Love Can Be Murder

Rouge, 1987. She only got the chance to wear it two, three times a year at the most, so her wedding was the perfect occasion to remove it from her crown case.
    "Stand up straight, dear," Dee said. "And hold in your stomach."
    Angora tilted her head to accommodate her mother's hat, an enormous fuchsia creation designed by a famous gay clothier in New Orleans. Her mother didn't mind exploiting the talents of gays, she just didn't want them in attendance at the wedding. Of course, she didn't know about Mr. Fenton and Mr. Johnston, the "widowers."
    Her engagement ring glittered from this morning's ultrasonic cleaning. One-and-a-half-carat solitaire diamond, emerald cut, platinum setting. Dee stressed that Angora let Trenton know from the start that she expected a quality lifestyle. In fact, one of Dee's shower gifts to the couple had been a subscription to the DuPont Registry, which listed only the most expensive estates in the country.
    "Not for your first home, of course," her mother had told Trenton, "but certainly the next."
    "On three, everyone."
    Angora thrust back her shoulders and sucked in her stomach to the point of pain. She'd existed on carrots and popcorn for six weeks to get into this gown, but it'd been worth it. As a bonus, the carotene had put a nice ginger cast on her skin.
    "The bride keeps closing her eyes," the photographer whined.
    Dee poked her in the ribs, causing her to exhale abruptly. "For heaven's sake, Angora, keep your eyes open. How lazy can you be?"
    "The girl is probably tired, Dixie," her father said, which elicited a glare from her mother. She hated to be called "Dixie."
    "On three," the photographer yelled.
    "Watch the laugh lines," Dee murmured in her ear.
    She inhaled, arched her back, diluted her smile, and bugged her eyes.
    "Got it!"
    "Looks like rain," her father said, nodding to the charcoal-colored clouds rolling in from the west.
    "Shush, Jackson, it simply can't rain today."
    "If you say so, dear." He winked at Angora.
    She grinned back, laugh lines or no. Her father was a saint to put up with her mother.
    "Now just the bride and the father."
    Her dad stepped in and put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, honey, for turning out to be such a good person."
    She wasn't such a good person, but she was relieved her father thought so. Relieved and a little guilty.
    "I hope you and Trenton will be as happy as"—he shot a glance toward her mother, then cleared his throat—"will be happy."
    "We will be, Daddy."
    "Now the bride and the mother."
    Dee hummed with disapproval. "Really, Angora, you have the most confused look on your face."
    "How would you like for me to look, Mother?"
    "Don't be snide, young lady. For another hour, you still answer to your father and me. Stand up straight."
    Angora bit her tongue so hard that tears clouded her eyes.
    "Okay, that's it," the photographer said. "I'll see everyone at the front of the church after the ceremony."
    Which couldn't come soon enough. But she had to endure another layer of hair lacquer and a makeup touch-up under Dee's supervision, all the while standing because the gown could not look creased. Her feet ached, her stomach churned, and she was light-headed with anticipation. This must be how a prisoner felt just before being paroled—the incarceration was at its most suffocating moments before freedom.
    Her mother sighed. "I'm not sure the chignon was a good choice, but it's too late now. You look a little puffy, dear, did you use Preparation H under your eyes like I suggested?"
    She nodded, realizing it was the remnants of the anti-inflammatory cream that were making her blink. She'd probably go blind during the ceremony.
    "I took the liberty of having Dr. Henry prepare a little care package for your trip, dear. You'll find it in your purse."
    Dr. Henry, her gynecologist? "What kind of care package?"
    "Oh, you know, precautionary implements. I know you and Trenton will be having children, but it's considered gauche these days to become pregnant on your honeymoon." She sniffed, then walked away.
    Angora blinked. Her mother had never talked about birth control before, or even sex for that matter. At age nine when she'd asked for specifics, Dee had declared sex a messy business that Angora was better off not knowing about. "Your husband will take care of everything," she'd promised. "Just keep a towel handy."
    Her wedding gift to Trenton was her virginity, and she couldn't wait to part with it. Dee had been holding it