The call came while my husband was folding shirts.
Twelve hours earlier, Julian Cross had slipped a gold band onto my finger beneath an arch of white roses and promised we would face the rest of our lives together. Now he stood across the hotel suite, calmly packing for our honeymoon as if our biggest concern was whether three white shirts would be enough for the trip.
His mother, Margaret, stood in front of the only full-length mirror, admiring her reflection.
She had spent nearly ten minutes studying herself, adjusting her hair and smoothing the silk robe she had proudly informed me cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
“Three nights at the beach,” she said with a faint smile. “I still can’t believe that’s all you planned.”
I forced a polite smile while pressing my phone closer to my ear.
“Mrs. Hart?”
The woman on the line used my maiden name.
That alone made my stomach tighten.
“Yes?”
“My name is Laura Medina. I’m calling from the County Marriage Records Office. We processed the license filed after your ceremony yesterday.”
I looked toward Julian.
He was carefully folding another shirt.
“What about it?” I asked.
“There appears to be a serious problem with one of the supporting documents.”
Behind me, Margaret laughed softly.
“A proper honeymoon lasts at least two weeks. Italy… Greece… somewhere worth remembering.”
“It was all we could manage,” I replied automatically.
Julian smiled.
“She planned everything herself.”
Margaret answered without missing a beat.
“She always chooses the practical option.”
Laura lowered her voice.
“Mrs. Hart… can you come to our office this morning?”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’d rather explain in person.”
Julian looked up.
I turned toward the window.
Outside, morning traffic flowed beneath a pale sky.
Our reception had ended only a few hours earlier.
My wedding dress still hung in the bathroom.
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