have to expose her left hand just yet. There was a smell about him she couldn't identify, something purifying, but not perfumed. A utilitarian soap, maybe, mixed with fresh air and the faint odor of dye, as if it were the first time he'd worn his blue jeans.
A twitch of his elbow made her look up into his face. 'Ready?'
She nodded.
'On three, then, starting with the left.'
They concentrated on the couple ahead. 'One… two… three,' she whispered. He pulled Winnie's hand against his ribs as they took their first step down the aisle.
It was the first time Winnie had been asked to act as a maid of honor. It was oddly disquieting. Why ever was she feeling so much like a bride? Programming, she supposed. Weren't all little girls programmed to respond to the song now beating upon her ears? Weren't they all taught to think of growing up in terms of 'walking down the aisle'? Women's liberation had done virtually nothing to sway women's minds away from dreams of all that was traditional when it came to weddings.
She watched Jo-Jo Duggan's walk for the first time from the very distracting angle of top to bottom. His unblemished tennis shoes made not a sound, but his crisp jeans crackled slightly, and within them his thighs pressed as firmly as air against the inside of a balloon. To her surprise he strode not with the haughty athletic swagger she might have expected after his stance in the vestibule but instead moved with relaxed poise, almost as if strolling in time to the music instead of marching to it. He had superb rhythm.
'How am I doing?' he whispered.
Her eyes flew up to find him grinning down at her.
'You must be a dancer.'
His grin shifted to a wince, and he whispered, 'Hardly.'
'Well, maybe you should be. You have impeccable timing.'
'Thank you, Ginger. Next time I'll bring my top hat and cane.'
She nudged his ribs and hissed, 'Shh. Not here, Fred.'
They'd reached the chancel rail and followed the verbal and hand directions of Father Waldron, separating and taking their places on either flank.
Turning to face the pews, Winnie watched Mick approach. She liked the fact that he and Sandy had chosen to walk up the aisle with their parents-Mick first, so he could be waiting when Sandy arrived to be given over from the arm of her father. She herself had never known a father and would be disinclined to walk up the aisle with her mother.
Just before Sandy reached the chancel, Winnie glanced across at Joseph and found his eyes resting steadily on her, as if they'd been there for some time. He smiled briefly, then looked away, and the rest of the instructions began. When they'd walked through the ritual of the bridal service itself, the attendants were instructed to file into the front pew, again in pairs, for the remainder of the Nuptial Mass.
Winnie and Joseph were seated side by side, their hips separated by a few scant inches of hard wooden pew. His upper arm brushed hers, and she felt him glance at her when she crossed her arms to end the contact.
'Are you Catholic?'
She looked up in surprise. 'Of course. Why?'
'Just wondering. I am, too, but I've never been too comfortable sitting through all this hoopla our church puts on at weddings. Reminds me of a carnival.'
She smiled at her lap, trying to imagine him sitting through it dressed in a tux and ruffles. Somehow the picture didn't fit.
Just then Father Waldron raised his voice toward the choir loft. 'And that will be my cue for you to begin the recessional, Mrs. Collingswood. Attendants, you'll come and take your places beside the new bride and groom before the final wedding march begins.'
They lined up along the front of the church again, and this time when the organ boomed its call to exit, Winnie and Joseph met in the center aisle with a chuckle, a smile and the sense of growing familiarity such routine practices often generate.
They walked through the entire service once more before the entourage again clustered in the vestibule, and Mrs. Malaszewski reminded everybody that the groom's supper would be served at their house as soon as everyone got back there.
'So you drove, huh?' Winnie found Joseph Duggan again at her side, this time holding her coat. Slipping it on, she wished she could say no, just to see what he'd suggest.
'Yes… remember the gas?'
'Yes, I remember. Too bad, or we could ride over to Mick's house together.'
'Well, in any case, I'll see you there.'
He opened the exterior door, and a blast of wind nearly knocked her back against his chest. Instinctively he took her elbow as they ran down the steps together, her coat flapping back across his thighs, and her hair slicked straight back from her face. In the parking lot he stopped her with a forceful pressure of his thumb in the hollow of her elbow.
'If you get there first, save me a place next to you.'
The wind worked its way inside his jacket and ballooned it out. He dropped her elbow and reached to raise the zipper higher up his chest. The curls on the upper right-hand side of his skull were forced flat, while her own collar-length hair blew across her mouth and eye. She stood in the wind looking up at him, wondering what to reply, knowing she wasn't permitted to encourage him, yet answering, 'And if you get there first, save a seat for me.'
'It's a promise. Only don't comb your hair this time!'
'I…' A strand of it whipped into her open mouth. 'What?'
He'd started jogging away but turned and jogged backward five steps while calling, 'I said don't comb your hair this time. It looked great when you first walked into church!'
Some off-tempo warning slanted through her heart.
The groom's dinner turned out to be served buffet-style, but the dining-room table was extended as wide as it would go, and when Winnie took her plate and sat down, Joseph Duggan followed. He swung his leg over the seat of the chair as if it were a barbed-wire fence he was climbing over and deposited before himself a plate that needed sidecars to hold all the food he'd heaped upon it.
'Aw, you combed it,' he chided, then sank his teeth into a slab of sliced ham.
'Mr. Duggan, do you always flirt with every girl you meet within five minutes of meeting her?'
'Was I flirting?'
'It's only a rough guess, because I'm really not up on the subject, but it felt like it to me.'
'You're not up on the subject? A girl with your face and-' his eyes flickered downward, not quite reaching her breasts before starting up again '-hair?'
She ignored his continued flattery and commented, 'Yes, I combed my hair. It looked like an explosion in a silo.'
'Never.' He assessed the subject of the discussion. 'And it's pretty. A really pretty color and length.'
She felt out of her league. 'There you go again.'
'You call that flirting?'
'Well, isn't it?'
He lifted a glass of milk, took three enormous swallows, ran a thumb along one corner of his mouth-and all without removing his eyes from her hair. When at last they dropped to hers, he replied, 'No, just a compliment. I like your hair, okay? What are you so defensive about?'
It was the perfect opening. She lifted her left hand, pressed her thumb against the inner platinum band of the engagement ring so the stone stood out away from her fourth finger. 'This.'
His eyes dropped, and for a moment there was no change in his expression. 'Oh, I see. Well, you can't blame
