dancing, and guitar and fiddle cases were stacked waiting for their owners at one end. Reese and Stevie were already standing behind a long white table that held trays of stemmed glassware from the country club and tubs of champagne and nonalcoholic sparkling cider. The cake, topped with a perfectly detailed bride and groom in pale gold and formal brown, was presided over by several of my nieces and Dwight’s.
“And look on the tables,” said Jane Ann. “Emma did them for you.”
On the tables, each pot of poinsettias bristled with those plastic card holders that come with florist flowers, and each held a playing-card-sized photograph of various brides and grooms. I looked closely and recognized Seth and Minnie, Frank and Mae, Rob and Kate, Maidie and Cletus, Portland and Avery, Aunt Sister and Uncle Rufus. On the back of each card was the date they had married and some comment from the couple themselves:
“Don’t laugh at my hair. Beehives were stylish then.”
“The first time we met was in kindergarten. He broke my red crayon and I told him I hated him.”
“This was taken ten minutes after we walked out of the wedding chapel down in Dillon. Everybody said it wouldn’t last three months.”
“He’s been gone eight years, but in my heart, he’s still the gawky kid who brought me daisies when we were courting.”
“I wanted to go to Hawaii for our honeymoon. He wanted to take his bluetick to a field trial in Pennsylvania. Marriage is a compromise. We went to the beach with my cocker spaniel.”
I was ready to go around the room and read every one of them, but Minnie pulled us into a reception line at the door as friends and family streamed in with hugs and kisses.
Haywood held up the line to tell Portland, “You just cost me five dollars, missy. I was sure that baby would be here today.”
“Hang on to your money, sweetie,” she said. “The day’s not over yet.” She laughed at my look of concern. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I just need to sit down a few minutes.”
That was all Avery had to hear. He immediately brought a chair.
We hadn’t bothered with a professional photographer, but Zach and Barbara’s Emma had begun an online album for us with her digital camera, and she snapped several candid shots.
“Come here and let me hug you,” I said. “I love the photo cards you made. Do we get to keep them?”
Dressed in their Sunday best, Cal, Mary Kate, and Jake darted in and out with some of my older brothers’ grandchildren.
Nadine and Doris both told me I looked beautiful and—a slight surprise in their tones here—that my dress was perfect, “even though that side slit does show right much leg, don’t it?”
I hugged them both.
“You’re a brave man, Dwight Bryant,” said Adam when he and Karen came through. “If this family gets to be too much, you can always come join us out in California.”
As the arrivals thinned, Aunt Sister opened her fiddle case, tuned up, and began to play a familiar melody. Haywood and Herman and Will joined her with their instruments, then Annie Sue began to sing in her high sweet voice.
It’s a dumb song. It’s corny. It’s sentimental. It’s the cliche of cliches and I usually roll my eyes and snicker every time it’s played.
Today though, my eyes began to puddle as Daddy took me by the hand and led me to the center of the floor.
I buried my face against his chest as we moved to the music, and he said, “Here, now, it’s gonna be fine.”
“I know,” I said.
“He’s been loving you a long time, shug.”
“Yes.”
“And you been loving him, too. The only difference is that he knowed it and you didn’t.”
I lifted my eyes to his and smiled. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”
He gave a soft snort of laughter. “And since when did you ever listen to me?”
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
Dwight and Miss Emily joined us on the floor, and after one circuit we changed partners and I went into his arms. Other couples followed, the music became more lively, and the party took off.
“Husband and wife,” I said as the floor became crowded with so many of the people we both love.
“For better or worse,” he agreed.
“In sickness and in health.”
“Maybe even in anchovies.” His arms tightened around me.
For one brief instant, I thought of Tracy Johnson. If she hadn’t been too status-conscious to stand before the world with a sheriff’s deputy, would she still be alive?
Then Dwight kissed me and champagne corks began to pop as I entered fully into the moment.
“Thank you,” I said to Whoever might be listening.
“My pleasure,” said Dwight and kissed me again.
