I walked across the lush carpet and threw the dress bag on Olivia’s old double bed in disgust. I stalled for time by snooping. Olivia’s personality had defected when she’d fled to college by way of Dixie. Left behind was the image of Olivia Mrs. Blocken had tried to create throughout Olivia’s childhood. The room was painted lavender and the furniture was a matched set of white provincial, consisting of two dressers, a writing desk, and headboard. On the dresser, Olivia had abandoned her silver-plated brush and mirror, as well as various childish knickknacks. A white shelf nailed high on the wall above the desk held a complete set of ceramic girls in frilly Victorian-inspired gowns with numbers in front of them, one dainty lady for every birthday through eighteen. At sixteen, Olivia confessed that she hated those figurines, and she didn’t know what in the world she was going to do with them. I smiled at the memory.

I sat on the bed beside the garment bag. I had to ask myself why I was even sitting in Olivia’s childhood room with that garment bag. I was absolutely positive that a woman could be a bridesmaid too many times. Olivia’s wedding would be my sixth tour down the aisle in a hideous monster of a dress. Somehow I can never say “no” to a betrothed’s teary-eyed request, be it my sister, a friend from art school, or a third cousin twice removed.

I had to admit even to myself that wasn’t explanation enough for me to be in this particular wedding. Olivia had broken my brother’s heart. It was seven years ago now, and although Mark had been in other relationships since, they’d never match his memory of Olivia. His depression that had followed Olivia’s graduation party had put a wedge between her and me that the geographic distance between us could not mend. When she had called to ask me to be in her wedding, I was shocked and maybe even a little flattered. Okay, a lot flattered.

“Please, India,” she’d said, “I’ve always wanted you to be in my wedding. I can’t imagine getting married without you there.”