"Just for the shot," Sutton said.
She lifted the headset off my head.
"Go do parking."
It was 3:50 PM on Saturday, November 7.
The Hensley–Ianelli ceremony started at 4:00.
There were 190 guests on the lawn in white folding chairs.
The string quartet was tuned.
The bride was waiting in the Glasshouse with her father.
Sutton settled my headset over her blowout.
The mic sat up by her cheekbone.
She didn't know it was a mic.
A photographer from Piedmont Bride stepped back to frame her.
"Chin down," he said.
"Hand on the earpiece."
"Perfect."
The writer stood beside him with a notebook.
Her feature was called "The Woman Behind Bellhaven."
Sutton had said the title twice on the walk up from the cars.
"Laurel's on parking today," Sutton told her.
"She loves the fresh air."
The beltpack was still on my hip.
The cable ran from my belt to my sister's ear.
Sutton unclipped the pack and tucked it into her own waistband.
"There."
"Go."
I didn't go.
Every vendor was on channel 2.
That meant the quartet, the lighting operator, the banquet captain, and Dez at sound.
Every one of them was waiting for a number.
The processional was cue 12.
Only the caller says the number.
At 3:58 PM, I heard the bandleader through the earpiece, small and tinny.
"Cue twelve?"
Sutton touched the earpiece.
She smiled for the camera.
"Yes?"
"Go?"
Nothing moved.
The quartet leader had his bow up and his eyes on the Glasshouse door.
The door stayed shut.
Behind the glass, the bride's father checked his watch.
"Yes" isn't a cue.
"Cue twelve?" the bandleader asked again.
Sutton pressed the earpiece harder.
"I said go."
"Go!"
Then the lighting operator came on.
"Who's calling?"
In the front row, the bride's mother stood up.
She turned around and scanned the lawn.
"Where's Laurel?"
She found me behind the last row of chairs.
Then she saw my sister wearing my headset.
"Give her back the headset."
I held out my hand.
"Give her back the headset."
The whole lawn turned around.
The photographer kept shooting.
Sutton pulled the headset off.
She held it out to me without looking at me.
The beltpack came out of her waistband with a tug.
I put it on.
I keyed channel 2.
"This is Laurel."
"Standby twelve."
"Cue twelve."
"Go."
The Glasshouse door opened.
The quartet came in on the first bow.
The bride walked out on her father's arm, on time to the second.
The photographer kept shooting.
I called fourteen cues in twenty-six minutes from behind the last row.
Sutton stood with the writer and said "gorgeous" eleven times.
The writer didn't write any of them down.
At 4:40 PM, I did parking anyway.
There was a valet problem in the field, and it was my show.
Henry Thorne walked out across the grass and stood with me among the valets.
Northfork sent someone to watch one event a season.
This season he had come himself.
"I saw cue twelve," he said.
"Everybody saw cue twelve."
"Your sister kept the strings waiting forty seconds."
"Thirty-eight," I said.
"I counted."
He watched a valet back a Tahoe into a gap with two inches to spare.
"I have the signed copy," he said.
"Of your plan."
I waited.
"Your footer's on every page."
"Page fourteen too."
I'd assumed Sutton had cleaned up his copy.
She hadn't scrolled down there either.
"I could call your mother," he said.
"One call."
"Don't."
He waited.
"If you fix it, it's still not mine."
Henry watched two more cars park.
"It's your footer," he said.
"I know."
"So I'll be the one who points at it."
Then he nodded once.
"Okay."
He didn't bring it up again.
He helped a valet find a lost set of keys instead.
By 6:10 PM, the reception had moved into the Orchard Barn.
The writer found me by the kitchen door between cues.
She was off the clock with a glass of white wine.
"Is that normal?" she asked.
"Fourteen cues in twenty-six minutes?"
"It's a Saturday," I said.
"You run a tight show," she said.
"Thank you."
"Honestly, I didn't pitch this piece."
"Thorne Hospitality's PR set it up."
"Bradford loves her."
She said it the way people mention the weather.
Then she went back to the bar.
Henry was by the barn door with his coat over his arm.
I walked over to him.
"Thorne Hospitality's PR," I said.
"Your brother's company."
He didn't answer right away.
A server went past with a tray of empties.
So I asked him straight out.
"What does Bradford want with Bellhaven, Henry?"