Too Good to Be True(108)

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Miggs began.

“Wait. I’m sorry,” Andrew interrupted, his voice weak and shaking.

“Holy Mary, Queen of Heaven,” Margaret breathed. “Don’t you dare, Andrew.”

“Honey?” Nat’s voice was soft with concern. “You okay?” My stomach clenched, my breath stopped. Oh, God… Andrew wiped his forehead with his hand. “Nattie…I’m sorry.”

There was a stirring in the congregation. Reverend Miggs put a hand on Andrew’s arm. “Now, son,” he began.

“What’s wrong?” Natalie whispered. Margaret and I moved as one to flank her, instinctively wanting to protect her from what was about to come.

“It’s Grace,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I still have feelings for Grace. I can’t marry you, Nat.”

A collective gasp came from the assembled guests.

“Are you f**king kidding me?” Margaret barked, but I barely heard her. A white roaring noise was in my ears. I watched as the blood drained from Natalie’s face. Her knees buckled. Margaret and the minister grabbed her.

Then I dropped my bouquet, shoved past Margaret, and punched Andrew as hard as I could. Right in the face.

The next few minutes were somewhat unclear. I know that Andrew’s best man tried to pull him to safety (my punch had knocked him down) as I repeatedly kicked my once-fiancé and very nearly brother-in-law in the shins with my pointy little shoes. His nose was bleeding, and I thought it was a great look for him. I remember my mother joining me to beat him about the head with her purse. She may have tried to rip out his liver and eat it, but I didn’t remember the details. Vaguely, I heard Mrs. Carson screaming. Felt Dad wrap his arms around my waist as he bodily dragged me off Andrew, who was half lying on the altar steps, trying to crawl away from my kicks and Mom’s ineffective but highly satisfying blows.

In the end, the groom’s guests scuttled out the back, leaving the Carsons, the best man and Andrew, a handkerchief pressed to his face, huddled on one side. Natalie sat stunned in the first pew on the bride’s side, surrounded by Margaret, me, Mom and Dad as Mémé herded people out of the church like some geriatric border collie in a wheelchair.

“Left at the altar,” Natalie murmured blankly.

I knelt in front of her. “Honey, what can we do?”

Her gaze found mine, and for a minute, we just looked at each other. I reached out and took her hand. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

“He’s not worth your spit, Nattie,” Margaret said, stroking Natalie’s silky hair.

“Not worth the tissue you used to blow your nose,” Mom seconded. “Bastard. Idiot. Penis-head.”

Nat looked up at Mom, then burst out laughing, a hysterical edge to her voice. “Penis-head. That’s a good one, Mom.”

Mr. Carson came over warily. “Um, very sorry about all this,” he said. “Change of heart, obviously.”

“We got that,” Margaret snapped.

“We’re sorry,” he repeated, looking at Natalie, then at me. “Very sorry, girls.”

“Thanks, Mr. Carson,” I said. He nodded once, then went back to his wife and son. A moment later, the Carsons were gone, out the side door. I hoped vigorously that we’d never see them again.

“What do you want to do right now, honey?” Dad asked.

Nat blinked. “Well,” she said after a minute, “I think we should go to the club and eat all that good food.” Her eyes filled once more. “Yes. Let’s all do that, okay?”

“You sure?” I asked. “You don’t have to be brave, Bumppo.”

She squeezed my hand. “I learned from the best.”

AND SO IT WAS that the Emerson side of the guest list went to the country club, ate shrimp and filet mignon and drank champagne.

“I’m better off without him,” Nat murmured as she drank what had to be her fifth glass of champers. “I know that.

It’s just gonna take a while for that to sink in.”

“Personally, I hated him from the day Grace brought him home,” Margs said. “Smug little weenie. Estate law, please. Such a sissy.”

“How many men are stupid enough to dump two Emerson girls?” Dad asked. “Too bad we’re not mobbed up.

We could have his body dumped in the Farmington River.”

“I don’t think the Mafia accepts white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, Dad,” Margaret said, patting Nat’s shoulder and pouring her more champagne. “But it’s a sweet thought.”

Nattie would be okay, I could tell. She was right. Andrew didn’t deserve her, and he never had. Her heart would heal. Mine did, after all.

I wandered over to sit with Mémé for a bit. She was watching Cousin Kitty, who was as sensitive as a rhino, dancing with her new husband to “Endless Love.” “So what do you think of all this, Mémé?” I asked.

“Bound to happen. People should be more like me. Marriage is a business arrangement. Marry for money, Grace. You won’t be sorry.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, patting her bony shoulder. “But really, Mémé, were you ever in love?”

Her rheumy eyes were faraway. “Not especially,” she said. “There was a boy, once…well. He wasn’t an appropriate match for me. Not from the same class, you see.”