The Witness

began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”
    And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.
    “What did you say?” Mya demanded.
    “It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”
    “Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”
    Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.
    “Ma,” he said.
    Sunny nodded, let out a long sigh, then pushed to her feet. He rose as she did, as she reached out, folded him into her. “My baby,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Abigail, held out a hand.
    Unsure, Abigail got to her feet. “Mrs.—”
    Sunny just shook her head, gripped Abigail’s hand, pulled her into the fold. “I’m going to cry, just half a minute,” Sunny told them. “I’m entitled. Then I’m going in and getting that bottle of champagne we had left over from New Year’s Eve so we can toast this proper.”
    She held tight, tight, then slowly eased back to kiss Brooks on both cheeks. To Abigail’s surprise, Sunny took her face in her hands, laid her lips on each of Abigail’s cheeks in turn.
    “I’m glad of this. I’m going to get that champagne.”
    “She needs a minute.” Loren stood, walked to his son. “She’s happy, but she needs a minute.”
    He embraced his son, then turned to embrace Abigail. “Welcome to the family.” He laughed, then squeezed, lifting her to her toes.
    Everyone talked at once again, and Abigail found herself whirled between hugs, stumbling over the answers to questions about when, where, what about her dress.
    She heard the pop of the champagne cork over the questions, the laughter, the congratulations. She let herself lean against Brooks, looked up, met his eyes.
    Family, she thought.
    She could have family, and understood, now that she could touch it, that she’d do anything, everything, to keep it.

28
     
    W EDDING PLANS . A BIGAIL SAW THEM AS A SMALL, SHINY snowball rolled down a mountain. It grew, and grew, and grew, gathering weight, speed, mass, until it produced an immense, messy, thunderous avalanche.
    In the sunstruck afternoon in the Gleasons’ backyard, that avalanche roared over her.
    “So, are you thinking next spring?” Mya asked her.
    “Spring? I …”
    “No.” Under the picnic table, Brooks patted Abigail’s thigh. “I’m not waiting that long.”
    “Spoken like a man who doesn’t have the first clue what goes into doing a wedding. We had ten months for Sybill and Jake’s—and worked like dogs to get it all done in time.”
    “But it was beautiful,” Sybill reminded her.
    “I assumed we’d just go to the courthouse,” Abigail began, and was rewarded with stereo gasps from the women.
    “Bite your tongue.” Mya pointed at her.
    Sybill gave her sister an elbow in the ribs. “You want something simple.”
    “Yes. Very simple.” She looked at Brooks.
    “Simple, sure. I’m betting there’s a lot of simple between a run to the courthouse and the diamond jubilee forming in Mya’s mind. I’m thinking in the fall—time enough for a little fuss, not enough time to rent a circus tent.”
    “That’s less than six months! Less than six months to find the perfect dress, book the right venue, interview caterers, photographers—”
    “Photographers?” Abigail interrupted.
    “Of course. You can’t have your uncle Andy taking your wedding photos.”
    “I don’t have an uncle Andy.” And she’d always avoided photographs. Ilya had recognized her in New York, in a matter of seconds, on the street. If a photo of her somehow got online or in a newspaper it could—likely would—lead to discovery and disaster.
    “Which leads back to the guest list. I can help with our side. I have the list from mine, and from Syb’s. How many do you estimate from your side?”
    “There’s no one.”
    “Oh, but—” Mya didn’t need an elbow jab or the warning look from Brooks to cut herself off. She rolled on as if “no one” was perfectly normal. “That sure keeps it simple. What we need is a planning session, a ladies’ lunch—because you don’t