Page 11 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

‘Our turn now,’ she said, and gave him a smile—no sign now of the nerves that he’d witnessed when she’d been alone outside.

Then he met her eyes...clear, sparkly and that gorgeous shade of blue.

No sign there either.

‘Shall we?’

He offered his arm as they were summoned. Moving the bouquet to her other hand, she took it, and he briefly caught her wrist.

There was his sign.

In that second he felt her pulse tripping in panic, felt the ice of her skin. And beneath the perfumed air that surrounded her was the indescribable yet to a trained warrior unmissable scent of fear.

Sahir glanced over. There was nothing in her expression that gave it away. Her hand had positioned itself on his arm, her fingers were as light as a little bird’s foot wrapped around a finger, and there was not even a slight tremble that he could detect on the bare arm next to his.

But for whatever reason, Sahir knew she was terrified.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he offered.

‘Of course.’

It was a very sedate affair.

There was a small cake on a silver stand, champagne and sherry had been served, and waiters were poised to serve afternoon tea to the residents.

The bride’s mother seemed too young to be in the nursing home. She sat there in a high-backed chair, her hair the same deep brown as her daughter’s and her skin smooth, with hardly a line.

‘A wedding?’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I need to get ready.’

‘You are ready,’ Grace responded, clearly used to reassuring her. ‘In a moment or two we’re going to cut the cake.’

‘Grace?’ she checked. ‘You’re getting married?’ She peered at Carter. ‘To him?’

Carter, as if he hadn’t been there before, politely shook her hand. ‘Mrs Andrews.’

‘Violet...’ The mother of the bride smiled in delight when she saw her. ‘You’re here too?’

‘Hello, Mrs Andrews.’

She let go of his arm and stepped forward to embrace the seated mother of the bride.

‘Josephine,’ she corrected. ‘I keep telling you to call me that. I haven’t been called Mrs Andrews since...’

Then she frowned, and there the pleasantries ended.

‘You’ve got a nerve...’ She started to rise from her seat. ‘Thief!’

‘Please, Mum...’ Grace was frantically trying to calm her mother down and throwing anxious, awkward looks towards her bridesmaid, who stood, frozen, as the tirade continued.

‘Violet Lewis!’ Mrs Andrews sneered. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

Only then did Sahir realise that Violet was wearing a dusting of blusher—her face had turned so pale that the pink now seemed gouged into her cheeks. In fact, she looked like a porcelain doll, her eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick painted on to pale, pale features.

Yet still she pushed out a smile. ‘I’ll go. I’m upsetting you...’ Her voice was bright, though a little too high.

Sahir heard the swish of her gown and the click of her heels as she moved quickly out of the room.

‘Damn thief!’ Mrs Andrews ranted. ‘We all know it was you!’

---