The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

a huge exercise in logistics. Alexandra enlisted Julia for this task, given that Julia’s day to day work involved moving dozens of people and tons of equipment all over the globe when Morbid Obesity was on tour. So after Alexandra and Dylan rode off in their limo, the rest of us lined up to board the eight tour buses lined up along Amsterdam Avenue. The wedding party boarded first, and it was a little awkward, because Ray and I sat in the first row of seats, and my mother and father sat facing us. Dad gave me a curt nod and was inexcusably rude to Ray, simply looking away. I felt Ray stiffen beside me, so I wrapped my right hand around his left arm and leaned in close to him.

My mother was still dabbing her eyes. She said, “I know I never approved of that boy Dylan, but I was wrong. That was a beautiful ceremony.”

I swallowed and said, “It was.” This was a side of Mom I wasn’t used to at all. My mom? Sentimental and teary-eyed at one of her daughter’s weddings? Hardly.

Tactful as always, she said, “Have you heard any news about the trial?”

I sucked in a breath, and Ray said, “My attorney is still holding out hope they won’t move forward with it, Mrs. Thompson.”

She nodded. “When will you know?”

He coughed and said, “The investigating officer will forward his recommendations next week. They’re waiting... ”

He frowned, his eyes darting to the two other soldiers in the back of the bus, and shook his head. “They’re having some trouble, because the Afghan authorities haven’t agreed to allowing our forensics guys to look for ballistic evidence.”

My mother looked confused, so I clarified. “Mom ... Ray reported the crime ... but the soldier who actually did it made a counter accusation against him. They want to exhume the body and see if they can match the bullets to one of the rifles.”

Mother patted her chest, and said, “Oh, dear.”

Father just kept a sour expression on his face, but it began to shift into anger at the next words my mother spoke. “I’m sorry you’re having to go through this, Ray. I can see that ... Carrie is very happy with you.”

She dabbed at her eyes again, and I stared in frank shock, and felt my eyes water. Did she just say that? My mother?

Dad, though, leaned forward and said, “Perhaps we can find a more suitable topic for discussion. I find this entire subject distressful on the day my daughter got married.”

Julia, who was sitting directly behind Dad, leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. His mouth twitched at whatever it was, and he looked away from us.

The rest of the ride, twenty-seven very long blocks into midtown, went by in silence. Ray and I sat, holding hands. He looked out the window, and I occasionally looked over to my parents. My mother looked confused and divided, as if she didn’t know whether to support Dad or me. And my father never looked in our direction at all. And the longer that ride went on, the sadder I was. Because I wanted to tell my family that I was married, and have them be happy. I wasn’t sure about my mother’s reaction, but by all signs, my father wasn’t going to take it well at all. I could deal with that. It was my life to live, my choice to make, even if it was a mistake, which it wasn’t. But I’d be a liar if I said that my father’s support didn’t mean something to me. I’d always been closer to him than Mother ... I’d always felt we understood each other more.

So the fact that he wouldn’t even look at me? It just about broke my heart.

The moment the bus came to a stop, Ray and I got to our feet. I wanted off that bus right then, and I could tell he was ready to bite someone’s head off. The bus driver opened the doors, and our feet hit the pavement. Still hand in hand, we walked toward the entrance of the hotel, and only when we’d gone about twenty feet or so did we realize that a crush of photographers and reporters were racing toward us.

“Sergeant Sherman! Do you have any news about the investigation?”

“Ray! Tell us who really pulled the trigger?”

“Miss Thompson! How is your family reacting to you dating an accused war criminal?”

In a rush of blue taffeta and curly brown hair, Julia pushed her way in front of us. “That’s enough,” she shouted. “This is a family gathering, and we have no comments. Back off!” She was backed up by Crank, who flanked us on the other side. The reporters gave him room. It had been a decade, but he’d never lived down the reputation he’d gotten from punching a photographer in his twenties.

So, we made it inside, and the security guards at the entrance of the hotel kept the reporters out.

Ray and I were the very first to walk into the reception, but within minutes the room started to fill, as the buses dumped off fifty guests at a time. The ballroom of the hotel was spread with seating for four hundred around the periphery, with a large space for a dance floor in the center. The tables were heavily decorated, but what caught my eye the moment I walked in stopped me in my tracks.

I pointed, and Ray said, “That rocks.” Above the head table where Alexandra and Dylan would sit was a huge screen, showing a slide show of their romance, from the day they met in Tel Aviv. A photo of them at sixteen, standing in the Mediterranean Sea together, arms around each other. The two of them, in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. A wonderful shot of Dylan with crazy long hair, Alexandra curled up against him. And then more photos. Alexandra with her roommate Kelly, and then one of Ray, Dylan and another