She looked at her mother, who had chosen the night over the truth and was now watching the truth walk on its own.
James reached them as Claire stopped a few feet from the hedge.
“What happened.”
Claire said, “Ask my maid of honor. Ask my father. Ask my mother who told me not to make a scene.”
Patricia said, “James. Not here.”
James looked at Grant’s face and then at Riley’s and understood enough to go pale.
Grant said, “We should take this inside.”
Claire said, “You should have taken it inside eight months ago.”
Riley started to cry in the ugly way, not the wedding way. Guests near the nearest table went quiet in a ripple. The club manager appeared like a man who had been trained for spilled wine and not this.
Claire said, “There will not be a toast.”
She turned. The satin made a sound. She walked toward the side path that led to the parking circle. James followed. Patricia stayed long enough to put a hand on Grant’s sleeve and take it off as if the fabric burned. Riley stood by the hedge alone, pale green, twenty-six, the extra person at a dinner that had been her best friend’s.
In the parking circle Claire sat on a low wall and shook. James crouched.
“Did you know.”
“I knew something was off and I asked her in March and she said Grant is Grant.”
James shut his eyes.