I should be questioning why they’re aren’t questioning this more. I should be wondering why they’re okay with this. If this were my daughter, I wouldn’t let some kid walk into my house proposing marriage with the plan to whisk her off to fuck knows where.
“Henry, there are things to organize. Snap out of it.” Mrs. Brennan snaps her fingers much like the way Bea did at me last night. A glance at Hank tells me I better get with it because this is how things roll with the Brennan women. It’s humbling, but I accept it wholeheartedly.
“Uh, well, I leave in eight days.”
“Lord have mercy,” the aunts chant. I think the lord was going to need something closer to a miracle at this point. I’ve never planned anything like this before. Weddings are supposed to be one-time deals, and this wasn’t a part of boot camp training.
“Okay. We can do this.” Mrs. Brennan whips out a planner and lays it on the table. She hands me a pen and paper to take notes. Mr. Brennan grabs two beers from the fridge and hands me one, popping the top off. I think it’s a bit early for drinking, but who am I to argue? Getting married isn’t exactly a coffee kind of moment.
“You’re gonna be here awhile son, get comfortable.” Mr. Brennan smiles and the women in the family start organizing. Two hours later they’ve got my whole life story and I’ve got a list of fifty or so items to take care of. I’d say it was productive, but I don’t get to see Bea and I wonder if she planned it this way.
Honeybee: I hear you survived my parents and the aunts.
Tank: A little warning next time?
Honeybee: Now where would the fun be in that?
Tank: Because you love me?
Honeybee: I’m still deciding if I’m showing up.
Tank: Fair enough.
“You got enough favors for all this?” Ms. La Croix, the baker, pulls out a book with cake pictures.
“I got cash, if that’ll help.” I pull out my wallet, wondering what this will run me. I need a cake for at least a hundred people on short notice. For all I know, half the town will show up and we’re not even advertising this wedding. It’s mostly my family here and hers, with friends we know, and then the church in town. I’ve got a choir singing, and my brother’s marching band playing the wedding march for extra credit.
“Put your money away. You’re gonna need that for other things.” She pushes my hand away and flips her book open to a page with various white sheet cakes lightly decorated.
“Now we don’t have much time for anything fancy, but this I can make in a day and you’ll have it ready on time.”
“How much?” The cake looks elaborate, with basket weaving, vines, and flowers despite it not being “fancy,” but what the hell do I know? I’ve never planned a wedding before.
“It would be my pleasure to see the two of you wed. I know Miss Bea loves my pumpkin spice doughnuts, so how about I make a pumpkin spice cake and do up a special vanilla buttercream frosting?”
My mouth is watering thinking about it, but all I can get out is a nod and a muffled “thank you.”
“Lovely, I’ll drop it off the morning of. You have flowers yet?”
“No ma’am. Not yet.” I scratch the back of my head and then pull out my list from Mrs. Brennan.
“Well then you head over across the street. I expect Miss Maisy Danvers is waiting on you to call.”
“Thank you.” I move to shake her hand, but she wraps me up in a hug that smells like sugar and cinnamon. I tell her goodbye and jog across the street. My list still has about half of it left. The flowers will be a huge item.
I step insid
e the flower shop, which is warm and a little humid.
“Finally! I figured you was gonna make me come find you.”
“No, Miss Maisy.”
I let the older woman wrap me in a bear hug. She already knows why I’m here. It’s not like our town can keep secrets, especially with an event like this. There are only a few reasons weddings happen this quickly, and both my mother and Mrs. Brennan were keen to tell their social circles that Bea wasn’t knocked up. Not that it was anyone’s business, but getting married was the only way I could secure housing on base as a couple living together.
“What are you wearing to the ceremony?” She doesn’t bother beating around the bush.
“My dress blues.”