Come Rain or Come Shine (22 page)

‘I'm sure by now he knows I'm his mother, but for that speck of time in th' library, I was just someone who could talk a little pool. I'll never forget it.'

He was expecting her usual tears, but none came. Only the look of a woman who refused to indulge loss and was celebrating gain.

He would pray with Dooley before the ceremony; Cynthia and Olivia would go up to Lace and Beth and lift a petition there.

In the room they would vacate tonight, his deacon helped him vest. ‘How do you feel?' she said.

‘Like I overnighted a semi to South Florida.'

‘You should have waked me.'

‘Why would I do that?'

‘So we could both lose sleep and feel rotten together.'

The amazing thing with his wife is that she was sincere about this notion.

‘We both carry a handkerchief,' he said. ‘Monogrammed. Value pack! And as you know, we both love poetry.' He was thrilled with this small cluster of similarities.

‘More telling than blood, I'd say.' She circled him as if he were the statue of David, albeit draped, eyeing every detail. In a sentimental gesture, she was wearing her wedding suit, which still fit, albeit missing a scrap of lining.

‘You are too handsome for words.'

‘Try a word or two, anyway,' he said.

‘Distinguished.'

‘Keep going.'

‘Gorgeous.'

‘You can stop there,' he said. ‘And same to you.'

‘I'm not too sure about the processional of old dogs wearing bow ties.'

‘They'll be fine.'

‘What's going to make them
process
? I mean, they'll all just lie down in the grass.'

‘Not my department,' he said.

She flicked an imagined dust mote from his sleeve.

‘If you had to choose just one word for the way you feel in your heart on this day of days,' she said, ‘what word would it be?'

This day of days was bumper cars, a merry-go-round, a Ferris wheel with every seat stuck on top, surveying the view.

‘Giddy,' he said. ‘A girlish sort of word, but it works.'

‘Perfect,' she said.

‘Perfect is your word?'

‘No. Giddy is the perfect word for how I feel, too.' She draped the gold-trimmed stole around his neck, fussed with its alignment in front. ‘Just think, sweetheart. We have another anniversary coming up in September. We can do a renewal of our vows.'

‘You're kidding.' He couldn't take another marital union. Not anytime soon, anyway.

‘A reenactment, then—I get stuck in the bathroom and you come find me and we race down the street and eat OMC!'

‘Well, maybe,' he said, laughing.

He sat with Dooley in the room off the glider porch. ‘Father, we thank you from the deep place of our souls for your unending grace and mercy in Dooley's life. Thank you for patience that you may reward it, thank you for brokenness that you may mend it, thank you for love that you may enlarge it above our most heartfelt expectations.

‘Thank you for working wonders in their pathway to marriage and for this exciting time of parenthood. Now teach, guide, comfort, and inspire them—as believers in the one true God, as loving husband and wife, as wise parents, and as thoughtful stewards of this good land and its many creatures. May Meadowgate always be a place where your compassion is practiced and your love freely shared.

‘Through Jesus Christ our Lord.'

‘Amen,' they said together.

‘The Lord be with you,' he said to his son.

‘And also with you, Dad. Thanks for everything.'

He was standing on the glider porch, out of view of early guests being seated in the tent, and running early himself by ten or fifteen minutes.

He looked out to the tree line with its dense stand of hardwood. Though Miss Sadie's place at the wedding dinner would go to Henry, she was definitely here—in the triumphal success of a thrown-away boy who had worked hard to become Dooley Kavanagh, DVM. She was here in Dooley's laughter, in his loose gait as he walked across to the clinic, perhaps even in the thoughtful way he was entering into this marriage. Because she had believed in Dooley and provided for his education and future, she would always be here.

‘Miss Sadie,' he whispered.

‘Yes, Father?' He could hear her say it, clear as a bell.

‘You're the best.'

‘Pshaw!' she said.

He checked out the gift table. A four-slice toaster in a box tied with barn twine—that would be Willie, Lord bless him. And Miss Pringle's contribution, which he knew to be towels, always a good thing, and Puny's sheets and pillowcases, can't miss with that, and right here, the box wrapped in
turquoise tissue paper by his wife, and containing what the young couple surely needed most—a check. He had not missed out on the heady excitement of wedding money, himself, even at the age of sixty-two. Miss Sadie had given them a check for a thousand dollars, discreetly folded and slipped into his hand at the parish hall reception. With it, as best he could recall, they had bought a toaster, towels, and sheets . . .

Ah, and there came the press corps, consisting of one—the intrepid Vanita Bentley, features editor of the
Mitford Muse
, wearing her signature owl-like spectacles and spike heels. Though he had never personally worn spike heels, he knew full well that they would betray the wearer in heavy turf. Bury a spike heel in turf, as many brides and guests had done in his time, and whoa.

She hobbled toward him, expectant. ‘Hey, Father, it's me, Vanita! Runnin' late, it was th' log trucks. I haven't seen you in ages. Where have y'all been?'

‘Living the simple life,' he said, grinning. He was fond of Vanita.

‘Let me take your picture in that gorgeous thingumajig. What's it called?'

She was clicking away before he could get his face in order.

‘This is a stole and this is a chasuble . . .'

‘Oh, my gosh, how do you spell it?' She dug in her camera bag and pulled out a notepad.

‘I wouldn't bother to mention it,
really.'

‘With that beautiful dove on the front an' th' gold trim? Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely certain. It would be a snooze for your readers.'

‘It's a double-ring ceremony, right? That's what they say in town.'

‘It is.'

‘I love double-ring ceremonies. The info I have is, her name is Lacey Harper Harper. Is that a typo?'

‘Harper is her middle name and her surname.'

She scribbled this journalistic verity on her notepad.

‘So where's th' bull everybody's talkin' about? I have ten minutes, max, before goin' to th' tent.'

‘Follow the sign,' he said, pointing to
Cattle This Way
. He had forgotten to dot the
i
. ‘And remember, no flash during the ceremony.'

‘Got it, Father. Is there any poop I should know about? These are my good shoes.'

‘There's always poop on a farm,' he said. ‘Just watch where you step.'

‘Chickens or what? Just so I know.'

‘Chickens, guineas, deer, dogs, raccoons . . .' He could go on.

‘Oh, golly,' she said, gathering up her skirt with one hand and adjusting the camera strap with the other.

Willie walked up to the porch, looking boiled from his shower and eyeing Vanita headed to the chill pen.

‘She's tearin' up th' yard in them shoes,' said Willie.

‘She's aerating the lawn,' he said. ‘Be thankful.'

Beth stood behind her. ‘Okay, close your eyes.'

She felt the string of beads slip around her neck and heard the nearly soundless snap of the clasp.

This was a dream. But she was going to live it as if it were real.

‘Now look at yourself! I mean, please, you are so gorgeous. No, no. You don't cry at your own wedding. I did, of course, but for all the right reasons. Now listen to me. Be careful where you step, you never know if the poop control got it all.'

‘Okay.' She laughed, stood up, felt the dress flowing over her skin, over the pain . . .

‘Are you all right?'

‘I just need to take my pill.'

‘I'll get it, where is it?'

‘On the Britannica shelf, to the right.'

Beth brought the pill, the water. Everyone had served her for weeks, she was grateful beyond words for their help and support and unending generosity. She could never repay such sacrifice.

‘You have
got
to get a full-length mirror in this house,' said Beth. ‘The hemline is perfect, the shoes are darling—I'm crazy about the wedge—and the hair is fabulous. You are the
bride of the century, okay? So remember you're loved by everyone who knows you, and from all I can see, also by Jack Tyler, who hardly knows you at all.'

Jack Tyler had watched her stuff his church suit in a box of giveaways and smiled for the first time since he came. He would be in the living room looking for her to come down; she could hardly wait to see him.

As she walked to the door with Beth, she didn't remember being so tall—and light, as if she were ether. Maybe this is what she'd heard about and thought impossible, this sense of walking on air.

‘You look beautiful in turquoise,' she told Beth. ‘It's totally mean of you to outshine the bride.'

‘Impossible!' said Beth. They had a hug. ‘Wait for me, I'll be down in a flash. And don't go through the kitchen or you'll smell like ham. And remember to be your full five feet nine! No slumping.'

Lace laughed. ‘Buy a mirror, stand up straight, watch where you step. Anything else?'

Beth gave her a fond look. ‘Go out there and be as happy as a bird with a french
fry.'