Isn't It Romantic?

“English, Monsieur.”

“There is this madness in you.”

“And you are shifty.”

“You have no head for business,” he said.

“And you?”

“Bad example,” he said. “But you get up too early and put on as music your Fred Astaire, your Gene Autry.”

“You stay up too late. And you yack.”

“What is ‘yack’?”

“Bavarder,” she said. She halted her swim, put her hands on his head, and dunked him into the medicine of Frenchman’s Creek, counting as she held him under, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . . quatre . . . cinq . . . six . . . sept . . .” She let him up.

Pierre gasped for breath and whipped his long hair as Natalie blithely floated away. Swimming after her, Pierre admitted, “I’m forgetful

of you.”

“In which way?”

Wiping his hair sleek against his skull, he floated on his back. “Well, I never think about how you are feeling.”

She floated too, her pert breasts rising just above the water, her dark hair trailing out and undulating. Seriously considering him, she said, “Actually, in your own way, you never think about anyone else.”

Pierre seemed relieved by the revelation. “But yes! It is true!”

“Wait,” Natalie said. She held onto his head and dunked him again. And then she went down alongside him. And they were all ardor as they broke the surface, holding each other and kissing.

“I’m an idiot,” Pierre said. “I’m a brute. I’m a beast.”

“No more than most men,” Natalie said.

“You are too beautiful for me!”

She smiled. She touched his handsome face. “You will perhaps get less ugly as you grow older.”

She felt the tolling of her heart as each stared at the other for a moment. And then each independently went underwater.

Small ripples traveled away. Water flattened. There was silence. And then both of them slowly rose up until just their eyes were above Frenchman’s Creek. After some cautious consideration, they raised their heads to talk and Pierre became a hard and terse Western outlaw. “Let’s do it.”

And mimicking him, Natalie said, “Why not.”

They heard Dick yell, “We’re joining you!” and they turned to see him and Iona, naked on the iron bridge, their hands linked, their hearts united, and then plunging with screams of joy.

31

The grand ball that ended The Revels at the Seldom fair-grounds on Saturday night became a glorious wedding banquet for Mr. & Mrs. Clairvaux-Smith, and Mr. & Mrs. Christiansen-Tupper. Carlo’s feast was defrosted and laid out on side tables, with each course described on little cards held up by origami swans. Thousands of colored balloons filled the roof of the open-air livestock tent, American and French flags hung at the entrance, and a wooden floor was laid on the earth. Even the children wore eighteenth- and nineteenth-century French costumes, and hundreds of Nebraskans from as far away as Valentine and Omaha were smiling as the lovers strolled onto the dance floor and the deejay played Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “Isn’t It Romantic?”

Owen and Carlo were at a side table in jaunty berets and hunching over the high school gym’s microphone. “We see that Natalie and Iona have favored the chignon hairstyle,” Owen said. “And both are wearing jeweled tiaras.”

“The difference is in the dresses,” Carlo said. “Iona has chosen a lovely satin, long sleeve, Queen Anne neckline with a full skirt and pearl-beaded lace.”

Sotto voce, Owen said, “You’re shaking the table.”

“Sorry,” Carlo said, and forced down his knees with his hands.