The next few weeks were filled with frantic preparations for the wedding. There was so much to do. Invitations went out to two hundred people. Leslie chose a maid of honor and selected her outfit, a ballerina-length dress with matching shoes and gloves to complement the length of the sleeves. For herself, Leslie shopped at Fayette Mall on Nicholasville Road and selected a floor-length gown with a full skirt and a sweep train, shoes to match the gown, and long gloves.
Oliver ordered a black cutaway coat with striped trousers, gray waistcoat, a wing-collared white shirt, and a striped ascot. His best man was a lawyer in his firm.
“Everything is set,” Oliver told Leslie. “I’ve made all the arrangements for the reception afterward. Almost everyone has accepted.”
Leslie felt a small shiver go through her. “I can’t wait, my darling.”
On a Thursday night one week before the wedding, Oliver came to Leslie’s apartment.
“I’m afraid something has come up, Leslie. A client of mine is in trouble. I’m going to have to fly to Paris to straighten things out.”
“Paris? How long will you be gone?”
“It shouldn’t take more than two or three days, four days at the most. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
“Tell the pilot to fly safely.”
“I promise.”
When Oliver left, Leslie picked up the newspaper on the table. Idly, she turned to the horoscope by Zoltaire. It read:
FOR LEO (JULY 23RD TO AUGUST 22ND). THIS IS NOT A GOOD DAY TO CHANGE PLANS. TAKING RISKS CAN LEAD TO SERIOUS PROBLEMS.
Leslie read the horoscope again, disturbed. She was almost tempted to telephone Oliver and tell him not to leave. But that’s ridiculous, she thought. It’s just a stupid horoscope.
By Monday, Leslie had not heard from Oliver. She telephoned his office, but the staff had no information. There was no word from him Tuesday. Leslie was beginning to panic. At four o’clock on Wednesday morning, she was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone. She sat up in bed and thought: It’s Oliver! Thank God. She knew that she should be angry with him for not calling her sooner, but that was unimportant now.
She picked up the receiver. “Oliver…”
A male voice said, “Is this Leslie Stewart?”
She felt a sudden cold chill. “Who—who is this?”
“Al Towers, Associated Press. We have a story going out on our wires, Miss Stewart, and we wanted to get your reaction.”
Something terrible had happened. Oliver was dead.
“Miss Stewart?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.
“Could we get a quote from you?”
“A quote?”
“About Oliver Russell marrying Senator Todd Davis’s daughter in Paris.”
For an instant the room seemed to spin.
“You and Mr. Russell were engaged, weren’t you? If we could get a quote…”
She sat there, frozen.
“Miss Stewart.”
She found her voice. “Yes. I—I wish them both well.” She replaced the receiver, numb. It was a nightmare. She would awaken in a few minutes and find that she had been dreaming.
But this was no dream. She had been abandoned again. “Your father’s not coming back.” She walked into the bathroom and stared at her pale image in the mirror. “We have a story going out on our wires.” Oliver had married someone else. Why? What have I done wrong? How have I failed him? But deep down she knew that it was Oliver who had failed her. He was gone. How could she face the future?
When Leslie walked into the agency that morning, everyone was trying hard not to stare at her. She went into Jim Bailey’s office.
He took one look at her pale face and said, “You shouldn’t have come in today, Leslie. Why don’t you go home and—”
She took a deep breath. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
The radio and television newscasts and afternoon newspapers were filled with details of the Paris wedding. Senator Todd Davis was without doubt Kentucky’s most influential citizen, and the story of his daughter’s marriage and of the groom’s jilting Leslie was big news.
The phones in Leslie’s office never stopped ringing.
“This is the Courier-Journal, Miss Stewart. Could you give us a statement about the wedding?”