Helplessly Camellia turned toward her husband, who raised his brows and shrugged. “Sorry, darlin’. She has a point. We were a mail order couple our own selves. If the girl has already given consent...”
“But she’s so young!”
“I’m nineteen,” Molly bristled. “As I keep reminding you, Cam. When will you realize I’m no longer a child? That I’m all grown up?”
When you start acting that way! Camellia wanted to wail. Wasn’t it just a few months ago her sister was wearing pigtails and playing with dolls? What right did she have to take charge of her own life in this manner?
Ever-practical Ben asked a few more pertinent questions: where do you expect to live? (Quinn: We haven’t decided yet.); what kind of work do you figure on doing? (Quinn: I’ll look around to see what’s available.); how do you intend to support a wife? (Quinn: We’ll take care of things.).
After a bit, the probee began to show signs of a slight resentment at being probed. Or, at the very least, restiveness. His expression reflected his state of mind. You’re not her parents. Why do I have to answer to you?
By then, the visit seemed to be wearing thin, and there was little more for the group to discuss. Clearly the young couple was anxious to be alone, to make their plans, to find out more about each other, to bill and coo. Perhaps during a stroll around town, where Molly could proudly display her acquisition; perhaps sitting sedately on a shaded bench in Turnabout’s small city park, bordered by mature oaks and maples and a mass of free-growing wildflowers.
“But—you’ll let us know what you decide?” queried Camellia anxiously, at the front door while she watched them depart. “You’ll tell us what’s going on, and—and the details—and—”
“O’ course they will,” said Ben. “Even if they got no common sense, they got you, don’t they?”
Grinning, he brushed a kiss against his wife’s temple, gave her a familiar pat on the bottom, and sauntered on back to the store. He accompanied himself with a warble of tuneless but satisfied whistling from some unknown melody—probably of the dance hall variety. He knew he had done a good day’s work already, and was ready to wash his hands of the women’s affair.
Not so Camellia. She drifted through the rooms of her home like a southern ha’nt, picking up things and putting them down, moving from piano to dust rag to stack of books in Ben’s study.
All very well and good for him; it wasn’t his sister that might be going off the deep end! She was miffed at him for such apparent unconcern, and, if she so chose, that miff might last all the way through bedtime.
Camellia could just imagine his response if she asked his opinion of the purported bridegroom. A nonchalant shrug, and the judgment: “Looks like a riverboat gambler to me.”
Well, just how UNreassuring could that be?
Her skin felt prickly, as if she had fallen haphazard into a patch of nettles; and she couldn’t sort herself out and direct attention to one task or one idea.
Her mood matched the unpredictable weather outside.
Chapter Five
“IS MY VEIL STRAIGHT?”
“It’s perfect, Mol.”
“And the tucks that were added—can you see them?” The bride was bending almost backward in her unsuccessful attempt to see what was going on behind her, with the train.
“Absolutely not at all. You look wonderful.”
“Are there too many flowers in my bouquet? Or too many colors? Or too many—”
“Molly, dear, you don’t have a single thing wrong,” Camellia firmly assured her sister. “You are excellence itself, a paragon. Quinn may very well burst into tears of joy when he sees you.”
A look of absolute bliss crossed the girl’s radiant face, and then she giggled. “Now that wouldn’t be very fittin’, would it?” She paused, then impulsively embraced her sister, satin and lace and all, in a heartfelt hug. “Oh, Cam, thank you.”
Camellia was blinking back a film of tears herself. “For what, sweetheart?”
“Oh, for understanding. For accepting. And for—for the loan—of your own beautiful wedding outfit!”
“Well, that. I suspect it may end up being the communal gown.”
They two were standing in the vestibule of the Church of Placid Waters, waiting for the music to begin. Not Molly’s, of course, she of the light touch and the learned hands, since her all-important role today was certainly not that of church organist.
“And it’s only the end of June,” bubbled Molly. “I’m a summer bride.”
Camellia, all togged out in a daring light blue dress whose sheer sleeves and flaring skirt embodied a series of flattering ruffles, was serving as her sole attendant; besides Letitia and Hannah, already seated in the pews