For Better Or Worse. Jill Amy Rosenblatt
a rainbow of couture hurried past him, as if afraid of melting under the onslaught of the sun. The beautiful people cast cool glances at his jacketless form and open-collared shirt.
“I told Emily, June is best,” he heard a woman say. “There is nothing more romantic than a summer wedding in New York.”
He squinted through the smoke at the men in their finely tailored suits; no doubt financial wizards, like the groom. He wondered if Michele had chosen a man like one of these to take his place, to be her next husband. Feeling his blood pressure rise at the thought of his ex-wife, he threw his cigarette down, grinding it into the concrete with the tip of his polished shoe. That was the first and last time he’d be walking down the aisle. Turning, he entered the church.
Inside the narthex, he inhaled the welcome blast of frigid air and shrugged into his jacket. A bridesmaid emerged from a side door. His eyes traveled the length of her, lingering on the rose-colored slip of a dress hugging her slim form. Her blond hair was swept into a neat French twist and she fidgeted with the small bouquet of orchids in her hand. Wondering what scent she wore, he was instantly sorry he wasn’t closer. She caught him in his scrutiny, her delicate features furrowing into a frown.
“Which side?” she asked.
Ian couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed or bored. “Sorry?”
Her hazel eyes moved over him. “The bride or the groom’s side?”
“Neither,” Ian said, amused to find himself the subject of her examination.
She pointed to a large book lying open on a stand. “Would you care to write a wish to the happy couple?”
“I don’t think it will help.”
She gave a short, clipped laugh before catching herself. “Your accent—England, no, Scotland.”
“Very good.”
“You’ve come a long way to witness a wedding when you have no faith in marriage.”
“I didn’t say that. It’s not for everyone though, is it?”
“Let me guess, it’s not for you.”
“Not for me, no.”
She chuckled, this time without the smile. “Still finding yourself?”
“I’m not lost.”
“You need your space.”
“My flat is quite roomy.” He smiled, enjoying her look of irritation.
She straightened. “A man who knows his own mind, how refreshing.” She waved the bouquet toward the chapel. “Sit anywhere you like.” Turning on her heel, she disappeared back into the room she had come from.
Entering the sanctuary, Ian spotted Robert maneuvering his sturdy six-foot frame through the clusters of guests chatting and laughing in the aisle. He approached his friend and received Robert’s firm handshake.
“Eighty grand on flowers,” Robert lamented. “There isn’t a pink rose left in Manhattan. What a waste.”
“It’s not a waste. They’ll use them for the divorce party.”
Robert gave a laugh.
“How do you know what the flowers cost?”
Robert leaned in. “Because the groom hasn’t shut up about it since we got here.”
Ian glanced over his shoulder toward the narthex. “Did you notice the girl I was talking to?”
Robert nodded. “That’s Karen’s friend, Elizabeth, a money manager. Did you notice she’s not your type?”
“You don’t know what my type is,” Ian shot back.
“Oh, I beg to differ. As your oldest friend, I have seen your taste across five countries and two continents. She’s not your type.”
Ian gave Robert a sharp look.
“But I don’t interfere anymore.”
They stood in awkward silence.
“If you’re that interested, I can put in a good word. If I tell Karen about your many chivalrous exploits, I’m sure it will get back to Liz. Rescuing damsels in distress stranded by no-good boyfriends—”
“It was hardly a rescue.”
“Providing room and board to countless weary travelers, including myself.”
Ian smirked. “All right, are you done amusing yourself? How much have you told Karen about me?”
Robert shrugged. “Nothing. You told me not to say anything. You haven’t even told me what you’ve been doing for the past two years. Why all the secrecy?”
Ian shrugged, glancing back at the narthex. He thought he caught sight of Elizabeth again. “It’s not secrecy. It’s a new country, a new life.” He turned back to Robert. “Best to leave the past where it is, don’t you think?”
“Whatever you want.” He gave Ian the once-over. “You’re not wearing a tie.”
“I was hoping they’d ask me to leave.”
“Not a chance. The bride loves you and your no-tie, who-gives-a-shit artist attitude.”
“If she truly loved me and my attitude, she would’ve bought three of my paintings, not one.” Ian put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Now, let’s have it. What’s your prediction?”
“One year. Then they flame out.”
“And you’re never wrong.”
“Almost never.”
Among their friends, Robert’s keen understanding of human nature had rendered him a seer. His uncanny aptitude for foretelling the future was an urban legend, with one exception—the happily-ever-after he had predicted for Ian’s marriage.
Elizabeth and Karen watched Robert and Ian from the narthex.
“So who’s the operator talking to your betrothed?” Elizabeth said, taking in his slicked-back blond hair curling over his open-collared shirt and the short, trimmed beard. She lingered over his slim, wiry frame. I am enjoying this way too much.
“Robert’s best friend, Ian MacKay, from Scotland.”
But he hasn’t been there in a while, Elizabeth thought. The accent was watered down, the thick brogue long gone.
“I don’t know that he’s an operator, he seems like a good guy. Robert didn’t say much about him.”
“He wears the most delicious cologne,” came a voice from behind them. They turned in unison, finding Emily glowing in her Badgley Mischka gown. It was perfect for her, the scoop neckline revealing the right amount of cleavage, the dropped waist making her five-foot-nine-inch frame seem even taller, more regal. A descendant of a founding father and subsequent captains of industry, Emily’s money was as old as her lineage and it showed; she didn’t walk, she flowed, her elegance a hallmark of her birthright.
“And, his beard is like velvet,” she added.
Elizabeth feigned a look at her watch. “You still have twenty minutes. Would you like to switch grooms?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “I kissed his cheek.”
Elizabeth folded her arms.
“Okay, both cheeks, it’s the European way.” Emily laughed, coloring. “I invited him for tea a few times, strictly business. He’s going to paint my portrait.”
“And why is this the first I’m hearing about Ian MacKay of Scotland and his beard of velvet?” Elizabeth said, turning an enquiring eye on Karen.
“He just got here,” Karen said. “You haven’t come up for air since your promotion. I hardly see you anymore.”