Victoria Costello

The eyeliner in Bridget’s hand hovered above Claire’s nose like a surgeon’s scalpel. She inhaled her sister’s cigarette breath and suppressed a cough; the memory of coffee churned her empty stomach; one eye twitched, then the other, upsetting Bridget’s concentration.

"You know not even the president leaves the house without makeup, and this is your wedding day.”

The slings and arrows of negative self-appraisal already well on their marks; now Claire could add an image of George W’s visage over her own. “Sorry,” she said with a sigh. Without stirring, she moved her line of sight to check on Del and Nancy, and Millicent the group frozen in place and set against the deep hues of the hotel's Victorian decor as in a slightly off Renoir painting all waiting for her. The travel alarm clock on the corner of the vanity read 10:00 a.m. Claire couldn't recall ever spending more than fifteen minutes on her face and they'd been at this for over an hour.

"Okay, now look." Bridget stepped away from the gold-encrusted oval mirror to give Claire the first glimpse of herself as bride-to-be.
Claire gasped.

Nowhere to be found was the familiar asymmetry of her face; the onlooker's gaze redirected from her gapped front teeth and prominent beak to her new Cleopatra eyes and fetching lips, now painted into a permanent pout.
Uh-oh. Bridget was scrunching her nose.

"Your right eye's smaller," she said.

No problem, Bridget could fix that, too. "No blinking," she demanded, as the pencil tore against Claire's lid. "There, that’s much better."

With one last stroke, Bridget put her finishing touch on her new rendition of Claire. At 40, she was no longer an over-educated, 21st-century woman, too old, plain and eccentric to play the modern bride; she'd become an ageless medieval princess anointed to receive her knight; even if her elation proved to be as fragile as the sprigs of Baby's Breath serving as pillars for the dramatic up-do Bridget had created to tame her wild mane. Convinced her overdone eyes made her more raccoon than ravishing but not wanting to spoil the moment, Claire averted her gaze downward. With a finger she traced the brocade pattern in the skirt of her eggshell vintage empire waist gown.

"What's the matter, Pokey?"

Bridget's use of her nickname said more than the worried expression Claire saw on her sister’s face when she tilted her head back up. It perched above her reflection like an empty thought balloon in a comic strip, blank and expectant, as if awaiting the words of its momentarily tongue-tied cartoon character.

"I can soften the eyeliner," Bridget offered.

But Claire knew accepting Bridget's invitation would be received as ingratitude by the sister whose feminine talents she'd never properly appreciated. She felt four pairs of eyes trained on her. Claire grazed her cheek with her fingertips to qualm any remaining doubts that she was who she pretended to be. Claire's task was simply to trick herself into believing she deserved all this. She unlocked her lips, and allowed her first smile since awakening that morning.

"Claire, look at me." It was Nancy. "And stop mussing your face."

Claire did as she was told, making another quarter turn to look at Nancy, who sat on a loveseat behind her, a video camera to one eye.

"Good... keep your face exactly like that." Nancy rotated the camera lens and then jumped up for a different angle.

"Like what?" After several attempts to hold onto her wilting smile, Claire covered her face with her hands, wishing away visions of traumatic junior high school picture days, and awkward faculty portraits.

"Pokey, I'm not standing here for another minute." Bridget collapsed on a French provincial chair. She grabbed her purse and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

"Do you ladies think they'll arrest me if I have a smoke on the veranda?"

"We'll barricade the door," said a hoarse female voice from the green velvet chaise lounge. Black satin pants legs and polished men's shoes were the only parts of her that were visible next to a tray of breakfast dishes. Meanwhile, Claire did her best “Norma Desmond” as Nancy circled with the camera, coming within inches of Claire's puckered lips, whereupon the two broke into laughter, easing Claire's jitters.

"Nancy, I want a copy of that video to show my girls at the salon," Bridgett said moving towards the veranda, cigarette and lighter in hand.

"Del, I'll have that Bloody Mary now."

"Right here." Del's hand left the chaise and pointed to an untouched red cocktail topped with a celery stick next to the dregs of two others on the food tray. Bridget stooped to pick up the Bloody Mary on her way out to the veranda, leaving the French doors open.

"Now?" asked Nancy. "Del, what are you thinking?"

"Actually, I'm thinking about how much I drank last night." Del cleared her throat and smoothed the creases from the pants of her tuxedo as she extricated herself from the chaise. On her feet, she slid a hand over her hair, gelled and combed straight back, before walking over to Nancy to whom she flashed a sheepish grin before planting a kiss on her lips. "Not all of us have such an important job as you today."

Nancy blushed like a teenager as she guided Del onto the loveseat next to her.

"Not true," said Claire pulling playfully on Del’s pants. "You all have to help me get through the next two hours without ruining Bridget's masterpiece."

Claire stretched out her legs, wiggled her toes and rested her ankles on Del's knees. "I'm so glad you wore that again. I still have your wedding photo framed on our mantle."

"Right, a lot of good that did us," said Del.

"Come on sweetheart, it's just a matter of time, isn't it?" Nancy asked, pointedly directing her question to Claire, who was already sorry she had raised the touchy subject of Nancy and Del’s now voided marriage.

"Only in the unlikely event the court decides in our favor," Del answered for her.

“You’re not helping the situation by putting out such a negative thought,” Nancy said as if she were talking to a child.

“Right, like it matters a fucking bit.” Del’s face darkened as she removed Nancy’s hand from her thigh, her generous lips in a pout.

“I don’t know what you’re getting all puffed up about,” said Bridget on her way in from the veranda. “Marriage is completely over-rated.”

“And how many have you had so far?” asked Del, the edge still in her voice.

“Just three, dear,” answered Bridget, not biting back. “But the last two weren’t even my idea.” She brought a chair with her and planted it in the circle, underlining her presence in the conversation.

“You and Nancy already have everything you need. You should just enjoy it! I wish I could get it on with a woman. Just think how short my to-do list would be at the end of the day.”

Nancy sat up straighter on the loveseat, seemingly prepared to do battle.

“Bridget, if you’re talking housework you have a point. But you’re wrong about everything else. Marriage is like jumping out of an airplane only you’ve got to share the parachute. So if you’re going to do it, you better have an official record of where you jumped and with whom. The truth is we all need order and rules.”

“Well, then perhaps none of us should marry until you can, too” said Claire.

Nancy looked at her appreciatively. “Thank you sweetheart, but that would just be giving in to the darkness.”