I forget my old worries once Lilah leads me to the bridal party's salon under the onslaught of the brand new ones.

Seven other preening women in there wear the same gown as Lilah. Two are my nieces, Bryn's favorite cousins. Five others are strangers, and oh my Lord, are they gorgeous!

It's like I walked onto the set of my guilty-pleasure reality show about the cutthroat world of the aspiring supermodels. Fine cheekbones, tanned complexions that can stand up to loads of makeup, and hair flowing in waves of silk surround me.

My poor nieces! Nicely turned out girls, they are bundles of wilted lettuce next to these oranges.

Among the not-bridesmaid crowd... Let's just say that turning down Bryn's invitation to shop for dresses was a fatal mistake. Darling, that's very kind of you, but you're starting a new family and need all the money to get on your feet. Don't worry about me.

And here I am, in floral print and faux pearls, a suburban mom of the 80's, versus the timeless haute couture show.

"Mom!" Bryn jumps from a settee in front of a ceiling-high framed mirror.

She warned me that her dress isn't traditional white, but this... wow.

I expected ivory.

Mauve.

Pale red.

Oh, how wrong was I!

Bryn's wedding dress shines in rich yellow hues of the autumnal flowers, goldenrod, and marigolds, and sunflowers. Gauze and airy lace billows around the tulip lines of the skirts, coming together in a thousand-folded swirl on the side. Below it, a slash gives her legs enough freedom to move.

A small woman jumps up after Bryn, chattering non-stop, waving a hair-brush in the air, pointing Bryn back to the mirror. As well she should be, if she is worth anything as a hair-stylist!

Bryn's hair isn't finished, only piled to one side, styled with feathers, live flowers and a short veil that masks her damaged eye. Once all the curls are in place, all the attention will be on her natural one.

Well, I never!

Tears well up... my daughter. So radiant! The women from every corner of the room flock to her like she's the Sun, and she overshadows everything and everyone in her sunshine gown. If it took some Bridal Make-Over show to achieve this transformation, so be it.

My little girl, a bride.

"Oh, Bryn!" I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a joyous sob. The room hushes after Bryn's abrupt start from her seat. My voice rings over the piano music that's been drowned out before. "Bryn, this is gorgeous!"

The softer chatter ripples across the room, in cordial agreement with my words. Bryn wrestles the hairdresser, velvet-upholstered chairs, long skirts and propped feet freed from pinching shoes to get to me.

"I love the pleats on your skirt," says a shy voice to my side.

Bryn redoubles her efforts to get to me. "Nicky!" she calls from about five feet away.

Every mother in the world would recognize that warning note, the attempt to stop a naughty child before they get into trouble. I hide a wise smile, but can't help being a little befuddled.

The girl who spoke to me is a young adult of a lighter variety than what we normally see post-pandemic. Her dress is the only other pink outfit in the room, pale and perfectly modest. She put her dark hair in two braids hanging down the front. A faint layer of gloss on her lips is all she has on for makeup.

Why is Bryn's acting so protective?

Nicky pouts, creating a cute dimple in each cheek. "Auntie Bryn, I was just saying how much I love your Mom's dress. So different and it makes me think back to the traditional American values. Not to mention, we like the same colors."

Bryn wraps me in a light hug, air-kissing me not to smudge her make-up. "How was your drive here?"

"Fine, but you didn't have to splurge on the limo. A cab would have been—"

The third person dressed in pink for this wedding flies into Lilah who snaked her way back to my side. And this one doesn't skimp on pink in frills, lace and tulle. She looks like a hollyhock flower about four feet tall, about four years old and hyperventilating with excitement.

"Mom, Mom, Mom!"

If her eyes are as blue as her mother's, her hair is far from limp. It's black, so thick and glossy that no number of ribbons can hold it. Lilah's fingers sink into it, fixing the braids with practiced ease. "What is it, Lizzy?"

"Mom, can I go to the cellar with all the other kids instead of being a flower girl?"

Lilah laughs, but her brows furrow. "In this pretty dress, to a dark, dirty cellar?"

Lizzy scrunches her face. "There are bloodstains there, Mom, from a murder."

"It's a wine cellar, so it's wine stains, caprice?" Lilah says, tugging the bunny ears on the new bow to make them all even length.

The little girl chews her lips, considering boring logic versus the cool story. "Santiago says they never found the murderer. Maybe we can find clues like Nancy Drew!"

Mentioning Nancy puts an unmistakable glow in the precocious child's eyes. For her, this is a winning argument.

"But Miss Bryn is counting on you!" Lilah exclaims in pretend shock.

Bryn crouches next to the girl. "I can't get married without you, and it's really important to me. Plus, I know for sure there are no stains in the cellar. I checked, and it's perfectly clean."

Lizzy chews her lip again. "Mom just said it was dark and dirty. And others will miss all the clues. They're just children."

I can barely keep my face straight with how dead-serious she sounds.

Bryn and Lilah exchange a glance, and Lilah stands up, hoisting her flower girl into her arms. "You better come and help me find all the wayward children. After that you can stay in the empty cellar all alone, or come to the party with everyone else."

I bite my tongue, since if she puts her trust in a preschooler's integrity over her stubbornness, on her head be it.

"Lilah," Bryn asks barely audibly before the other woman departs. "Did Josh text you?"

Lilah pats her arm and shakes her head lightly. "Don't worry, my hubby is in charge of the bachelor's party, so Matteo will make it, if they have to airdrop in."

"Okay," Bryn whispers, "Okay, Mila."

"Lilah. It's Lilah."

A nervous giggle rattles Bryn, echoed by Nicky. "Such a pretty name too! Sorry, I have a bridal brain."

"It's okay. I barely remembered it on my wedding day!"

I hug Bryn's shoulders as Lilah leaves.

The temperature in the room seems to drop as the women all watch us speculatively, except my nieces who are chatting happily and oblivious by the mirror. About men, of course. No help from that quarter, and I get a clawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that Bryn needs help.

This mother's worry overrides my surprise over the women's reaction to the children's shenanigans. I move Bryn toward the French doors leading to another garden, this one informal, with a small fountain. "You need some air, sweetie. You look green around the gills."

Bryn nods, but stops in front of the doors I throw open for her. "The boys," she announces, "are terrible troublemakers and tried to scare the other kids with some wine stains."

That's when my nieces come in handy, because they shove one another, trading jokes about haunted mansions and handsome ghosts so thirsty after centuries of solitude. Their laughter cracks icy silence, and the reanimated conversation trails us outside.

Alas, the garden overflowing with greenery, gravel pathways picked clean of any leaves, and the crystal jets sprouting from the moss-tinted marble bowl, don't cheer Bryn. The crew is setting rows upon rows of chairs on the giant lawn visible through the trees, and Bryn won't even look. As I walk her to the fountain and around it, she glances at the sky repeatedly.

"Sweetie, don't worry, Matteo won't drop out of the clouds with a parachute."

More nervous laughter rattles my daughter. "God, I hope not. Of course not."

"There you go. But he's going to be here. If there is one thing I know about Matteo, it's that he's going to be here for the wedding. He loves you."

Her lips tremble. "Thanks, Mom. I know you don't like him—"

"Eh," I shrug. "Time will tell. Let's give it ten, twenty years. Your grandmother didn't warm up to your dad right away either."

"Thanks, Mom." She sniffles. "You gonna make me happy-cry."

"No, no. We can't have that. It's my job to happy-cry at your wedding."

Tears dry out, unspilled, in her eyes and in a second she's smiling, right as rain. The mood swings have always been her bane, ever since she was a little girl, but once in a while they come in handy. "Do you want to go back inside?"

Before I can answer, a blood-curdling scream of a wounded soul erupts from the lawn.

Bryn crashes right through the trees toward the source of the horrid sound—a curvy woman in her mid-thirties standing by a panel van. Bleached hair, twisted in a messy bun, and sunglasses pushed up her forehead hint at the relaxed Californian look. Below the hairline, however, it ends rather abruptly. There is no multiple choice about whose scream called us to the scene.

The woman's eyes goggle out of their sockets, and her mouth gapes readying for another scream.

Bryn squeezes my hand in hers, picks up her skirts with another and we accelerate across the remaining distance.

The rest of the staff also—unsurprisingly—drop things they are doing and run. We beat them to it, no matter the odds. Bryn's unstoppable today.

With a shaking finger the screamer points inside the van.

It's a pretty common white panel van, but it seemed vaguely familiar from afar, and no wonder.

Floribunda, San-Francisco is written on its side. I guess Bryn's old florist has a franchise, but this isn't the right moment to ask her about it. She has turned whiter than the van, almost crushes the bones of my wrist with her clenched hand, and her bloodless lips go non-stop, saying the same name over and over.

"M-matteo, Matteo... please don't be Matteo..."