they were going to get back together, but that they weren’t. They were too comfortable with each other post-separation. They were friends, and nothing more.
The last dance of the night was to “Every Breath You Take,” the Police song, done in a bossa nova style. She and Bruce danced close to each other, and she could feel his breath against the hollow of her throat as he mouthed along with the lyrics. Not for the first time, she thought how creepy the words of the song actually were.
“What did you think of your wedding day?” Bruce asked Abigail as she rested her head against his shoulder. She thought she could probably fall asleep before the end of the song.
“Oh, it was okay.” She smiled at him and for a moment he looked concerned, then he smiled back, realizing she was joking.
“Yeah, just okay.”
“I requested ‘(Don’t Fear) the Reaper,’ and the band didn’t play it.”
“Assholes.”
“And I didn’t eat one oyster.”
“Neither did I,” Bruce said.
“But I did get married.”
“Ditto for me,” he said, and she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. He looked tired, too, but in a good way. Happy-tired.
“I couldn’t be happier, Bruce.”
“Are you ready for the honeymoon?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’ve barely thought about it because all I’ve been thinking about is today.”
“And it’s not over yet.”
“Technically, it is. We’re into our second day of marriage already.”
After the dance, and after they’d said good night to the few remaining guests, they walked down the flagstone pathway to the carriage house that they were staying in. There was a lone guest standing in a nearby cluster of trees, smoking a cigarette, the smell of it wafting toward them. Abigail, breathing it in, had a sudden vivid sense memory, the smoke bringing her back to that night in California. But it wasn’t just the smell of a cigarette that was bringing her back; it was more than that. Whoever was smoking in the trees had to be smoking the same cigarette that Scottie had that night at the vineyard. They’d been Gauloises, those unfiltered French cigarettes that had made Abigail feel as if she’d spun around in place about ten times. She stared toward the man smoking, but he was completely in shadow, only the orange tip of the cigarette showing where he was.
“You okay?” Bruce said.
“Yeah, sorry. Do you know who that is, smoking?” As soon as she said it, panic grabbed at her. What if it was actually Scottie, and what if Bruce made his way over there?
“My friend Mike, probably. Why, you want one?”
“Ha, no.” They kept walking. The night had turned cold, and she shivered. She leaned against Bruce as he opened the door to their room, then he lifted her over the threshold, Abigail screaming in genuine shock. The four-poster bed was turned down, and there were fresh flowers throughout the room. Abigail’s bags had been brought over, and she got her toiletries and her overnight bag and went into the bathroom. There were flowers in there, too, and several lit candles. The stone floor was heated.
She stared in the mirror for a moment, and told herself that she was paranoid. Scottie hadn’t stalked her all the way to the wedding.
He stalked you to New York.
Besides, all cigarettes smelled the same, didn’t they? And people were always smoking at weddings, even people who no longer smoked. She’d spotted Kyra smoking earlier, and her uncle Evan, who’d quit years ago. It made no sense that it was Scottie lurking around her wedding. Why would he come? To watch it from afar? No, if he had decided to come, the only reason would be to break up the event somehow, and he hadn’t tried to do that. It wasn’t him, just some other guest. Maybe even some other guest who liked unfiltered French cigarettes. It was possible.
She washed her face and got out of her dress. She’d brought a sheer nightdress in baby blue that had puffed sleeves and ruffles along the hem and put it on. She felt slightly ridiculous, but it was her wedding night and when else was she going to wear something like this? When she emerged from the bathroom Bruce was already in bed, naked from the waist up. She did a quick spin, the hem of the lingerie floating up, then got under the covers, where she tried not to think of the man in the trees, and Scottie, and the smell of French cigarette smoke.