Here I Am. Rochelle Alers
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a certain age, their mothers suddenly became obsessed with marrying them off. Brandt had to assume it had something to do with wanting grandchildren.
Lately he’d had to suffer through his father’s lengthy discourses about taking responsibility for his actions. What he hadn’t wanted to mention to his father was that since he’d become sexually active, he’d never slept with a woman without using protection. If he wasn’t ready for marriage, then he was even less prepared for fatherhood.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed on the quarter hour. Everyone in the wedding party had been instructed to meet in the antechamber on the second floor overlooking the entrance hall at five forty-five. Leaving the suite, Brandt walked the length of the hallway to a rear staircase. The groomsmen were huddled together, waiting for their boutonnieres, which were fashioned from miniature white roses and lilac. The sound of feminine laughter floated from a nearby room.
There had been two rehearsals—the first time for the wedding party to familiarize themselves with the logistics, and the second time to confirm that everyone knew what they were to do. Brandt and Jordan were to enter the foyer through a hallway leading from the west wing of the mansion. The groomsmen and bridesmaids were to descend the curved staircase and walk along the white carpet to a floral-covered canopy where the bride and groom would exchange their vows.
The wedding planner touched the earpiece in her left ear. Although she was a new mother, Tessa had decided to personally coordinate the Fleming-Wainwright nuptials. Her wedding planning business had grown so much that she’d had to hire two assistants. Both young women were bright and had quickly learned the business. But Tessa continued to closely monitor important clients, especially those who were part of her elite social circle.
She raised her hand to get Jordan’s attention. “Jordan, it’s time for you and Brandt to head out.”
The bridesmaids filed out of the room and into the hallway wearing flowing silk chiffon strapless bias-cut gowns in varying shades of blue, ranging from cobalt to robin’s egg to periwinkle to sapphire. Each woman wore a large cushion-cut sapphire-and-diamond pendant that had been her gift from the bride. As a gesture designed to bring the Humphrieses and the Wainwrights together, Aziza had asked Jordan’s two half sisters—Stephanie and Keisha Andrews—to be her bridesmaids. Jordan’s sixteen-year-old sister, Chanel Wainwright, resplendent in sapphire blue, was maid of honor.
Brandt leaned closer to whisper to Chanel. “Remember you’re right behind the flower girl and ring bearer.” The ring bearer was one of Aziza’s nephews, and one of the younger Wainwright cousins was the flower girl. “Are you going to be all right, Chanel?”
Her blue-green eyes shimmering excitement and her face flush with color, Chanel nodded as she shifted her bouquet of violets, irises and white roses to her left hand. “I hope I don’t faint.”
Brandt smiled at the slender young woman who seemingly had grown up overnight. He’d always remembered her as a tall, skinny girl with a waist-length ponytail. She was now quite the young woman, her round face framed by a short mass of curls, which were adorned with baby’s breath and tiny white roses.
“Stop being a drama princess, Chanel.”
“What if I make a mistake, Brandt?”
“You’re not—”
Whatever he was going to say was preempted when Tessa signaled for him to follow Jordan. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to his cousin’s hair. He squeezed the tiny hand resting on the sleeve of his jacket, then turned on his heel, and with long strides he walked into the entrance hall to stand next to Jordan.
A minute later Rhett and Noah, followed by the rest of the wedding party, descended the curved staircase as the string quartet began playing “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story.
Chapter 2
As the music began to play, Brandt experienced a strange, unsettling feeling. He’d attended plenty of weddings involving family members, friends and teammates. But this was the first time he’d been part of the wedding party. As he stood next to Jordan, the love between bride and groom seemed so palpable, Brandt felt as if he was the one exchanging vows with his future bride. It was the first time he’d ever thought that.
When Aziza’s father escorted her down the rose-petal-strewn carpet, Jordan released an audible sigh upon seeing his bride for the first time. Because it was her second marriage, Aziza had insisted that everything be low-key. But there was nothing simple about the bride, with her flawless brown skin and the body and face of a runway model, as she walked down the aisle effortlessly exuding grace and elegance. She wore a platinum-colored, strapless mermaid gown with silk tulle that wrapped around the skirt and a waist-length veil. Her thick, dark hair was brushed off her face and pinned into a chignon with jeweled hairpins.
Brandt smiled when his gaze went to the magnificent pear-shaped blue-and-white diamond earrings and the matching pendant, nestled between Aziza’s breasts. He’d accompanied Jordan to a jeweler where they’d spent a couple of hours going over designs for his bride’s wedding jewelry, and then another hour examining a collection of loose stones. When they left Brandt was more than familiar with intricacies of diamonds’ cut, color, clarity, carat weight and certification.
He turned his attention back to the proceedings, and he smiled when Jordan cradled Aziza’s face between his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, sealing their vows. They were no longer bride and groom, but husband and wife.
“Ladies, gentlemen, friends and family, I’m honored to present Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Wyatt Wainwright,” announced the black-robed judge in a voice that carried easily in the expansive space.
Thunderous applause quickly followed as Christiane Wainwright dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief. Her blue-gray gown complemented her summer tan and ash-blond hair that was pinned up in an elaborate twist at the nape of her long, slender neck. Leaning to her right, she hugged Diane Humphries-Andrews, the two women sharing a bond as adoptive and birth mother.
Diane, only two years younger than Christiane, was stunning in a royal blue sheath dress that showed off her still-slim figure to its best advantage. Her hair was cut into a becoming style reminiscent of First Lady Michelle Obama. Her features were delicate, but it was her large light brown eyes framed by a face the color of golden-brown autumn leaves that garnered the most attention.
How very civilized, Brandt thought. If it had been left up to his great uncle Wyatt, he doubted whether the two women would’ve ever met. He felt the utmost respect for Jordan and Aziza in bringing the two families together.
The wedding party proceeded out of the expansive foyer to the elevator that would take them to the solarium, where they would spend the next hour posing for photographs. Meanwhile, the guests were escorted into the ballroom where cocktails and hors d’oeuvres awaited them before they were seated for a seven-course dinner. The menu included filet mignon, Alaskan salmon, lobster tails, stone rock crab and carving stations with roast turkey, prime rib and trays of foie gras and caviar.
Brandt escorted his mother to an area of the ballroom that had been set up like a large parlor with sofas, settees, floral arrangements, candles and enormous floor pillows and ottomans scattered around the marble floor. He led his mother to a settee, and sat down next to her. He watched Leona Burroughs-Wainwright’s impassive expression. His mother didn’t smile during dinner, when the many toasts were made, or when wedding cake was cut and passed around to the guests.
“What’s bothering you, Mom?”
Leona forced a smile. “What makes you think something is bothering me?”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “First of all you’re answering a question with a question, and secondly you look as if you’ve just lost Smooches.”
“Bite your tongue, Brandt Wainwright. My baby may have a few years on her, but the vet said there’s still a lot of life in her.”
Brandt rolled his eyes. Smooches was overweight, visually impaired and eighteen years old. Seemingly the only thing the