Or is it anger laced with dejection? Regardless, it’s numbing. December 7th, no better day to railroad my soul than a dark, bitterly cold one that seemingly mirrors my angst. The Saffron Mansion sits like an exquisite tomb of the ages, and a tide of memories crashes through me as I walk the hollow halls in search of unanswerable questions. In less than an hour, the magnitude of my misery will stand trial as Tess takes Creed as her husband. A few guests have begun to arrive, so I meander out into the main galleries to count heads. Tess is too nervous for me to be anywhere near her. After a while I’ll storm the small gallery that’s been tented out as her personal dressing room. I need to see her just one more time alone before I take her arm in mine and walk her down that wildflower-lined aisle, readying us both for a future that seems masked in a lie. I breathe in the scent of the sea of wildflowers around me as though I’m breathing in the very essence of her. The softness of the petals I stroke in my palm reminding me of her naked flesh and all of our promises—spoken and unspoken.
