The McCloud Home for Wayward Girls

Rubbing her temples, Jill watched the circus unfolding before her. A tent worthy of Barnum & Bailey flapped in the late summer breeze. Odd people scrambled about with purpose. A slip of a woman juggled a tray of wineglasses. A tall man hurried past with a vase the size of a dunk tank filled with sweet peas. Sweet peas! Jill had heard nothing of sweet peas. So far as she knew, the flowers—all of them—were roses. And she ought to know; she was, after all, the bride.

How had she let it come to this? How had she allowed her mother to wrest control of the event, the event. A fat man lumbered by under a stack of folded chairs.

Early in the planning stage, Jill had been under the now-laughable assumption that she would have an active role and deciding voice in the arrangements. She had been wrong. She had also thought that, as a chosen life partner, Keith would be her consummate supporter and confidant. Wrong there, too. Much to Jill’s ire, not only had Keith given Ruby carte blanche to “go big,” he was her accomplice, as well as banker.

“What? Now?” Jill was certain that his recent exercise regimen was new. His complaints of aching calf muscles and an empty tube of IcyHot were evidence to this theory.

Did Jocelyn say “tone-up” or “tune-up”? Neither made any sense. It wasn’t as if Keith needed some beach-ready physique. With all that had happened in the last two months—their engagement, Keith moving in, Jocelyn moving in, Ruby’s follow-up medical appointments—there had been more than enough to coordinate. The honeymoon, it had been decided, could wait.

“Honestly, Jill.” Jocelyn again checked the time. “Move it. After hair and makeup, we have to get you into that dress.”

The dress. Another sore subject. She had chosen a blue so pale and crystalline it reflected light, and attention. Later, she’d been pressured into an ecru, a light creamy vanilla. She had no idea exactly when the conspiracy against her had been hatched, but the end result was a dress so incandescently white it was probably viewable from space, and possibly already being tracked by NORAD. And don’t get her started on the train, a ridiculous ankle-buster of an invention. Or the veil. Because impaired vision was the perfect complement to floor-length ball gowns, high heels, and an audience.

Jocelyn applied a final brush to Jill’s eyelid and stepped back to examine her work. An end result, Jill had to admit, she couldn’t have achieved herself. And her hair. What a transformation. The stylist had had to tug until her biceps rippled and resort to a straightening product that could strip the Pacific of its waves, but it was all worth the effort. Jill’s hair was as sleek as copper sheeting.

“No time for a weather report,” Jocelyn said. “We’ve got a schedule to keep. Come on, let’s spoon you into that dress.”

The dress. If the color was all wrong, at least the style and fit were not. The simple silk bodice, Empire waist, and billowy tulle skirt were heavenly. And maybe Jocelyn did know a thing or two about color. The shade she chose for the bridesmaids’ dresses was a perfect green: heart-chakra green, as she called it.

“How’re we doing in here?” Ruby poked her wigged head through the door. Her chemo-ravaged hair had yet to grow in, so, on this occasion, the wig was a necessity. It was a new one, however: ash-blond, cropped, and—for Ruby—decidedly matronly. As was her dress, an elegant jacketed raw silk in dusty rose. Ruby padded across the room, coming to a stop in front of the bride. “You look beautiful.” She brought her clasped hands to her mouth. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of a wedding, a perfect wedding.”

“Yes, dear,” Ruby said. “Your father so wanted bagpipes at our own ceremony. It was his only regret. Well, that and . . . oh, never mind. I’ll ruin everything if I blabber on.” She clapped her hands. “Jocelyn, Fee! Off you go.”

Something Ruby had just said needled Jill. And as much as there were times, Jill supposed, when surprises were welcome, expected even, as much as surprises could be—birthdays and Christmases, for instance—but your wedding day? Moments before the march down the aisle?

She wouldn’t. Was, in fact, a lockjawed, rock-faced automaton with eyes fixed determinedly ahead. One look at Ruby, though—so giddy with the day and so honored to be the down-the-aisle escort—and Jill resolved to weather the unforeseen. Besides, it couldn’t be any worse than the bagpipes, which, thankfully, had been replaced by an instrumental rendition of “Greensleeves”: the musical signal for Keith and his groomsmen to take their places, for Jocelyn and Fee to begin the procession, and for Ruby and Jill to be in position under the floral archway.

Mendelssohn’s traditional march began. Judging by the tremble in Ruby’s hand and the slightest of tiny catches in her breathing, Jill knew her mom was crying. She didn’t dare look. Tears, she knew, were more contagious than Ebola. She did, however, have several tissues tucked into her bouquet. Just as she retrieved one, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ruby scratch up and under her wig and emerge with her own hankie. She could now hazard a look, and broad smile, at Ruby. Giggles: the antidote to tears.

They got about halfway down the aisle, when a flash of color caught Jill’s eye. She blinked, cursing the veil and its foglike cover. A few more steps, though, and her breath caught.

There stood Keith in full Highland dress. As any good Scottish girl could, Jill recognized the obligatory parts: the Prince Charlie jacket with brass buttons, lace-up Jacobite shirt, shaggy sheepskin sporran, ghillie brogue shoes, thick woolen hose, and the kilt—not just any kilt, her father’s kilt, the McCloud clan tartan.