1

      “KEEP THE CHANGE.”

      “But lady, it’s a—”

      “Smallest the ATM had.” Cecily Connaught got a grip on her luggage, leaped out of the taxi and ran hell-for-leather into the church foyer, narrowly avoiding collision with a person hauling a chicken-wire structure out of a florist’s van. Once inside, she halted for a moment, dizzied by the whirlwind of activity that surrounded her.

      “Cecily, is that you?” Elaine Shipley’s eyes were wide as she darted toward Cecily.

      “Now is not the time for chit-chat,” said a woman wearing peach who followed closely behind Elaine. “You’re late,” she told Cecily.

      “At least she’s here,” said Elaine, “which is more than I can say for—”

      “Now is not the time for gossip,” said the woman in peach. “Get out of those shoes and put these on.”

      “But—” Apparently now was also not the time for protests. Someone took the bags out of her hands, sat her down, stripped off her comfortable, clunky sandals and slid her feet into a pair of mother-of-pearl satin stilettos—instant Misery by Manolo.

      “You must rehearse in the shoes,” Miss Peach said firmly, hauling Cecily to her feet. “We don’t want any klutziness going down the aisle tomorrow. Now that you’re here we have to get started,” she muttered. “I don’t give a damn who else is missing.”

      She got a tourniquet-strength hold on Cecily’s arm and rushed her over to a group of women. Cecily took one look at them and segued from dazed to fashion-panicked. They were perfectly made up and coiffed and were wearing cute little skirts, short but not too short, that showed off endless, thin, tanned legs and were topped with belly shirts that revealed flat, tanned tummies. In the long, droopy bachelor’s-button-printed sundress she’d bought at the Blue Hill Thrift Shop when Vermont had an unprecedented heat wave and it got too hot for jeans, she was hands down the worst dressed among them. Her careless appearance explained Elaine Shipley’s wide eyes. If Cecily’s mother had been there, she would have died of shame.

      But then, her mother had vegetated into a person who was incapable of understanding any choice Cecily made, especially her choice to be a veterinarian instead of a—fashion designer, maybe?

      “The maid of honor,” Miss Peach said with a note of triumph in her voice, “is present and accounted for.”

      A dark-haired beauty at the center of the group, whirled, and her eyes widened just as her mother’s had. “Cecily? Cecily!” she said and pulled Cecily into a bear hug.

      The bride, Sally Shipley, daughter of Elaine, was dressed even more sedately than her entourage and even more perfectly pulled together. Cecily got as far as saying, “Sally, it’s been a long—” before Miss Peach, who had to be the wedding planner, interrupted.

      “No time for reminiscence.” Much like a gravel truck, she scooped up all of them and hustled them down the aisle, shoving them into place. “Leave a space,” she said to Cecily. “The matron of honor hasn’t shown up yet. Reverend Justice,” she commanded the cleric who already stood facing an imaginary crowd, “go for it. I’ll bring in the others when they choose to grace us with their presence.” Her voice dripped annoyance.

      The bride grabbed her groom by the elbow. “This is Gus,” she whispered to Cecily.

      Cecily held out a hand. “Nice to meet—”

      “No introductions now.” Miss Peach practically yelled the words, then sprinted up the aisle.

      Sally meekly turned toward the minister,