Free Ciji Ware by A Light on the Veranda

be forced to play adjacent to the four empty spaces.
    I will get through this , she lectured herself fiercely. Somehow, I will do this for King and Corlis. Screw Jack Ebert!
    For she knew, instantly, that her former fiancé was the cause of this musical near-catastrophe. Defiantly, she glared in the direction of her nemesis seated at the back of the church. While Daphne gingerly plucked her harp strings, the mortician’s son, unwilling heir to the Ebert-Petrella chain of funeral homes, stared at her with unwavering hostility.
    He can’t believe I’m pulling this off , she thought, willing her hands to find their way to the end of the music.
    Ignoring him now, Daphne braced for the final trill, her callused thumbs skimming over the thicker bass strings toward the short, thin ones near her right shoulder. She pulled up an octave short of the broken strings, making a reasonable finish to the familiar piece while trying not to wince when another filament suddenly gave way.
    The remainder of the wedding ceremony whirled past in a complete blur. Somewhere between the “I do’s” and the exchange of rings, Jack Ebert slipped out of the church. If it hadn’t been for the five damaged harp strings, Daphne might have thought she’d hallucinated the entire scene—not unlike her bizarre encounters with the handsome morphing photographer at Monmouth and the auto-playing harp in Cousin Maddy’s parlor.
    Her mind reeled with other questions. Had Jack and her mother driven up to Natchez together—even though King had specifically asked Antoinette not to mention the wedding to any of the Eberts or Petrellas? Surely she wouldn’t condone his plan to damage her harp?
    Such speculation was fruitless, she thought, attempting to regain her composure. The only thing that mattered was the cold, hard fact that Jack Ebert had reappeared in Natchez—clearly with mischief in mind. He’d popped through that church door…
    Like a jack-in-the box …
    Daphne stared with unseeing eyes at the empty seat in the back pew as the bride and groom turned to face each other, both smiling joyfully. Her brooding reverie was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of King reaching for Corlis and kissing her lingeringly on the mouth. Marge McCullough, her turban slightly askew, looked on benevolently as moisture rimmed her eyes. The minister was beaming as he pronounced the couple husband and wife. Daphne automatically swung into the age-old recessional music, allowing the mellow sounds of the organ to fill in for her missing harp strings.
    She was startled to feel a flood of tears course down her cheeks. Helpless to wipe them away as she played the harp, she hastily lowered her eyes. A sudden recollection of the engaging young man with two cameras hung around his neck filled her with poignant, piercing regret.
    Daphne watched her mother rise from the front pew and grandly lead the wedding guests out of the church in the wake of the bride and groom without the slightest glance in her daughter’s direction. First Presbyterian’s sanctuary slowly emptied. With a weary sigh, Daphne retreated to a side room and fetched her harp’s carrying case. She wondered morosely if any attempt she might make to forge a new life was simply doomed to failure.
    ***
    The parking lot at Monmouth was nearly full. Daphne drove past a black limousine stationed at the grand entrance and finally found a space for the Explorer at the opposite side near some hedges. As soon as she switched off the engine, she heard a familiar voice hailing her from across the graveled drive.
    “Hey, girl! You want some help with that harp, sugar?”
    Daphne emerged from the driver’s side and stood in the warm March sunshine, her spirits reviving slightly at the sight of her childhood friend, teetering on wickedly high heels, moving in her direction.
    Althea LaCroix’s ample figure was clothed in a salmon pink silk outfit that the thirty-year-old black woman had probably last donned for the