BETH
“I love your dress, it’s incredible,” the woman crouched at my feet says as she makes sure the hem is arranged just right.
“Thank you,” I force myself to smile at her. I know she’s just trying to do something to lighten the mood. This best way to describe the vibe my family gives off is “just hostile enough to stiffen your spine.”
This photo shoot was scheduled is to capture images for his campaign to use. The photographer has had us walking around the house, posing in “candid” stances while smile and gesture like we’re talking.
At a real wedding - or with a real family - these sorts of pictures would be captured over the course of the day. But, since we’re not a real family, the chance that you’ll find us smiling into each other’s eyes and actually talking to each other are nil. So, we faked it.
We’ve been through what feels like three dozen poses and my dress has gone from being uncomfortable to feeling like a restraint.
I’m the star of this show, I have to be in every shot. It’s hot. Even shade offered by the avidly lush leaves of the sky scraping Black Walnut trees we’re clustered under can’t mute the punishing intensity of mid-morning summer sun. I’m wilting, both physically and emotionally.
“When I get married, I want a dress just like it,” the woman croons in a reverent voice before she hurries out of the shot.
“Your dress is ostentatious, if you ask me,” Phil says sotte voci, his smile never wavering.
“Well, I didn’t ask you and I don’t care what you think,” I hiss, trying to smile at the photographer’s prompt.
“Please, smile so everyone can tell how much you love each other,” the photographer says, his expression desperate.
“Smile, Elisabeth, this is the first day of the rest of your sad life,” he says as he grins jovially for the camera.
He’s taken advantage of the forced intimacy of these poses, and has resumed his campaign. But he’s abandoned persuasion and has just gone full on bully.
“Open your mouth a little like you’re chuckling, Phil,” he calls.
“Just take the picture, man.” Phil snaps. The man resumes his work without saying another word. I watch Phil surprised by the way his voice cracked just now. He’s been belligerent all afternoon, but, he’s not enjoying this any more than I am.
“Can you at least pretend that you have some manners?” I hiss through clenched teeth when he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close him in the middle of the shot.
“You mean, like you’re pretending this is a real wedding?” he whispers in the same patronizing tone I used on him.
I keep my smile in place, but lean away and ask him. “Why are you here?”
“Free booze, why else?” he says with a roguish smile.
“I’m getting married,” I whisper furiously.
“Not if I can fucking help it.” His eyes harden and his smile turns sinister.
“You two can step aside for now. We’re going to take pictures of your parents,” he says and I pull out Phil’s hold and stalk away from the backdrop my father had built for today’s shoot. The wall of white flowers is dotted with jewels and embossed with a giant W made of lilacs. I supposed it’s beautiful. But all I think when I look at is that it’s a tragic waste of perfectly beautiful flowers.
“Mother of the bride, we’ll take a few of you alone, first,” the photographer calls over to where my father and Fiona are standing with Agnes.
“I’m her stepmother,” Fiona corrects indignantly and heads over from the bench she’s been sharing with my father and Cameron.
“He misspoke. It’s obvious you’re hardly old enough to be her sister,” the photographer’s assistant coos without missing a beat.
“We’ve all aged waiting for this infernal shoot to wrap up,” my father snarls and stalks toward the assistant who is marking their positions.
Fiona follows him, her gait stunted by the hem of her one size too tight, lilac strapless dress. Cameron sits on her hip, tugging at her mother’s neckline as if even she knows it’s cut far too low.
Fiona stops when we reach each other, shading her face with a jeweled hand at her brow. Her discomfort — whether from the heat, the dress, or this farce of a photoshoot - is written all over her pretty face. Hair sticks to her neck in sweaty wisps, and her skin is splotchy from the sun.
They’re going to need to photoshop the hell out of the pictures.
“Phil, can you take Cameron inside for me? See if you can find Serene and ask her to give her a snack. I want her nice and satisfied before we all head over. Last thing I need is for her to be cranky this afternoon.”
“I’ll take her to get a snack myself,” Phil says his excitement evident by the buoyant lilt of his voice. He reaches over and takes hold of an equally delighted Cameron.
“That’s fine, just don’t let her eat any junk. Fruit or rice cakes only,” Fiona says, shooting one last warning glance at Phil before she teeters off to take her place next to my father.
“Come on, baby girl. We can do better than that, let’s go see what we can find in the kitchen.” Phil says in a mock hushed tone. Cameron clasps her tiny hands around his neck and looks up into his face with solemn, searching eyes.
After a few seconds, she says “Chocolate,”
Phil nods, his expression as solemn as hers “Always, chocolate,” he responds as if he’s making a vow. Then he nuzzles her neck with his nose. Her giggle sounds like bells bubbling up her throat reaching its crescendo when she throws her head back, her little brown curls glow like amber as they catch the sun’s rays. Her radiant smile is the picture of happiness.
Her giggles turn into shrieks of delight as he spins her around a few times, laughing and watching her like she’s the eighth wonder of the world.
My breath catches and my heart skips a beat.
I’ve been so busy avoiding Phil - I missed the evolution of their relationship from strangers to brother and sister. A pang of longing for the whimsy and ease between them hits me hard and unexpected.
But as I watch them, relief accompanies, and then overshadows the jealousy at their obvious mutual infatuation.
I know firsthand that children need a village to raise them. I’ve been worried that hers is so small. I’m grateful and soothed to see that she has another person in her life who loves her like this.
“More,” Cameron chortles and tugs at his neck.
“No more spinning for you, princess. Your mama will have a fit if you get sick all over her pretty dress. Okay?” Phil eyes her, waiting for her to respond.
“Okay,” she says, her little voice quavering, but her little mouth is set in a brave, solemn smile. She nods up at Phil, her eyes full of hero worship.
They press their foreheads together for a brief but endearing snuggle, and just like that they’ve got a deal. My eyes mist again,but I don’t mind this time. Because for the first time in a long time, they’re happy tears.
“Are you happy, Cam?” I ask.
She turns to look at me and her smile is positively beatific. The unmitigated trust shining in her hazel eyes is everything I hold dear and my heart beats a little harder every time I look into them.