A murmur went through the guests the way wind goes through dry leaves. Someone laughed once, thinking it was a planned joke, and then stopped.
Emma reached the space between her father and the woman in the light-blue dress. She was breathing hard. The bleach-spot on her cuff, a pale constellation Claire had made years ago trying to get grape juice out of the sleeve, flashed when she lifted her arm.
"Dad, stop. Don't say the vows yet."
David's face changed before the rest of him did. The calm he had practiced did not so much break as step aside. "Emma? What are you doing up here?"
Lauren bent, not touching her, the way a person bends toward a dog that might be hurt. Her bouquet knocked against her knee. "Sweetheart, this can wait until after."