, just a few others had been asked to this small and private wedding. There was, surprisingly, Sheriff Paul Winslow, his badge pinned discreetly under his coat, parked in the back; Miss Elvira Gotham, invited by Camellia (Jimmy Dunlap, assistant manager, had stayed behind to run the store); Dr. Gabriel Havers, somewhat rumpled and haggard as to appearance (another lengthy delivery of some poor woman’s baby?); and several female acquaintances from the boarding house.
Ben was standing at the altar, filling the role of best man. He looked very sober and solid and prosaic, and only slightly uncomfortable, in the single suit he owned. Its smooth blue cloth and gray angola trousers provided a quiet, steady contrast to the striped coat and colorful silk embellished vest of the husband-soon-to-be.
“Honey, are you—sure—about this?”
“What?”
“It isn’t too late. Are you sure this is what you want? Everything has happened so quickly, and you’ve hardly had time to think, let alone find out what Quinn is really like. I mean, he seems nice enough, and pleasant, and all that, but—” Camellia, almost breathless, fizzled to a stop.
“Oh, Cam.” Smiling, Molly looked straight and deep into her sister’s eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Quinn is all I want. Can’t you see that I’m madly in love with him?”
Madly in love with him? Or madly in love with the idea of love?
Camellia was about to start in again when Molly gave an excited little jounce. “Listen. Mendelssohn—the March. It’s time, Cammy. It’s time.”
Once the couple had formally plighted their troth, spent an hour or so speaking with the Rev. Martin Beecham, and reserved the time and date for their church ceremony, the ensuing week had flown by in a flurry of activity. While the sisters were delighted and thrilled by Molly’s ecstatic state, below all that ran an undercurrent of tension and concern, over which they had privately consulted.
“She’s just a baby,” scoffed Hannah. “She doesn’t have a clue what she’s getting herself into.” There was just a bit of the “dog in the manger” attitude about Hannah, who, as second eldest, felt it her right to be married next. Although, to give her credit, she too had been expressing some worry about this hasty wedding to an unknown.
“And what would you know about it?” Letty had demanded. “Are you such an all-fired expert on making a match? I notice you’re still single.”
“Girls, that’s enough!” Camellia, who had called this council of war in her own kitchen to discuss trying to change what was clearly being seen as an inevitable event, felt dismayed and annoyed. Surely the three of them should be able to come to terms on such a crucial matter!
“Where is Molly, anyway?”
“She and her intended are somewhere making googly eyes at each other,” Letty reported with just a touch of acidity. “Cam, may I have another glass of lemonade? Trying to destroy the reputation of one’s sister is thirsty work.”
Hannah snorted. “We’re not trying to destroy her reputation, you simpleton. We’re trying to save her from making a horrible mistake.”
“So you say. Personally, I see no difference between what she’s doing and what Camellia did. You knew very little about Ben, did you, when you allowed him to put a ring on your finger?”
Aye, therein lay the rub. How could the eldest preach to the youngest about virtue and caution in such a case? Camellia would admit she could claim very little moral superiority when it came to the question of mail order brides.
“I had more time to learn what kind of man he was during our months of correspondence,” Camellia answered stiffly.
“Months of correspondence. Yay, hey.”
Silence for a moment, while each considered the ramifications of this impetuous pairing.
Through both kitchen windows, shuttered but open to allow a small movement of air, came the sudden rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker working away in one of the dying sycamores at the edge of the Forrester property. Almost in accompaniment, sweeter and softer, one could hear the “Tu-wheet” of a bluebird and a “Cheerily, cheerily” of the familiar robin. A whole phalanx of birds, and their song, provided a backdrop to any conversation. During daylight, bees and butterflies did their best to visit every blooming flower; during the evening hours it was fireflies and an occasional swarm of irritating mosquitoes.
Woodland sounds and scenes abounded, right outside the door. But the three women contemplating life in Camellia’s kitchen paid little attention.
“She’s headstrong,” Camellia finally commented, somewhat sadly.
Another snort from pragmatic Hannah. “We’re all of us headstrong, Cam, in our own way. It’s a family failing.”
They were seated, as always, at the large scarred and worn wooden table, where discussions so often took place. More problems have been solved, more arguments settled, more intricacies embraced, around a homely kitchen table, than in any other room of a house (unless it was possibly the private space upstairs); and this was no different.
Letitia looked from one to the other. “Are we resigned to the fact, then, that Molly will find her own path, and we can do nothing about it?”
“I suppose so,” Camellia reluctantly agreed. “And support her, through anything that comes along.”
Easily pushing back her chair, Hannah rose and took a step away. “She’s making her bed, girls. She’ll have to lie in it.”
Camellia, the proverbial mother hen, was feeling a trifle lost, as if her chicks were beginning to scatter far and wide, beyond her control. It was at that point that she realized she must spend a little time with her flighty sister, filling her in on what could be expected from the physical side of marriage.
“I suppose so,” she agreed thoughtfully.