Diamond Fire

Just what I needed. I already felt like a clumsy trespasser in all of this beautiful luxury. This wasn’t my home. My home was in the loft of the warehouse. If there was any way to not be here, I would’ve taken it. But I loved my sister.

It would be a lot easier if we could do all this in Rogan’s house, but Rogan and Nevada declared Rogan’s home a wedding-free zone and hid there whenever they could.

I turned the corner and walked into a room where Nevada stood on a dais, wearing high-heeled shoes and the in-progress wedding dress, which currently was muslin marked with blue pencil lines. Two people crawled around her, pinning the hem.

Arabella stood in front of her, her arms crossed over her chest. Both Nevada and Arabella were blond, but Nevada’s hair was closer to clover honey, while Arabella’s resembled gold corn silk. I was the only brunette in the family, besides Mom. Right now the similarities between my two sisters were really apparent, and if you didn’t look at their faces, Arabella seemed like a shorter smaller copy of Nevada.

Ooo, I should tell her that next time we fought. She would hate that.

“What is it?” I asked.

“She wants lilacs in her wedding bouquet.”

“Okay . . .” Nevada had said she wanted carnations, but we could stuff some pretty pink lilacs in there. I didn’t see the problem.

“Blue,” Arabella squeezed out. “She wants blue lilacs.”

No and also no. “Nevada . . .”

“I had to hide in a bush of French lilacs yesterday and they were very pretty and smelled nice. The card on the tree said, ‘Wonder Blue: prolific in bloom and lush in perfume.’”

I googled French lilac, Wonder Blue. It was blue. Like in your face blue. “Why were you hiding in a bush?”

“She was being shot at,” Arabella said with a sour face.

“So you stopped to smell the lilacs while people were shooting at you?” I couldn’t even.

“Mmm. I was in a greenhouse and they made a lovely hiding spot.”

I decided to go with logic. My sister was a logical person. “You asked for a spring wedding. You chose pink, white, and very light sage green as your colors. There is no blue anywhere in the wedding.”

“Now there is.”

“Your bouquet has pink carnations, pink sweet pea flowers, white roses, and baby breath.” Three varieties of pink carnations, because she couldn’t pick one. And Nevada would never know the panic in the floral designer’s eyes when we told her it had to be a carnation bouquet. Apparently, carnations weren’t upscale enough for Mad Rogan’s wedding. Poor woman kept trying to suggest orchids.

“And blue lilacs,” Nevada said.

“It will clash,” Arabella growled.

I googled sage bridesmaid dress, held the tablet toward Nevada, and scrolled through images. “Look at the flowers. Pink and white. Pink. Pink. White. Pink and white.”

“I don’t care,” Nevada said. “I want blue lilacs.”

And I want to fly away from here, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon, would it?

“Anyway, I have to get back to the office,” Nevada said. “Text me if anything.”

“The queen has dismissed us,” Arabella announced.

I dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

“I hate you guys.”

“We hate you back,” Arabella told her.

“We hated you before the wedding.”

“Before it was cool to hate you.”

“Get out!” Nevada growled.

I walked out of the room.

Arabella caught up with me. “We can’t do lilacs. It ruins the theme.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Sleep on it,” I told her. “Let’s go home.”

“Catalina,” a woman called.

I turned toward the sound. Arrosa Rogan, Nevada’s future mother-in-law waved at me from the doorway, from her wheelchair.

“May I speak to you in private, dear?”

Oh-oh. This couldn’t be good. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Arabella said.

Chapter 2

I followed Mrs. Rogan deeper into the room. The large office spread before me, walls and walls of bookshelves filled with books of every age, thickness, and color. Daylight spilled from the large arched windows on the right, and the polished floor of cream marble gleamed where sun rays touched it. Each window came with a reading bench equipped with turquoise cushions and ornate pillows. Mexican blankets, white, black, and lavender, were folded on each bench. Delicate Moroccan lanterns hung from the ornate ceiling that was painted with an intricate geometric pattern of pink, white, and blue.

It should’ve clashed, but instead it all melded into a perfect blend of Texas, Spain, and Morocco. There was something magical about it. Like opening a book of fairy tales and stepping through the pages into some fantasy castle. And Mrs. Rogan glided through it all with effortless elegance, a graceful queen of the palace. Even her wheelchair somehow fit.

I looked down on the floor. Of course, she fit here. She belonged here. It was her house. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that this house made me feel weird. Being here was like walking through an expensive furniture store or a museum filled with priceless antiques and being afraid to touch anything. It was someone else’s space and I just wanted to get out of it and go back to the familiar space of our warehouse.

“I would like to show you something.” A heavy leather-bound volume slid from the top shelf and floated to Mrs. Rogan’s hand. She opened it.

I came closer and stood on her left. On a thick page an old, yellowed photograph showed a man in a dark uniform and a beautiful woman in a black dress with a black veil, holding a bouquet of white flowers in her hand. A beautiful tiara secured the veil. In its center, under the highest peak, sat a stunning jewel shaped like a heart. It had to be the size of a walnut and it glittered even through the old worn paper.

“My great-grandmother at her wedding,” Mrs. Rogan said.

“Oh wow. But the dress is black.”

“Traditional Spanish wedding dresses are black.” Mrs. Rogan smiled. “Catholicism has this slightly morbid part to it. By wearing a black dress, Catholic women promise to love their husband until death.”

That was a little morbid. Who wants to think about death during a wedding?

“Black dresses for devotion and orange blossoms for fertility and happiness. The white wedding dresses didn’t come into fashion until British royals adopted it in the 19th century. Elite European families followed suit, but my great-grandmother was a holdout.”

Mrs. Rogan turned the page. Another beautiful bride, in a white dress this time, next to a groom in a black suit. The gown’s silk train was fanned out in front of them across the floor. The same tiara secured a beautiful veil.

“My grandmother.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Another turn of the page. A third bride in a white dress cinching her waist next to a man in a tuxedo, with a 1960’s hairstyle. The same crown holding back a veil that blew in the wind, but this time the photograph was in color and the blue green of the jewel took my breath away.

“My mother,” Mrs. Rogan said.

“She is also very beautiful.”

Why don’t we have this? As soon as I got home, I would buy a photo album online and get Grandma Frida and Mom to cough up their wedding pictures.

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Rogan turned the page and I saw her, young and radiant, next to a man who looked like Mad Rogan. She was glowing. Her gown was delicate like spiderwebs. The tiara perched on her dark hair as if it always belonged there.

“Wow.”

Mrs. Rogan laughed. “Thank you so much for cheering me up. I’m going to add Nevada’s picture to this album. Rogan is my only child, but I will be gaining a daughter and her picture will belong in this album.”

“She will be very honored,” I told her.

“Did you notice the tiara?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s called the Sealight Crown. Technically it’s a kokoshnik, not a crown, but crown sounds more impressive. The jewel is an aquamarine. Most people don’t know this, but natural aquamarine is often found in sea foam color. They heat it to achieve the light blue. But this stone hasn’t been altered in any way. This particular shade of blue green is important to our family.”