Wedding Day: My Fiancé Put Another Woman in My Wedding Car novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Wedding Car

On the wedding morning Preston puts Tiffany in the bridal limousine and tells Claire to ride with her bridesmaids; she walks down the aisle and tells the groom she isn't marrying him.

I slept three hours in my childhood bedroom above the hardware store, and I woke before the alarm.

My father was already downstairs, in the good gray suit he had bought for my wedding, drinking coffee at the counter.

"Big day, Claire-bear." He tried to smile and it wobbled. "You don't have to be hungry. Just have toast."

I took the toast.

I did not tell him about the bed.

I told him one thing, standing by the paint-chip rack with the toast in my hand.

"Dad, I'm not marrying Preston today."

He set his cup down.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He cheated on me. I saw it myself."

My father's face went hard, and then it went worried, because he is a man who has paid rent to the Aldridge family for thirty-one years.

"The store," he said.

"The store is fine."

"Claire, you can't know that."

"I know it." I put my hand over his. "Walk me down the aisle anyway. Trust me for one more hour."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he nodded once and went to find his tie.

At nine-thirty, Jo helped me into the dress, forty small buttons up the back and lace sleeves to my wrists.

At ten, the car came.

I had paid for it myself, a white vintage Rolls-Royce with ribbon on the grille, because Preston said a limousine was "tacky" and I had wanted something that looked like a day I was proud of.

It stopped in front of the store with a driver in a gray cap.

The back door opened.

A woman in a white sundress got out.

Tiffany Lund.

Her hair was pinned up, and she held a clutch against her stomach with both hands.

On the sidewalk, my father stopped with his tie half knotted.

Jo said something under her breath that I won't repeat.

Tiffany did not meet my eyes.

"Preston asked me to come," she said. "He said it would be easier if we all rode together."

The driver cleared his throat and looked at a text on his phone.

"Mr. Aldridge's instructions, miss," he said. "Miss Lund rides with the bride. The bridesmaids are to follow."

I took out my own phone.

A message from Preston sat on the screen, sent two minutes earlier.

"Be gracious today. Tiff rides with you. Mother approved. Please don't make this ugly."

My father took a step toward the car, with his fists closed.

I put a hand on his chest.

"No, Dad."

"She's in your car, Claire."

"I know. Let her stay there."

I held up my skirt and climbed into the back of my own wedding car.

Tiffany slid across the leather to give me room, and the car pulled away from the curb.

Newport went by outside the window, the harbor, the masts, the old shops.

For a block, neither of us spoke.

Her hands shook on the clutch.

"He said you wouldn't mind," she said at last. "He said you were a very understanding girl."

"Did he say you wouldn't mind?"

Tiffany looked at me then.

Her eyes were green and tired, and they were wet.

"He said it was only for the ride," she said. "He said afterward he'd keep me in the little apartment on Spring Street."

"That's what he told me too," I said. "Somewhere else."

She closed her mouth.

She looked down at her stomach, and she said nothing else.

I noticed she kept her clutch pressed against her stomach the whole way.

I filed it away.

At St. Brendan's, the street outside was lined with cars.

Three hundred people stood on the steps in hats and good suits.

A photographer lifted his camera at the car door, saw two women stepping out, and lowered it.

Margaret Aldridge came down the steps in pale gray, with her pearls and her stage smile.

She took Tiffany by the elbow and said, quite cheerfully, "There you are, dear. I've saved you a seat in the second pew."

She never looked at me.

She said nothing about the car, the dress, or the ring that was gone from my hand.

Then she turned and gave me the full smile, the one that cost her nothing.

"Claire, darling. You look lovely. Do smile, there are cameras."

"I will," I said.

She patted my arm, a little hard.

"Good girl. Today is not the day for feelings."

I watched her walk Tiffany to the church door.

My father offered me his arm.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Go anyway."

The organ started.

The doors opened, and three hundred heads turned.

I walked the whole length of the aisle on my father's arm, and I did not look at the pews.

I looked at the man waiting at the altar.

Preston stood in his gray morning suit with his hands folded, as handsome as the day we got engaged.

He met my eyes, and the tiny nod he gave me said: good, you came to your senses.

Somewhere on the left side, a man in a dark suit sat alone in the front pew with his hands on his knees.

I did not look at him either.

My father kissed my cheek and let go.

I climbed the three steps and stood in front of Preston.

The officiant opened his book and smiled at the congregation.

"Dearly beloved," he began.

"Stop," I said.

The church went silent.

I looked at Preston, and I said it loudly enough for the back pews.

"I am not marrying you."

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