Not Roger’s. Not anything Diane had chosen. His biological father’s sister, Aunt Caroline, had found it in a cedar closet in North Carolina after hearing about the trial. She called Brandon one night and said, “Your dad would have wanted you to have this.” Then she drove it down herself because she did not trust shipping companies with ghosts.
The suit needed tailoring. Marcus knew a man. Marcus always knows a man. When Brandon tried it on after alterations, he stood in front of the mirror in my guest room and touched the lapel with two fingers.
“I don’t remember his voice,” he said.
Aunt Caroline, who was sitting on the bed, said, “It was lower than yours. But you laugh like him.”
Brandon turned away from the mirror.
She told him stories the night before the wedding at the rehearsal dinner. Not grand stories. Real ones. Thomas Whitfield burning pancakes. Thomas Whitfield singing badly in the car. Thomas Whitfield crying the day Brandon was born because he was convinced the baby looked disappointed in him. Brandon listened like a man finally receiving mail that had been held for twenty years.
The rehearsal dinner was not catered by a James Beard chef. It was cooked by me, Marcus, and two of my line cooks who refused to let me handle the grill alone because, in their words, “Boss gets emotional and overcooks things.” We served grilled snapper, short ribs from the smoker I built myself, corn pudding, tomato salad, black beans, and a Key lime pie Emma had helped make badly, as tradition demanded. Linda used to say a family pie should have at least one flaw so guests know love was involved.
On the wedding day, I woke before dawn.
For a few minutes, I lay in bed and listened to the old house breathe. Then I got up, made coffee, and stood in the backyard while the sky lightened. The lanterns hung dark and still from the branches. Folding chairs waited in neat rows. The smoker sat covered near the patio. Gardenias bloomed along the fence. On a small table near the aisle, Emma had placed a framed photo of Linda.
I stood before it with my coffee in hand.
“She’s getting married today,” I said.
The woman in the photo smiled back at me from fifteen years ago, healthy and sunlit, her hair blown across her cheek. I had taken that picture in Key Largo. Emma had been twelve, collecting shells. We still thought time was generous then.
“I wish you were here,” I said.
