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One cloudy day, Howard Hamlin sat on the porch of his father's estate. The little blue flowers crawling around the stonework trembled beneath his fingers. Carefully, he plucked one from the bunch. As he straightened his jacket and tie, George appeared at the threshold. They left for the rehearsal together.
In just one day, Chuck McGill would be married, but first, there would be a rehearsal wedding and dinner. The ceremony itself, after a steady year of planning and anticipation, had a technically minor impact on Howard's life—he was already accustomed to seeing Rebecca at dinners and hearing about her concerts from Chuck—and yet that afternoon he found himself choked by a strange apprehension.
Frankly, Chuck's investment in endeavours outside of Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill had initially seemed out of character. The legal genius had been seldom inclined to anything or anyone beyond the justice sector, but with his engagement came an irrefutable conclusion—before Rebecca, he had been dissatisfied with his existing relationships.
Howard was Chuck's best man. Except for this anomalous occasion, he mostly dedicated his weekends to desk work, networking, fine dining, exercise, and the sporadic date. Though he was unsure what he really ought to be doing with his time—with his life—he enjoyed his dinners with Chuck. Still, during the most mundane moments he was sometimes stung by a broad, blatant dissatisfaction. He was not confident a woman could change that.
On the afternoon of the rehearsal, he found the groom and bride-to-be in black and white at the chapel door. The altar was nondescript. Soon it would be enlivened by crowds of candles and lanterns, the couple smilingly described.
Rebecca's parents and George gave toasts at the dining hall, their joyous words accompanied by a classical string quartet. The cabernet was dry. Howard would deliver his own speech tomorrow.
In the evening, when the hall was hushed and the guests dwindled, Chuck and Howard took some time alone to consolidate and reflect. Everything had been accounted for.
“Can you keep a secret?” Chuck asked. He wore his common, enigmatic smile.
Howard agreed.
“Anything you tell me now is privileged.”
Chuck had secretly learned a song to perform at the real reception: the first allegro of some sonata, a piano arrangement of the first piece he had ever heard Rebecca play on her magic violin.
When asked for a preview of the performance, he declined, wary of any lingering ears nearby. Howard wondered if he should ask again in the morning, before escorting him to the chapel. He wanted to be the first to hear it.
On the rainy drive back to George's place, Howard turned on the car radio. Upon reflection, he realised it had already been seven years since he had last heard Chuck make music, and thus seven years since he had passed the bar exam. During that bygone celebration, Chuck had rolled out a sentimental ditty on the piano, jazzy and simple, which Howard was coerced into complementing with his saxophone. Seven entire years—nearly a decade—had passed since he had lived a moment so satisfied and seen. Later that same fateful evening, George decreed that his son would be joining what was then Hamlin & McGill.
Howard sighed. The years were flashing by like lightning.
After pulling into the estate, Howard quietly bid his father good night and retreated to the guest house. While undressing and hanging his suit, he found the forget-me-not squashed in his breast pocket. He left it there and resigned to bed, though he hardly slept a wink.