Bea held the veil against her hair and frowned at the mirror.
“Is it crooked?”
“Your head?”
“The veil.”
“A bit.”
She turned around. The little metal comb was bent where it joined the fabric, making one side stick out farther than the other.
“I caught it in the drawer,” she said. “I was trying to keep everything tidy. This is why I usually don't.”
We were in her old bedroom. The dress hung in a white cover from the wardrobe door. After Bea and Nate brought the flowers in, I'd followed her upstairs because she wanted me to look at the veil.
“Give it here.”
She removed it carefully and laid it on the bedspread. I found the little pliers in the downstairs drawer while she put a folded towel under the comb. Mother was outside talking to the canopy company again. From the hall I could hear her say she hadn't asked for miracles, only a reliable time.
“We should give her a tent,” I told Bea when I came back. “Let her put it up.”
“She'd make us sleep in it.”
I sat on the bed and looked at the comb. “Hold this bit.”
Bea held the fabric away while I gripped the metal. I bent it a little, checked it and bent it again. It was a small, fiddly thing to fix. We had to keep our heads close to see what we were doing.
“Don't pull too hard,” she said.
“I'm trying not to.”
“Sorry. I know.”
She stopped instructing me. That was harder for Bea than she'd admit.
When the two sides looked even, she tried it again. I stood behind her and arranged the fabric so it fell over her shoulders.
“There,” I said.
She watched herself in the mirror.
I had imagined seeing her like this when she first showed me the ring. I thought I'd cry because she was getting married, and she would laugh at me because I was crying before she'd even put the dress on.
Instead I was looking at the reflection of my sister in a veil and trying to fit Nate beside her.
“It's pretty,” I said.
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
She put her hand over the comb. “Thank you.”
“It might bend again if you force it into a drawer.”
“I'll be respectful.”
She took it off and hung it beside the covered dress. I collected the towel and pliers. As I turned, she caught my sleeve.
“You don't have to keep helping because you said you would.”
“I wanted to fix it.”
“Okay.”
She let go, and I was glad she hadn't tried to make that into more than it was.
The doorbell rang. Bea looked at the time.
“He said he was coming back.”
Nate had gone to collect something after delivering the flowers. I hadn't asked what. Now I followed Bea downstairs and found him holding a white cardboard box with both hands.
“Please don't tilt this,” he said.
“You've tilted it, haven't you?” Bea asked.
“Only a little.”
He carried it into the kitchen as if it contained something that might escape. Bea lifted the lid.
Two generous slices of lemon cake leaned against each other. One had lost its top layer of icing, which lay against the side of the box. A little paper sign had become stuck in it.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“It looked better at the bakery.”
Bea put her face close to the box and breathed in.
“Lemon.”
“The one you wanted.”
She looked up at him. “I thought they said they hadn't got a sample left.”
“They made a fresh one today. I asked them to put some aside.”
He fetched three plates from the cupboard. He didn't ask where they were. That small knowledge caught me more than the cake.
“Mum wants vanilla,” Bea said.
“Your mum can have vanilla on her birthday.”
Bea laughed, then gave him a look. “Don't say that when she's here.”
“I'll try to remember.”
I passed him a knife. He cut the leaning slices into smaller pieces while Bea rescued the icing with a spoon. She put the sign upright in a lump of it.
“There,” she said. “A display.”
The sign slowly fell over.
All three of us laughed.
It was the first time we had done that together. I felt it happen and didn't know whether to be glad or afraid of how easy it could become.
Bea gave me a plate. “Try it.”
I took a bite. The cake was soft and sharp with lemon. I could see why she wanted it.
“Better than vanilla,” I said.
Nate lifted his fork toward Bea. “A witness.”
“An expert witness,” I said. “I've eaten cake before.”
Bea pushed her shoulder against his as she sat down. He moved his chair so she had more space, still listening while I described the guesthouse cake that always arrived with a slice missing.
“Quality control,” he said.
“That's what the cook says.”
Bea put the biggest rescued piece of icing onto his plate.
“You like this bit,” she said.
“I like the whole thing.”
“I know. That's why I'm not giving you mine.”
He smiled at her. It wasn't the careful smile he'd given me all week. There was nothing uncertain about where it was going.
I took another bite and looked at my plate.
She had wanted lemon cake, and he'd remembered. She knew which part he'd eat first. He had bought something for her simply because it would make her happy.
I understood why she loved him. That didn't make the thought easy to sit with.
Mother came in carrying her notebook. She stopped when she saw the plates.
“What's this?”
“A sample,” Bea said. “The lemon one.”
Mother looked into the box. “Goodness.”
“It slid when I went round the corner,” Nate said. “I should be allowed to repair it.”
Bea laughed. “You've eaten most of the loose icing.”
Mother inspected the cake on Bea's plate.
“The vanilla looked very nice in the photograph.”
Bea held out her fork with a little piece on it. “Taste this first.”
Mother hesitated, then did. For a moment nobody said anything.
“It's quite good,” she admitted.
Bea looked at Nate over Mother's shoulder. He gave her a small nod, and she smiled.
I stacked the empty plates by the sink. On the counter, the white box held crumbs, broken icing and one perfect little curl of lemon peel.
Bea picked the curl up and ate it. Nate looked pleased.
I left them choosing how to ask the bakery for more, and took the pliers back to the drawer.