The Lies That Bind(73)

    As Matthew hugs me hello, Mrs. Capell rushes toward me, kissing the air beside both cheeks, then enveloping me in a heavily perfumed embrace. “There she is! The beautiful bride-to-be!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Capell. And thank you for hosting this party. It’s so nice of you,” I say as it hits me that I’m going to soon have a mother-in-law. For some reason, this blows my mind more than the concept of having a husband.

“Oh, it’s our absolute pleasure,” she says, then looks at Scottie, taking both his hands in hers. “And you must be the famous Scott.”

“I am, indeed,” he says, beaming. “But please—call me Scottie.”

“Scottie it is,” she says, still holding his hands.

He eats this up, of course, kicking into his autopilot schmoozing, complimenting Mrs. Capell on her “lovely home,” then shaking hands with Mr. Capell. Meanwhile, a photographer hovers a few feet away, snapping candid shots.

“Shall we get a few posed pictures before the guests arrive?” Mrs. Capell asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer before swiftly leading us into the living room and efficiently orchestrating a series of formal photos. First me and Matthew alone, then the two of us with both mothers, then the two of us with all four parents, then the three men, then the three ladies, then my family with Matthew. Then the Capells with me, while Mrs. Capell laments that Lizzie is in Paris for work.

The second we’re finished we return to the foyer as a pair of white-gloved caterers emerge from the wings, each balancing flutes of champagne on a silver tray.

“Everyone take a glass!” Mrs. Capell says.

Once again, we all do as we are told. Matthew returns to my side, sliding his arm around me, and telling me how beautiful I look.

“Doesn’t she?” Mrs. Capell chimes in, then compliments my dress.

I thank her, wondering if she knows the backstory—that Amy picked it for me and her son paid for it. Something in her eyes tells me that she does, and I feel a stab of embarrassment.

    “So how about a toast?” Mr. Capell says, raising his glass.

“Go for it, Dad,” Matthew says.

Mr. Capell clears his throat as he looks at me. “Cecily, I can’t tell you how happy we are with the news of your engagement to our son. I’ll save the good stuff for later tonight—but for now, I’ll say that we can’t wait to welcome you into our family. Cheers to Cecily and Matthew!”

Everyone echoes the sentiment as we all make eye contact with one another before sipping champagne. Even I take one tiny sip.

A second later, my mother dives right in. “So. We’ve been discussing the wedding. Right, Helen?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Capell says, nodding, her sapphire drop earrings sparkling. “We have.”

“And anyway…the thing is…we all think this winter wedding idea is a huge mistake,” my mom says. “At least if you do it this winter.”

“All righty then,” I say before giving Matthew a deer-in-the-headlights look.

His grip tightens around my waist. “And why’s that, Mrs. Gardner?” he asks in his most diplomatic voice. I briefed him on our conversation last night, so he’s ready for this.

She goes through her weather concerns, and then says, “And it’s just way too soon.” She looks at Mrs. Capell, who also takes the diplomatic route.

“Well, you and Matthew need to do what’s best for you…but I’m worried it won’t give us enough time,” Mrs. Capell says, looking at me.

“Not nearly enough time,” Mom says.

“And the holidays are in between,” Mrs. Capell adds. “So that will crunch things further.”

    “Exactly,” my mom says. “What’s the rush? It’s not like this is a shotgun wedding.”

All four parents laugh as my flute slips from my hands. Horrified, I watch it tumble in slow motion, then crash onto the marble floor in an explosion of crystal and bubbles, like a cliché from a movie.

For one chaotically still second, nobody moves or says a word. Then both caterers spring into action, one ushering us out of harm’s way while the other sweeps up the shards of glass with a broom and dustpan.

On the verge of tears, I say I’m sorry, apologizing for more than just broken glass and spilled champagne.

Under his breath, I hear Scottie quoting Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire: It ain’t a party till something gets broken.

“It’s fine, dear,” Mrs. Capell tells me. “It’s just a glass.”

More awkward silence follows before Matthew steps up and says, “So. About that…shotgun wedding thing…”

It’s not the artful opening I expected from my usually polished fiancé, but it’s as good a segue as any at this point.

I catch Scottie’s jaw drop with a hint of glee as Matthew continues. “The reason we want to get married in January…is that…we actually do have a bit of a time crunch.”

“What sort of a time crunch?” Mrs. Capell says, now looking worried.

“Well, a nine-month sort of time crunch…”

Both mothers stare back at us, their eyes wide.

“Cecily and I are expecting!” Matthew says.

More silence, followed by a long, exaggerated wooo-hooo from Scottie. I know what he’s trying to do, but it backfires, making everything infinitely more awkward.