jeans. Like he was making sure something was still there.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“Fine,” he said. “Just waiting for the right moment.”
“For what?”
He smiled a little. “The toast. I’ve got a gift for Rachel. I want to give it to her in front of everyone.”
“That’s sweet.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
I was pulling a tray of deviled eggs out of the refrigerator when I heard it. A burst of noise from
the backyard. Shouting. Whooping. Somebody yelling, “Oh my God!” Somebody else laughing.
I grabbed the nearest dish, a big glass bowl of fruit salad, and hurried to the back door.
I pushed the screen door open with my shoulder.
Then I froze.
Rachel was kissing Michael.
Right there. In the middle of her backyard. Under the white paper lanterns and the gold banner
with her and her husband’s names on it.
Not a peck. Not a friendly kiss on the cheek. A real kiss. On the mouth. Her arms were around his neck. His hands were on her waist.
In front of our whole family.
In front of my father, who was standing by the birdhouse Tom had hung in the oak tree, with his mouth open.
