Bride & Groom

talking with friends, escorted two women with small dogs to their cars, and walked back up Concord Avenue. On the way home, neither of us mentioned the murders of Laura Skipcliff and Victoria Trotter. It never occurred to me to feel afraid; I took security for granted.
    As we were about to turn the corner from Concord Avenue to Appleton Street, a car pulled to the curb in front of my house. The driver emerged and called out, “Holly? Steve? Olivia Berkowitz. I’m glad I caught you. I was going to drop off these CDs of Ian’s so you’d have a chance to listen to them.”
    “Mac and Judith’s daughter,” I whispered to Steve, who’d met Olivia at the launch party at The Wordsmythe, where he’d also met dozens of other new people. At normal volume, I greeted Olivia, and then Steve did, too. On our own, neither Steve nor I would’ve invited Olivia in, but Rowdy and Sammy teamed up to stage a performance of effusive malamute hospitality, and because of the newly installed lights on the outside of the house, Olivia got a fine look at the father-and-son big-brown-eyes routine and ended up exclaiming about how beautiful the dogs were and how much they looked alike. Since she was awkwardly clutching the CDs in one hand, patting the dogs with other, trying to keep her shoulder bag from tumbling down her arm, and asking questions about Rowdy and Sammy, it seemed discourteous just to grab the music and vanish indoors. Consequently, we ended up in the kitchen, where Olivia accepted my offer of a drink by requesting decaf coffee.
    As I was putting on the kettle, getting out a filter, and so on, Olivia talked nonstop about Ian, who, according to his sister, underrated himself. “Daddy belittles Ian’s accomplishments,” Olivia said. “Mommy and I try to compensate.” The childish terms for her parents suited her appearance. Her light brown hair was in pigtails, and her loose blue-checked dress could’ve been a giant version of a baby outfit. I had to remind myself that Olivia was a married woman in her late twenties, old enough to drink the coffee I was making. It would’ve felt natural to prepare a children’s drink for her— say, hot cocoa with miniature marshmallows.
    “Mommy was happy that Ian showed up the other night,” Olivia said. “He and Daddy are both making an effort these days, and it’s good that Ian’s doing his part. Mostly, Ian just has the great original thing about his mother. Daddy just doesn’t appreciate... well, you’ll hear.” She patted the CDs. “There isn’t a stringed instrument that Ian can’t play better than everyone else who was ever born, and he has a pretty good voice, too, and he doesn’t even work at that.”
    “Your mother said he was real versatile,” Steve said. “Does he actually do weddings?” I asked.
    “Musicians have to take what they can get,” Olivia said. “Not that your wedding... really, he’d love to do it. He’s a gentle soul, and he could do anything you wanted if you just gave him a general idea, maybe early music before and during the service, and then bluegrass or Motown for the reception, if you want dancing. Or jazz?”
    “All this by himself?” I poured coffee. In my eagerness to hasten Olivia’s visit, I’d filled the kettle with hot tap water.
    “No, of course not, and his groups are almost as good as he is.” She tapped the CDs and sipped her coffee. I wished that she’d gulp it down and flee. Steve and I had dogs to take care of, and we wanted some time together. Alone! Olivia said again, “You’ll hear.” She took another sip of coffee and said, “So, Mommy says you’re making progress with your wedding.”
    “Excellent progress.” I tried to make the statement definitive, as if the matter required no discussion.
    “Mommy says you’re having it at someone’s house.”
    Steve laughed.
    I felt defensive. “It’s not just any old house. It’s on Norwood Hill in Newton. It belongs to two elderly sisters who are friends of ours. You must’ve met one of them, Ceci, at The Wordsmythe. Their house is beautiful, and it’s generous of them to open it to us. The caterer we want to use is a client of Steve’s, and some of the historic houses and so forth make you pick from a short list of approved caterers. And a lot of places don’t allow dogs. The Wayside Wildlife Refuge didn’t work out. Ceci’s house is big, and so is her yard, and we can use our caterer, and Ceci is crazy about dogs. It’s perfect.”
    You’d