Warmth is a prospect of pretense. There is not a value of warmth real enough to elicit a stable resolution nor a level deep enough to satisfy all longing or disgust for the brittle weather. Some would consider my predisposition for heat as insane. Though, I couldn't blink the misty weather if I tried.
Even the sweltering Caribbean temperatures couldn't cure the chills that have always swept down my arms and the breath of cold that has always stuck to the back of my neck.
Living in the United States for just over a half decade, I had grown to realize my definition of summer was ruptured, so much so that my winter equaled autumn and my autumn equaled spring. This fact was evident before my family departed from Ireland, but the notion was subdued by the repetitive complaints of neighbors regarding the climate. Somehow I puzzled this cycle—my constant coldness—into normality despite times in my home country being snappier.
To think, we never took a holiday to any coast but off Denmark and northern junctions of Ireland before moving to the United States. Gorgeous as it may be, the cold is inescapable at that coastline at that quaint Denmark beach house. Besides, the beach house Arthur and I bought two years ago was preferable, even when the real estate market disagreed. Callum would like the ice water hut better anyway, and his soon-to-be wife too.
"You can't say that about them, Marie. Don't you trust them with the key?" Arthur questioned. He tilted his head to the side, only a bit, the way he did when he was in deep thought.
I laughed winterly. "With a spare."
"You're being unfair." He sighed. "They are perfectly capable adults."
"Callum is," I replied. "He can have the key—the new spare."
"You didn't—"
"I did," I cut in, "He can have the deed too, a permanent end to a beginning" —a scathing chuckle rose in my throat— "Metal means nothing without paper, dear."
Arthur shifted, pressing his lips into a thin line to hold any biting words in. Any other day, he would have whispered a quiet phrase of disagreement. I knew he was thinking up what he wanted to say, something he wouldn't dare utter to ruin the mood floating about. The bride would adore such a thing, I'm sure. Would it not be lovely to have the groom's parents frolicking about, not so cheerfully, might I add, with strings of insults looked up in a thesaurus on their tongues and the discharge of the past teetering close by?
He adjusted his navy tie and turned from me.
Black suited back now a manikin for a face, I made no move to spin him around or step in his peripheral. Calculating my next moves, I drew my cashmere scarf closer. The beige material not only provided some relief from the light wind but also acted as a distraction, just enough time for me to look around and assert a resolution to Arthur. End trials before they begin, per se.
I opened my mouth.
"I'm going to the restroom," Arthur murmured, whirling in the opposite direction from which we came.
I followed his tracks with my eyes, wondering how much time he could strike up before the ceremony—there were less than fifteen minutes to spare. Arthur was too time-conscious to leave and come back late. No, something else was amiss, enough for him to notice the inevitable delay of the processional. The man walked as if clocks were not ticking in his ears. Purposefully, he wound his way around the arc of chairs, careful to step around the silver carpet and the flower displays neatly assorted across the space.
Anna outdid herself.
Rather, Donald outdid himself. The bugger struck me as an over-the-top nitwit since the first day I encountered him. He could never seem to lose the power tie, either, not even today. That thought made me laugh a bit. There was no wonder Anna was... Anna.
Miss Anna Gilmour was a two-sided coin, a falsely advertised jeweler's diamond, and a minefield rock. An ice-cold rock.
"Goodness gracious!" The voice came in a querulous blare.
My eyes snapped left, the direction of the shout. Too clearly, my daughter's face came into view. Attached to her body was a rag for a dress, the dark color far too unsettling for any occasion and the puffed sleeves hideous in the light of day. The sleeves were distinctly recognizable. The bridesmaid dress. Anna had shown me a picture of the dress before. Somehow, I had forced myself to swallow all criticism and compliment the dress then.
Mia has a knack for making everything worse, doesn't she? Again, I laughed to myself, this time, humorlessly.
My chest fell further, my brain throwing chip after chip into the open air. The dress must have cost a fortune. Even if the dress was tasteless, that money was irreplaceable. So much money, wasted. Besides, people were staring, everyone staring, calculating new biting phrases meant to stab another human through the heart. Someone would feel the full force of Mia's actions, and that person wouldn't be her. Of course, it wouldn't. Why would Mia care about the money, the time, the people behind the creation of the dress?
She was the only one at fault, but I knew her actions would click a trail of dominos into motion. The carnage was on me, Arthur, Callum...
And Mia would feel none of it.
Ice rose quickly in my chest. I imagined myself shooting a shard of ice at Mia, pushing her behind an adjacent hedge, and unfurling my cashmere scarf over her rag. Which was exactly what I did, snatching her forearm and dragging her behind the head-high hedge.
"Put this on," I ordered, shoving my scarf at Mia. Silently, I hoped she would follow directions for once in her life.
Mia stared dumbly at my outstretched arm.
Sighing, I advanced and raised the scarf over her head. "We don't have time for this!"
"Don't even." Mia took a step back toward the bush. "I'm not a child! I can wear what I want."
"You're right. You aren't a child." Again, I held the cloth out for Mia to take. "But you aren't an adult either. Frankly, you don't have a choice of what you wear. Not here. This is your brother's wedding, for Pete's sake! You certainly don't have the right to ruin his day. Mia, at this rate, you will never get into fashion—"
"Mum, this wasn't about that!"
"Don't interrupt me, Mia." I took a deep breath, letting my snowball of thoughts tumble to the back of my mind. I could deal with her later. Now, I needed something to say, something to make her stop talking because I'm sure she wouldn't mind coming into the ceremony late, maybe making a scene all the while. Picking at an already sore wound seemed like the best fit. I continued, "You think that career is easy? It isn't. Fashion design isn't all about how good you are, Mia. Do you realize how difficult it is to break the industry? Will you be able to support yourself? Are you cut out for this career? What if you're unhappy once you get into the field? There won't be a way out."
"I..." She shook her head.
Gently, I tugged the scarf over Mia's head. She blinked rapidly, rubbing her face with both her palms, but no protests exited her lips. Still, she remained silent as I grasped her hand and began walking out into the open. She was frozen in place. For once, I saw her brain whirling in action. With this revelation in mind, I held her arm with one hand and rested my other on her back, swiftly emerging from the bush.
Shadows gazed down upon us as I scanned the crowd, finding the perfect place for Mia immediately. In the far back, there was an empty seat beside a young gentleman. From all of Anna's rambling, I recalled that the extra seating in the back was for aesthetic purposes, and no one would be disturbed or even risk a glance toward Mia.
I appeared from the shaded patch with Mia in tow.
Arthur shot me a wary look before letting his eyes skirt down to his watch.
Nearly in perfect sync, Arthur and I exchanged a word with our children, mine most likely more negatively compounding than Arthur's. "Be good," I murmured in Mia's ear. Arthur must have said something nice. Rightly, I couldn't imagine him uttering something that wouldn't fall on the opposite scale. We then crossed the distance to the seats located at the front of the arc, seating ourselves like civilized adults. I didn't look back at Mia. I couldn't feel her eyes on me either. The situation was no different with Callum and Arthur, their separation unnoticed by the younger party.
"You're scowling." Arthur nudged my elbow, eyes ahead of himself.
"You aren't."
"I'm not," he echoed.
"Then, what are you, Mr. Wallace?"
Turning toward Arthur, I found his lips twitching in what almost appeared to be a smile. Another wave of heat rushed through me. I bit my lip. He only did that when he held in obnoxious laughter. Too many ridiculous occasions have proved that observation correct.
"Happy for Callum." He peeked at his watch.
I clasped my hands tightly. "You find this amusing."
"I would be lying if I said no."
"Don't."
"Don't, what?"
Slowly, I realized where the conversation was headed. I didn't care. My brain acted without considering the incoming white-covered figure or the steady start of music. "Why aren't you backing me?"
Arthur's jaw ticked. "Your position isn't worth backing."
Staring into his stone features, I hoped he would notice my silent question. Why?
He blinked as if to say something about Mia or the wedding or the key to the hut off the coast of Denmark or Molly or the rapid beat of his heart against the face of the bride strolling down the aisle. There was no stopping the wedding. The bride was at the altar. Mia couldn't ruin the ceremony. Arthur cared too much for Callum's feelings. I cared for Callum's future.
No one would stop the wedding.
"Mia loves Molly," Arthur whispered.
I wanted to ask what the statement offered to the conversation, but I knew the reason deep, deep down. He wanted me to reach inside myself and pinpoint why Mia acted out. He wanted me to understand as he did. He wanted me to see what Mia wanted to say, what she could have said, what could have torn me apart, and most likely would. The phrase was molten lava, surging across any space in the distance of my world, decimating anything green.
My heart thundered in my chest, the sound bouncing off my eardrums. The sound was everywhere, in my head, my chest, my ears... The sound was in me and around me, but the noise didn't dare escape from me. The sound was simply white noise, never leaving but not distracting. The noise was simply a cold stream of thoughts, of reprieve from the sight ahead of me.
Mia loves Molly. We all did. But Mia... She was there. She saw her sister get hit by that shiny bucket of bolts.
There was forgetting. There was remembering. And Mia, she would remember for her version of flaming justice, I suppose.