After Midnight With Him
And at the front of it all, Ethan stood in his tuxedo, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the cathedral doors like sheer force of will might make them open on his behalf.
Nine o'clock came and went.
By nine thirty, the murmuring had started—quiet at first, polite, the kind of whispers guests exchange behind gloved hands. *Where's the bride?* By ten, the whispers had grown louder, less polite, edged with the particular cruelty people reserve for watching someone else's carefully built life come apart in public. Margaret Bennett, I was told, made three increasingly frantic phone calls to a number that rang and rang without answer, her composed mask slipping further with every unanswered ring.