Letty only questioned what he meant about making themselves beautiful.
Grinning, Reese slapped his intended lightly on the rump. “More beautiful,” he amended. “Right, Benjamin, my lad? More beautiful.”
Ben would do his best to make any hay he could from this situation, no doubt storing up good will against possible future entanglements. “Just remember,” he adjured his wife, “how thoughtful I am bein’ today.”
It might be expected that Molly, seated with the others around the dinner table, would not be able to swallow a single bite of food. Not so. She ate with good healthy appetite, albeit with a soft, dreamy, faraway expression that put roses in her cheeks and stars in her eyes.
“Better’n usual,” Reese, making great strides in his serving of roast chicken, fried potatoes and gravy, corn pudding, and fresh peas from someone’s garden, approved. “Hardly oversalted, a’tall.”
While he then, whistling happily, began collecting everything used, with little regard for its content (a separation of glazed pottery from cast iron skillet, for example) to be dumped helter skelter into a sink full of hot soapy water, the women flew upstairs to change. Ben, too, was on a mission: he betook himself to Norton’s for the buggy held in reserve, already cleaned and brushed and ready to roll for a wedding.
The sanctuary of the Church of Placid Waters had been decorated within an inch of its life by hordes of autumn flowers, to the point of looking like a maiden’s bower. And the Burton sisters themselves only added to the effect, with Camellia, as matron of honor, carrying her few extra pounds of weight proudly in a deep violet gown, Letitia in golden yellow silk, and Hannah in carnation pink.
The bride couldn’t have looked more regal, more stunning, more beautiful. Surely her slippered feet barely touched the floor, as she drifted, light as thistledown, toward the altar. There her groom, safely returned from his county-wide investigation, waited with an expression of such blazing happiness that Camellia, watching, blinked back tears.
The church pews were packed to the rafters for the fifteen minute ceremony. Only a few naysayers or gossips would attend for the sole purpose of criticism and complaint afterward; most were well-wishers, familiar with Molly’s unhappy history and wanting just to send her off with their heartiest congratulations. The fact that she was plighting her troth to their popular sheriff merely provided the clotted cream and sweet burgundy cherry atop some spectacular dessert.
Rev. Beecham hadn’t even finalized the traditional finish before Paul eagerly swept the new Mrs. Winslow into his arms for the sort of lengthy, suffocating kiss shared by a couple kept apart for too many months. The rapturous intensity of what they were witnessing sent the entire congregation into gales of sympathetic titters, even a ripple of laughter.
“Mine,” he whispered exhultantly, when they broke apart at last.
“Almost makes me wanna get married, myself,” confided the doctor in an aside to the best man.
Ben grinned. “It’s mostly a pretty tolerable state to be in,” he confided back.
“Gwan, you old hornswaggler. You’ve never been so happy since you and Camellia got hitched.”
Another grin, even broader, was all the answer Gabe needed.
In the vestibule, where the newlyweds stood together to accept felicitations from all those exiting, Molly’s simple but absolute radiance seemed to light up the rather dim area like a thousand candles. Her delight in everything today—this husband the love of her life, the nuptials as culmination of every dream, her perfect gown, the crowd surrounding her with warmth and cordiality—was positively palpable.
The church women, bless their hearts, had taken charge of the post-nuptial celebration, directing guests to victuals and tables already set up in the adjoining hall, with extras, weather being clement, spilling over onto the lawn outside. When Molly, in an earlier consultation with the president of the Ladies’ Aid Society, Grace Ellen Tucker, had questioned the number of dishes being prepared, Mrs. Tucker had merely chuckled.
“My lands, you must’ve seen how much these people can eat, when they’re in a partyin’ mood,” she said comfortably. “And, you get a few drinks in some of these men, why, they’re worse’n rats on a sinkin’ ship—they just devour everything in sight. No, honey, don’t you worry none about it. Nobody’s gonna go away hungry.”
Futile to point out that she hadn’t been planning to serve any drinks, this being a church reception and all, with standards of decorum (and with the sheriff attending not only as groom but as watchful overseer of any hi-jinks). But how many saloons existed in this town, and nearly every one conveniently within spitting distance?
It was a joyous day, crowded with pure happiness, and those who could leave their shops periodically wandered over to join in the festivities, lift a glass or cup, pick up a plate, and socialize. Paul, on first-name basis with nearly every resident in town, and Molly, not so much, had both issued an open invitation: come one, come all.
And they did.
At some point in late afternoon, during a lull of those lined up for the assembly line of covered dishes, covered containers, and casseroles, the informal group of music makers set up shop and began to tune their instruments. It didn’t take long for guests to start tapping their feet in time to the tunes being played. From there they moved on into a large area, where the grass had been worn away to not much more than bare ground by many previous occasions, to join in some of the spritely do-si-does, polkas, and schottisches. Some eagerly, some less so.
The newlyweds had chosen a large table out of the line of traffic—and somewhat secluded from congenial but still intrusive gazes—to bill and coo.
At least until Gabriel, cup of punch in hand, wandered along.
“Plenty of time for that later on,” he observed cheerily. “You ordered this shindig; you gotta put up with everybody watchin’ every move you make. Got any room there?” Without waiting for their answer, he dragged a convenient chair over the grass and plopped down.
Paul bent a friendly glance upon him. “Whatcha drinkin’ there, Doc?”
Frowning, Gabe peered into his cup. “Some kinda pink stuff. Lemonade, I think. Tastes much more palatable with a bit of bourbon in it.”
Molly, clinging like a limpet to her husband’s arm as if he might somehow escape, laughed. “Do you go through life half-befuddled, Gabriel?”
“Why, no, honey, wherever wouldja get that idea? Wouldn’t be much use to my patients if I was snozzled, now, would I? No, I just indulge at parties. And family gatherin’s,” he added thoughtfully. “And maybe when I’m sittin’ all alone in my house at night.”
“Poor, pathetic man,” tsk-tsked Hannah, coming up behind him. “Are we supposed to feel sorry for you?”