Chapter 2 - Banished to the Alcove
Linda jerked her hands away from my wheelchair as if the polished metal had burned her. A fraudulent, practiced smile stretched across her face, the kind of smile she had used at garden clubs and charity galas for as long as I could remember.
"Oh, Margaret! No, no issue at all," Linda trilled, her voice pitching an octave higher than normal. "Claire was just telling me that she felt a bit chilly so close to the main doors. We were thinking the alcove behind the screen might be quieter for her. You know how sensitive her skin can be to drafts."
It was a shameless, pathetic lie.
I sat upright, my back aching from the brace beneath my gown, and looked directly at my mother. "I never said I was cold, Mom."
Linda’s eyes flashed with a warning so sharp it felt like a slap. *Play along,* that look said. *Don't you dare ruin this for your sister.*
Margaret Callahan didn't miss the exchange. Her gaze dropped to my face, lingering on the thick, uneven lattice of grafted skin that pulled at my cheek and the left corner of my mouth. Most society women in Charleston turned their heads after half a second, disguising their recoil behind polite coughs. Margaret did not flinch. Her stare was steady, almost forensic, but beneath its coolness lay an undercurrent of something ancient and unyielding.
"A draft?" Margaret said, her tone smooth as chilled bourbon. "The sanctuary climate control is set to seventy-one degrees, Linda. Surely the sister of the bride belongs in the front pew, beside her parents. Julian’s family would expect nothing less."
"Well, of course, normally," my father’s voice intervened. Mark Whitmore had materialized behind his wife. He adjusted his silk bowtie, refusing to meet my eyes. He looked everywhere except at me—at the stained glass, at the floral arrangements, at Margaret’s diamond earrings. "But Claire’s chair creates a bit of a traffic bottleneck during the recessional. Emily’s train is nearly nine feet long. We have to be practical, Margaret. We wouldn't want anyone tripping."
*A traffic bottleneck.* That was what my father called me.
"I can wheel myself wherever you need me to go," I said, my voice quiet, though the tremors in my throat betrayed me. "If my presence ruins the view, Father, you only had to tell me before I bought the dress."
"Claire, don't be dramatic," Mark hissed under his breath, leaning over my shoulder so only I could hear. "This is Emily's one day. She’s marrying into the most prominent family in the Lowcountry. Can you please, for once in your life, not make everything about your injuries?"
The cruelty was so casual, so practiced, that it barely surprised me anymore. Ever since the fire, my survival had been treated by my parents not as a miracle, but as an inconvenient, ongoing expense. When the local papers had run stories about the teenage hero who pulled her sister from a burning house, Mark and Linda had basked in the sympathy. But when the hospital bills piled up, when the insurance settlements were negotiated behind closed doors, and when my face failed to heal into something palatable, the sympathy curdled into resentment.
"Go on then, Mark," Linda urged softly. "Wheel your sister back before the organist begins."
Without waiting for my consent, my father unlocked the brakes of my chair.
"Mr. Whitmore," Margaret Callahan said. The single phrase had the authority of a gavel striking mahogany.
My father paused, his hands tightening on the rubber grips. "Yes, Margaret?"
Margaret tilted her head, her silver hair catching the morning light. "I find it fascinating how easily you push things out of sight when they no longer suit the room's decor."
Mark's jaw worked silently. He flushed red, the color creeping up from his collar. "I assure you, Margaret, this is simply a family arrangement."
"Indeed," Margaret said softly. "Family arrangements have a peculiar way of coming to light, don't they? Go ahead, take Claire to the alcove. I believe I shall join her for a brief word before I take my seat."
Linda blinked, clearly terrified. "Margaret, the processional—"
"Julian cannot marry without his mother present, Linda. The organist will wait for me."
My father pushed me down the side corridor, past the gilded columns, and into the shadow of the carved oak choir screen. It was dark here, lit only by a tiny utility bulb mounted on the wall. Dust motes danced in the dim air. Through the wooden lattice, I could see the center aisle—bright, floral, saturated in sunshine.
My father parked my chair, set the handbrake with unnecessary force, and didn't even look at me before turning on his heel. "Stay here until the recessional is completely over. Someone will bring you a plate at the reception."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the dark.
A moment later, the soft rustle of silk announced Margaret’s arrival. She stepped into the alcove, stepping gracefully around a stack of discarded hymnals. She didn't look pitying. She looked furious.
"They haven't changed, have they?" Margaret said, her voice dropping into an intimate, dangerous register.
I gripped the fabric of my navy dress. "Mrs. Callahan, you don't have to be here. I know how this looks. I didn't come to cause a scene at Julian’s wedding. I only came because Emily is my sister."
"Emily is a child playing at being a queen," Margaret said flatly. "And your parents are thieves who think that if they smile wide enough, God will forget what they did."
I frowned, looking up into her piercing eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Margaret reached out, her fingers warm and surprisingly strong as she touched the lace cuff of my left glove. "You think you’re hidden back here because of your scars, Claire. But that isn't why Linda and Mark can't look at you."
"I don't understand."
May you like
"You will," Margaret said, her eyes burning with an icy resolve. "Today, my son marries into your family. But before the ink dries on that certificate, the ledger will be balanced. Sit tight, my dear. And when the music starts, do not look away from that altar."
***
