The Fortune Quilt

One

I shove the heavy red velvet drape to one side and peer out into St. Michael’s, watching the guests trickle in as my two sisters chatter behind me. My eyes finally lock on the man I’m searching for, sitting dead center on the bride’s side of the church. I let the drapery fall and hand my father a ten-dollar bill.

“I got ten on David,” I say. Dad winks at me and tucks the bill into the kitty, a small plastic jar in the shape of a cat with a slit cut into the back of its head. As far back as I can remember, that kitty has been the repository for cash generated by family wagers and fines incurred from breaking family rules, such as listening to boy band music or watching reality television.
The Bachelor
alone has almost doubled the college fund for Five, my youngest sister.

Dad shakes the kitty, although the effect is muted, since there’s no change in there. “Okay. Carly’s in for ten on David.”

“David?” Five rushes to the drapes, her sage green bridesmaid’s dress whooshing around her ankles as she pokes her head through the part in the drapes. “Which one’s David?”

“Blue suit. Center, bride’s side. Kinda hairy.” I look out over her shoulder, no easy task considering she’s five inches taller than me even without her shoes on.

“
That
guy?” she says, the dismay clear in her voice. “He doesn’t look like Ella’s type at all.”

“He was when they were in high school,” I say, shooting a look over my shoulder at Ella, who overplays her dark glare. I lean back toward Five. “He was less hairy then, though.”

At that moment, Ella grabs us by our elbows and yanks us back.

“You’re horrible and you’re going straight to hell,” she says as she ducks to look at herself in the mirror. “Would someone help me with my veil, please?” She tries to adjust the mirror to tilt up, then ducks again. “Holy Mother of God, who usually gets married here? Munchkins?”

“Now who’s going to hell?” Five asks, leaning over Ella and shifting the veil slightly to the left.

Dad hands me the kitty. “David’s a fair bet, but I’m keeping my money on Buddy.” He pulls out the sheet he printed up earlier, marking his bet on the grid. I cock my head sideways and watch him with a smile on my face, our ruddy-cheeked, red-haired bookie in a white bow tie. He catches me looking and winks at me.

“His name is
Bradley
, Daddy, not
Buddy
,” Ella corrects with a huff, then turns to Five. “And what would I be going to hell for? You guys are the ones betting on which of my old boyfriends is going to object to my wedding.”

“You made fun of short people,” Five says. “You’re lucky Carly doesn’t give you a good, swift kick in the ankles.”

“Hey!” I say, bristling at the comment, although I should be used to this crap by now. While Ella and Five both won the genetic lottery with normal height and thick, wavy red hair demanding its own shampoo commercial, I got a bum ticket. I’m terminally cute; heart-shaped face, kewpie doll lips, natural apple cheeks, curly reddish-brown hair that I have to cut short and keep moussed or it’ll pull an Einstein, and a voice that’s perpetually fifteen years old. When I answer the phone, telemarketers ask if my mom’s home. My height, in perspective, is really the least of my problems.

“Short jokes are rude,” Five continues, then leans toward Ella. “Little people are the new feminists. Didn’t you know?”

“The new what?” Dad says.

“You have to be careful what you say, or you’ll offend them,” Five goes on, jerking her head toward me.

“I’m five-foot-two,” I say. “That’s a perfectly respectable height, you freakin’ Amazon.”

“See?” Five says, giving Ella the told-you-so face.

“Daughters,” Dad sighs, raising his eyes to God in the best Tevye impression an Irish Catholic can possibly pull off. He puts his arm around Ella’s shoulders. “I’m glad I’ve got one good one in the bunch.”

Ella rests her saintly, veiled head on Dad’s shoulder. Dad kisses her on the top of the veil and sneaks a five into the kitty.

“I’m putting five on Will, too,” he says. “Hedging my bets.”

Five gasps. “Will’s here?” She runs to the drapes and sticks her head out. “Where? I can’t see him.”

I nudge Five to the side with my hip and poke my head out next to hers. “The famous Will? Do I get to finally meet him?”

“Oooh, there he is,” Five breathes. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Where?”

She puts her fingers under my chin and shifts my head to the right. “Bride’s side, toward the back, pale gray suit, yellow tie.”

I squint. He looks like a young college professor. “That guy?”

“Mmmmm,” Five says, then giggles.

Well, well
, I think.
The famous Will.
I had been in Syracuse attending grad school during the drama that was Will Kelley, but the story went a little something like this: Ella had fallen in love with an artist and brought him home, at which point Five had promptly fallen in love as well. For a long time, there was a stable truce; Five’s only link to Will was Ella, so she accepted their relationship, limiting the prepubescent handkerchief rending to the minimal amount required by law. Then Ella had, sadly, fallen out of love. Will was forced unhappily from the family picture, and Five called me crying every night for a week, swearing she would never,
never
speak to Ella ever again. Beyond that, the details of the drama—which had taken a backseat to my broadcast journalism master’s work and my own romantic missteps—are pretty fuzzy in my head, but I can tell by the breathlessness in Five’s voice that she remembers everything.

Now, watching him, I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. The way Five described him, I expected this Will guy to be the Russell Crowe of ex-boyfriends, with sexual magnetism flowing off him in waves. Not that he’s a Quasimodo or anything, just more… average than I expected. He’s tall and a little on the thin side, with sandy hair that’s a touch too long and sticks out at awkward angles—hardly glowing with the aura of a thousand angels the way that Five would have had me believe back in the day. I can’t see his face because his head is bent and he seems to be reading something, probably the wedding program, but I don’t see anything terribly heart-stopping about him.

He has one thing going for him, though; he appears to be attending his ex’s wedding alone, which makes him a braver man than me. I wouldn’t attend an ex’s wedding with anything less than a Calvin Klein underwear model and a flame-thrower.

I feel Five drumming out an excited beat on my back with her fingertips and I pull back in.

“I call dibs,” she says, her face glowing.

“He’s a little old for you, doncha think, squirt?”

“What? I’m seventeen.” Five pushes her breasts up in her bridesmaid’s dress, a disturbing image on many levels. “And Mark Mahaffey, who sits behind me in Trig, says I’m the sexiest girl in the senior class.”

“Well…” I toss a glance at Dad who’s nonplussed as usual. “Mark Mahaffey oughta know.”

“You were twelve when Will knew you, Five,” Ella says, her voice all kindness, no condescension. Ella’s very good at that. “He’s crazy about you, but you’ll probably always be twelve to him.”

“How do you know?” Five’s voice is laced with indignation, but she’s seventeen. Indignation with her is less an attitude and more a default setting.

Ella gives Five a kind smile. “That’s just how it works, kiddo.”

Five huffs and is about to respond, but I put my hand on her shoulder to silence her. “Do me a favor, Fiver, and wait until the reception to jump on Ella’s ex. You’re giving Dad a case of the sweats.”

Five allows a small laugh. Ella tosses me a small, grateful smile, then ducks down to check her veil in the munchkin mirror.

“Well,” Dad says, taking advantage of the hole in the conversation, “it looks like Carly and I are the only real players in this pool. If you think David’s the guy, Car, put your money where your mouth is.”

“I don’t know.” I raise an eyebrow at Five. “You’re not fixing this game, are you, kid? You sure you didn’t see his face?”

She releases a long-suffering sigh. “It was just a dream. You guys are the ones making a big deal about it.”

Ella angles her head away from the mirror to look at us. “Yeah, but remember the time she dreamed about Dad’s car accident before it happened?”

“And don’t forget about that incident with Ella and the horse,” Dad says.

Five lowers her eyes beatifically. “I’m just a messenger.”

I poke my head out through the drapes again. Dr. Greg, the lucky groom, shuffles nervously from foot to foot, consulting occasionally with his Best Man, whose name I think might be Tim. I make a mental note to ask Ella before I have to dance with him at the reception.

I scan the crowd and count no fewer than five of Ella’s exes. She’s that kind of girl; the kind who has amicable breakups and maintains friendships. It worries me a bit, her way of living life. No conflict, no fighting; just constant, smooth-running perfection. Seems unnatural to me.

I direct my focus on the contenders for the lead role in Five’s predicted wedding objection. There’s Bradley The Exterminator, Gabe The High School Teacher, Keith The Man of Indeterminate Occupation and Seemingly Unlimited Funds, David The Radio DJ. And, of course, Will the Artist, the official fantasy man of the youngest McKay sister. I lean out and squint to get a better look. He isn’t reading anymore, and seems to be checking out the stained glass window of the Ascension on the east wall of the church. I can see his face now. He’s got about two days of stubble that he’s pulling off effectively, and somehow his hair seems less awkward now, but it’s something in his expression as he stares at the stained glass that keeps me watching. There’s genuine wonder there, appreciation, contentment, like he’s just so comfortable in his own skin that he can take a moment out from his ex’s wedding to appreciate the simple beauty of a church window.

Hmmmm. I’m beginning to see Five’s point about Will. And he
is
here alone. I wonder if the rule about sisters and exes is still in effect if one of the sisters is married…

Will shifts his gaze in my direction, as though he can hear me thinking about him. I freeze. He seems to be staring right at me. We hold eye contact for a moment as I wonder whether he’s really seeing me from that distance, or just looking in my general direction. I can see a smile quirk on his lips and then he gives a small wave in my direction. I yank myself back from the drapes.

“Spaz,” Five remarks, one eyebrow quirked up at me.

“Bee,” I say, and swipe at the empty air for good measure. Based on Five’s expression, however, I’m fairly sure she feels confident in her initial spaz assessment.

Dad extends his hands to us, and we gather around him, left to right, oldest to youngest, the way we always do. He smiles at each of us.

“I can’t believe it,” he says, his voice catching slightly as he speaks. “One of my girls is getting married.”

Ella releases Five’s hand and wipes her eyes. Yeesh. Just the hint of a Dad speech and she’s history. I laugh on an exhale and she sticks her tongue out at me. Dad squeezes my hand.

“Ella, when you were seven years old, you were playing in a softball game, and some bruiser of a kid threw a bum pitch and knocked you in the head, and you went down.” Dad pauses, and we all go quiet; this is a new story.

Dad has stories for each of us, the classics he repeats at family get-togethers and Christmas mornings. But there are a few that he holds back, saving them for a special moment. We get them on prom nights, at graduations and, apparently, on wedding days.