Chapter 7 - The Garden Ceremony
The wedding ceremony on Saturday afternoon was held in a sprawling cliffside garden overlooking the Pacific. White rose petals lined the stone aisle, string quartets played softly in the background, and seventy members of the extended Keller family sat in rows of white folding chairs, whispering gossip and adjusting their fascinators.
I stood at the back of the garden next to the groomsmen—a collection of corporate attorneys and finance bros who looked at my flannel shirt and dark blazer with polite, undisguised confusion—while we waited for the bride to walk down the aisle.
Brooke stood near the front as a bridesmaid, wearing a flowing, emerald-green gown that caught the sunlight and made her eyes look like stormy emeralds.
Every time she glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze found mine through the crowd. And every single time, a small, secret smile touched the corner of her lips.
By the time Natalie said *I do* and the champagne flutes were handed out for the reception, the tension in the air was thicker than California wildfire smoke.
The reception dinner was held under a massive white marquee tent draped with fairy lights and orchids. We were seated at the head table, flanked on the left by Eleanor and on the right by Derek and Ashley.
"So, Leo," Derek said loudly across the white tablecloth, lifting his champagne glass with a slick, condescending grin as the first course was served. "Brooke tells me you build custom furniture. Must be fascinating work. Though I have to wonder—how long can a guy survive on building coffee tables in a sleepy Oregon town before he realizes he needs to enter the real world?"
The table went quiet. Aunt Margaret stopped mid-bite of her lobster bisque. Eleanor froze, her eyes darting nervously between Derek and me.
I set my fork down with a slow, deliberate *clink*.
I looked straight across the table at Derek, holding his gaze without blinking. I was about to open my mouth and deliver a verbal dismantling that would have made him pack his bags and drive back to San Francisco before dessert, when Brooke beat me to it.
"Derek," Brooke said, her voice cutting through the marquee tent like a razor. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't sound angry. She sounded utterly, devastatingly bored. "You’ve been asking about Leo’s career for two days now. Are you worried that a custom woodworker has more genuine talent in his left thumb than you’ve displayed in your entire corporate career?"
Ashley’s face went white. Derek’s smile vanished instantly, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"I was just making conversation, Brooke," Derek muttered defensively.
"Save your conversation for Ashley," Brooke smiled sweetly, raising her own glass of champagne. "After all, you two seem to have so much in common. Especially when it comes to sneaking around behind people's backs."
A collective, audible gasp rippled down the head table. Uncle Richard actually choked on his wine, coughing into his napkin while trying not to laugh out loud.
I looked at Brooke, a wave of sheer, unadulterated admiration washing over me. She wasn't hiding behind anyone anymore. She wasn't the woman who needed protection from her family’s judgment or her ex-fiancé’s smug cruelty. She had grown a spine of pure titanium, and she had done it all on her own terms.
Derek slammed his glass down so hard the stem cracked, red wine spilling across the white tablecloth. Without a word, he stood up, grabbed Ashley by the arm, and stormed out of the marquee tent into the twilight, disappearing down the path toward the parking lot.
Silence hung heavy over the table for three seconds.
Then Aunt Margaret cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, and said loudly, "Well. The salmon is a bit dry, isn't it?"
Everyone burst into nervous, relieved laughter.
May you like
Eleanor Keller leaned across the table, staring at Brooke with a look of profound, stunned respect that she had apparently never reserved for her youngest daughter before. "Remind me," Eleanor whispered, "never to play poker with you."
***
