‘Rose adored Bernice, you know.’ His kind, wise eyes clouded as he grasped Rosie’s hand in his, its paper-thin skin stretched and liberally-flecked with age spots. ‘But she wished her sister had found a partner to spend her life with. Don’t end your days like Bernice, Rosie.’
‘Are you sure there’s no way you can close the store for the week whilst you go to the UK? Maybe the break from the routine will do you good?’
‘It’s not the store, Rosie.’ The look on her father’s face caused Rosie’s heart to contract and a giant fist squeezing the air from her lungs. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I could manage the trip. It’s a long flight, and what with the jet lag and… well. I know how much Bernice meant to you, darling. I’m sure she would understand why we can’t attend the funeral, what with the store and Freya on honeymoon and your work commitments. The UK is more than an arduous car ride away.’
With huge effort, Rosie refocused on the present. She glanced down into her lap where her slender fingers were entwined with her father’s arthritic ones. Her heart ballooned with love for him and the support he had given her and Freya. She knew he had struggled at times with the gargantuan task of raising two young girls – Rosie was eighteen but Freya had only just turned eight – whilst coping with his own grief. Her unconditional love for him had been one of the reasons she had so swiftly slotted her toes into her mother’s shoes to care for Freya – to help to alleviate his suffering in any way she could.
And now Freya was to become a married woman. Rosie adored her sister. Throughout her childhood she had braided her hair, mopped her brow when she was sick, played hostess to her school friends, baked cookies, dressed her up in home-stitched Halloween costumes. She had protected her from every adolescent disaster she could, even forgiven Freya for ‘borrowing’ her favourite cocktail dress – which she had cut up for a fancy dress outfit.
She truly hoped Freya had found her soul mate. Jacob was a great guy – girls would ditch their grannies for a husband like him. When she had met Jacob, Rosie and Lauren had dragged out their personalised wish lists of essential criteria for potential dates and performed a meticulous comparison with Jacob’s plethora of assets: he’d scored favourably with both girls. He offered Freya a life she could only have drea
med of when she’d crawled home destitute from her extravagant exploits in the party capitals of Europe. Having expended every couch-surfing opportunity from the Atlantic to the Adriatic and squeezed every last ounce of enjoyment from her itinerant lifestyle, she’d been forced to return home to Connecticut.
Rosie would do anything to make life easier for Freya. She had endured more than her fair share of pain in her life and didn’t deserve to suffer further. And anyway, after her father, her little sister was all she had left of her family. But was she proud of what she had produced? Had she, and her father, over-protected her? Had they been complicit in preventing her from learning how to stand on her own two feet, how to deal with the grenades that life threw in her path?
‘Come on Dad. You go down to the garden to reassure Jacob and the rest of the congregation that Freya hasn’t run off with the best man and I’ll join Lauren in the search.’ She witnessed the look of horror gallop across her father’s tired features and regretted her flippancy. After all, Freya was a saint in her father’s eyes, not the flighty little madam Rosie had been covering for over the last ten years.
‘Joking, Dad.’ She rose from the bed and placed her hand on his shoulder whilst she stooped to drop a kiss on his cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’
But still the butterflies played an active game of tennis in her stomach.
Chapter Three
Jack and Rosie descended the impressive sweeping staircase to be met by a frantic Lauren, hopping from one foot to the other like a toddler in need of a visit to the bathroom.
