Page 3 of Theirs to Treasure
The renowned photographer has been in and out a couple of times already, getting snapshots that are supposed to look candid, but are fully staged with perfect lighting. She captured me gazing out a window at a fountain, apparently contemplating my future. Another featured Caroline and I toasting the day with mimosas.
The most ludicrous one is of my mother fastening a tiny satin-covered button on the back of my gown. I had a hard time not laughing at that comical request from Marcella. To say my mother is not an engaged parent is an understatement.
When Caro and I were young we had nannies who were responsible for dressing us. Still, Gwendolyn will do anything to appear like the perfect mom, even risk smudging her fresh manicure.
“Tell Marcella that will be fine,” Gwendolyn answers for me.
With a little wave of her bejeweled fingers, she sweeps out, leaving behind a puff of very expensive perfume.
Now, with the sudden peace and quiet, I manage to exhale and settle my nerves as I drop back into my chair.
My stylist makes her way back to me, carrying a glass of bubbly. “I think you need this.”
“Definitely. Thank you.”
About twenty minutes later, she’s satisfied with my hair and turns me over to the makeup artist.
Time seems to simultaneously drag and fly by, all on wings of nerves and excitement.
When my mother returns with the wedding planner to check on our progress, Caro still isn’t back.
With a scowl, Mother pulls out her phone. Moments later, across the room, the device skitters across the couch.
“That child will be the death of me.” After stabbing a button on her screen to end the call, she stalks to a house phone.
Once I tell her the number of the room we share, she dials.
There’s no answer.
“Let me find out if anyone has seen her,” my mother says as she types messages into her phone. “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“If she’s not back by the time my makeup is finished, I’ll go check the room,” I promise. The door is opened by fingerprint access, so I’m the only one who’ll be able to enter anyway.
Hopefully it won’t be necessary, and Caro will breeze in, all smiles, ready for the finishing touches on her hairdo.
“It’s important that those pictures are perfect,” Mother reminds me.
To her and her group of friends, maybe. I’ve often wondered if the only purpose of their weekly gatherings is to show off photos that prove what excellent parents they are.
I’ve been forced to pose for more snapshots than supermodels have to endure. Graduations—even from kindergarten—recitals, choir concerts, a supporting role in the Christmas ballet… It was unending.
At least it’s almost over.
When my makeup artist finally brushes on my setting powder, my panic notches up.
There’s still no sight of Caro.
As I stand, the knot in my robe once again slips, and I tighten it again. If I didn’t need to protect my expensive gown, there’s no way I would have agreed to wear something so ridiculous. Give me terry cloth and fuzzy slippers any day of the week.
After promising the makeup artist and stylist that I’ll be right back, I pick up my small clutch and the hem of my dress and walk to the elevator as fast as my beautiful but ridiculously uncomfortable heels allow.
I ride the elevator to our concierge floor.
When I arrive on our floor, there’s no one in sight, and I hurry down the endless hallway, each passing second seeming to tick in my ears.
When I finally reach the room, I press my finger to the pad. A small green light flickers, and the lock almost silently releases.
Time slows at the sight in front of me.