Chapter 6
Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows and cut through dust motes and the cloud of perfume that vied for attention over the scent of fresh cut gardenias and soft pink roses. Poppy ignored what felt like a lump of too-dry mashed potatoes in her throat as she tended to Sonja, the other bridesmaids chattering across where the bride sat in the center of the large closet that was used for bridal parties at the cathedral. Choir gowns were hung in color-coordinated order, the hues lined up according to the liturgical season. Being January before Lent and more significant to New Orleans, Mardi Gras, Sonja had decided against any colors reflecting either season, opting for more traditional bridal fashion sense.
“You don’t like the flowers in my hair.” Sonja’s brow furrowed and Poppy stopped adjusting the sheer veil’s headpiece. The bobby pins were refusing to cooperate with the beaded tiara.
“I love the flowers. Everything is perfect.” Except for the lack of bridal joy that Poppy had expected would ooze from Sonja today. “Do you want a sip of water, honey? Or something stronger?” She knew Sonja wasn’t a big drinker but her friend looked so forlorn, so anything-but-thrilled to be getting married that she had to try something.
“I’m fine.” Sonja swallowed, her jaw set in an uncharacteristically harsh line. “Just make sure this thing is on straight.”
“Whoa.” Poppy put down the bobby pins in her hand and placed her hands on Sonja’s shoulders. “What. Is. Going. On.”
Sonja wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m getting married. Anxiety is part of it, right?”
Sonja might be an accomplished attorney but at the moment she was the same woman Poppy had roomed with. Defensive as a cornered cat, with the claws to match.
“Jitters, yes. Crankiness, not so much. Do you want me to get Henry?” Poppy didn’t believe in luck of any kind any longer, good or bad. The right man would be by your side no matter what.
“No, that’s the last thing I need.” Sonja rubbed her temples, and a sick sense of dread filled Poppy’s stomach.
“Honey, what is it?” Her mind flashed to the sight of over four hundred people in the historical sanctuary, the grandly but tastefully decorated venue for the reception to follow, the planned brunch tomorrow morning before Sonja and Henry set off on their decadent honeymoon.
Stop it. This isn’t you, Henry isn’t Will.
“Sonja?”
Sonja remained silent and eerily still. Her face lacked its trademark glow and her eyes were glazed over. Poppy had to do something quickly or she feared Sonja wouldn’t make it down the aisle. She’d seen enough last-minute wedding cancelations up close to know a bride on the edge of taking off.
“Sonja, honey, listen to me. Do you need to talk to Henry? We can call him. Yes, let’s text him.” Poppy turned to get her tiny clutch and Sonja’s voice stopped her.
“No. Do not call anyone.” Sonja’s eyes raced around the room like a trapped raccoon. “I just need some air.” She headed for the nearest door, which happened to exit out into a tiny garden that was normally lush with greens but in the winter months more subdued. Just like Sonja.
Sonja sat on a concrete bench, her expression stunned.
“Your dress, Sonja. Are you sure you want to sit on that?” Poppy tried to lift the long skirt and train off the damp ground.
Sonja shook her head, slowly and deliberately. “It’s not going to work, Poppy.”
“What’s not going to work?” She had to ask the question but dreaded Sonja’s response.
“Look at me, Boo. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Baptist, about to walk down the aisle of one of the oldest Roman Catholic churches in America.”
“It’s not about the religion, hon. You know that and so does Henry. You agree on the big things. Didn’t you say it’s a way for you to celebrate your vows in community with all of your friends and family?”
“Not all of our family. And it’s not about the religion part. It’s about the differences in our backgrounds. Not the color, even. The culture, the fact that he grew up with everything money could buy and I never wore anything but hand-me-downs until I had my first job in college. Remember?”
Poppy nodded. Of course she remembered. Like Sonja, she’d grown up on hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. It had been a celebratory moment for both of them when they’d gone shopping together in New York City for new outfits. The first of many joyous occasions they’d shared. Poppy would be damned to let this particular joyous event go down the drain.
“Talk to me, Sonja. I don’t get it. I thought you’d be thrilled to have Henry’s parents show up last night, after all. They looked as I expected, but you and Henry seemed to handle it okay.”
“I was excited to see them, at first.”
“But?”
Sonja fiddled with the crepe overlay of her long skirt, her cocoa skin perfectly highlighted by the rich pearl hue. “They spoke to me when Henry went to the restroom.”
“You didn’t mention any of this last night.” Poppy regretted that she hadn’t stayed with Sonja, insisted on a girls’ chat the night before the wedding.
“I couldn’t. I can’t tell Henry how awful his parents are. I decided to ignore them, to ignore all aspects of it. I’m going to resign from the law firm when we get back…”
“From your honeymoon?”
Sonja shook her head, her braids set off by the waxy leaves of the magnolia tree behind the bench they sat upon. “There won’t be a honeymoon.” She looked at Poppy with her big round dark green eyes and Poppy knew the intent. Whenever Sonja was certain about any decision, whether in life or law, she got the same determined glint of steel.
“I’m calling Henry.” Sweat dripped between Poppy’s shoulder blades and her sweaty hands made gripping her plastic-covered phone difficult.
“No, you’re not. I will.” Sonja’s hand covered Poppy’s, stilling her fingers. “Give me five more minutes alone. I need to…to say a prayer. Then I’ll call Henry and work it out.”
Always a sucker for a spiritual moment, Poppy stood up. “All right. Five minutes. But then I’m coming back here and we’ll do whatever you want me to.” She wasn’t going to allow her dearest friend to mess up the best thing that had ever happened to her because of some overbearing racist bigots who happened to be her future in-laws.
Poppy let herself back into the bridal room and found five sets of concerned eyes staring at her.
“Where’s Sonja?”
“They’ve seated her mother!”
“The hostess says we have to start the procession now!”
Poppy held up her hands in the universal sign to shut the freak up. This was her territory, her bailiwick. “Ladies. Sonja is taking a minute to meditate, to calm down before she enjoys the most important event of her life. She needs each one of us to stay grounded.” She made a point of making eye contact with each bridesmaid, not relenting until each face let go of concerned lines and puckers. “That’s better.” She motioned toward the entry to the narthex. “Let’s go ahead and start lining up for the procession. Sonja will be back in here before it’s my turn to walk.” She sent up a silent prayer that this was the case.
The hostess was waiting at the entry to the sacristy when Poppy looked out of the bridal room. She went back in the room and watched as, one after another, each bridesmaid disappeared in a fluff of the palest pink pearl, the tulle skirts echoing the femininity and nod to the past, similar to Sonja’s gown.
Poppy had helped dozens of nervous brides and bridegrooms pick out gowns and tuxedoes. Sometimes she was asked to be there on the wedding day, too, as an extra measure of reassurance. Only one or two had bailed. Three if you counted Will, but that was well before their scheduled wedding day.
Poppy resented that any thought of Will materialized at all. She had thirty seconds before it was her turn to walk down the long, centuries-old aisle of St. Louis Cathedral. Her palms sweated and her heart pounded as if she were the one getting married.
Before the hostess could come in and start asking about her and the bride, Poppy ran back into the side garden to get Sonja. She’d drag her friend down the aisle if she had to. Henry was the love of Sonja’s life and there was no reason for them to not marry. Fuck the Boudreauxs.
“Sonja—” She gasped in horror at the sight of the garden just as her phone buzzed to indicate a text. From Brandon.
WHERE ARE YOU?
“Sonja!” she shouted, uncaring of anyone overhearing her frantic cry. The garden she thought was a courtyard actually opened up onto the cemetery, with easy exit to the large parking lot. Her heart thudded like a sailor’s feet on the gallows. Shakily, she typed a reply no maid of honor ever wants to make.
SONJA IS GONE.