“Everybody!” Estelle’s voice rang out over the din. “All you single gents come on over to the bandstand. It’s garter time!”
Duncan refused to move from Sam’s side until Estelle, a strong-minded woman, threatened to make a scene if he didn’t join in the fun.
“You get your fanny over there, honey,” Estelle said to him with a broad wink. “Catch the garter and you’ll be the next one to tie the knot.”
Reluctantly Duncan joined the group of men on the dance floor while the groom led his bride to a chair at the edge of the bandstand.
His only experience with American bridal rituals was what he’d seen in Hollywood movies, so he felt the odd man out.
The bride coyly lifted the hem of her gown to expose her ankles and calves. The groom ran his hand over her instep, her ankle, then higher, higher, higher, until he looped his thumb around a frilly blue satin garter just above her knee. The men around him cheered lustily as the groom slid the garter from his bride’s leg then waved it overhead like a trophy in some medieval festival.
Then, before Duncan knew what was happening, the groom flung the garter into the crowd of men. A raucous cry went up as grown men grabbed for the scrap of satin and elastic that spun past them and landed on Duncan’s head.
The band launched into a funeral dirge while the good-natured Texans clapped Duncan on the back and made jokes about him being the next to walk the plank. What plank? he thought. And why a garter?
As for Sam, she watched the proceedings with apprehension. It was all too neat, too pat, as if unseen hands were conspiring to tie their fates together, whether they wanted them tied together or not. She knew Martie would see to it that she caught the bouquet if she had to hand-deliver it right into Sam’s outstretched hands. The thing to do was leave. Just slip out the door behind the bar and make a run for freedom. She turned and was about to make a break for it when Martie called out, “Where are you going, Sammy? It’s time to toss the bouquet”
Short of feigning her own death, there was no way out. She wouldn’t hurt Martie for the world, not on her wedding day. Sam lined up with the other single women as Martie glided to the top of the staircase and stopped right beneath the crystal chandelier so the photographer could snap another dozen pictures. Sam barely recognized her sister. The Martie she’d known was an eccentric artist who rarely did anything conventional. But there she was, in her lacy white wedding gown, tossing her bridal bouquet like millions of other brides before her.
It must be love, Sam thought in bewilderment. Nothing else could explain the change in Martie.
“Okay, ladies,” the new bride called out. “Get ready!” She winked broadly at Sam, who devoutly wished she could disappear. Sixty pairs of eager arms raised heavenward in anticipation. Sam clasped her hands behind her back. If Martie threw the bouquet in her direction, she’d duck.
The emcee tapped the microphone. “Drumroll, please. On the count of one…two…three!”
The bouquet tumbled through the air, ribbons streaming, and headed straight for Sam. Sam ducked. The bouquet lost altitude. Sam moved to the right. Perfect. It would whiz right on by her.
Or it would have if one of the dopey bridesmaids hadn’t made a grab for it and somehow changed its trajectory, putting it on a collision course with Sam’s nose. She raised her hands to protect herself and caught the flowers instead.
Sam looked across the room at Duncan, who was still clutching that foolish blue garter. She held up the flowers. He twirled the garter around his index finger. They looked like two prisoners trying to escape from Alcatraz.
Years ago her cousin Bobby and a woman named Phyllis had caught the garter and the bouquet at Aunt Lula’s wedding. They’d thought it meant they had to get married to each other and so they eloped to Mexico that very night The hangover had lasted longer than the marriage. Thank God neither Sam nor Duncan were that dumb.
The laughing horde of single women swarmed all over Sam and pushed her toward the center of the dance floor where a lone wooden chair waited for her. Duncan was being swept her way on a sea of bachelors. She noticed that he looked quite bewildered by this turn of events—and she also noticed that his bewilderment was quite appealing.
“You should have left when you had the chance,” she said to him as she sat on the chair. “You’re a foreigner. You shouldn’t have to see this embarrassing American ritual.”
“Don’t pay her any mind,” said Jo Marie Albright, Wilde & Daughters’ best saleswoman. “Nothing wrong with this ritual.” She winked broadly. “Not if you’re lookin’ for someone to love.”
“I’m not looking for anyone to love,” Sam proclaimed in a loud, clear voice.
“Everyone knows that about you, Sammy,” Jo Marie said, shaking her head. “But I still like to think miracles happen.”
“Looks like you’re out of luck,” Ted Di Mentri said, elbowing Duncan in the ribs. Ted was one of Martie’s old high school pals. “She’s not buyin’ what you’re sellin’.”
Duncan didn’t say anything, but the deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face spoke volumes.
“I refuse to feel sorry for you,” Sam said as they urged her to lift her skirt to the knee. “You’re only slightly embarrassed. I, however, am totally humiliated.”
“Oh, be quiet, Sam,” Martie called out, “and let the man do his job.”
Duncan’s dark brows drew together in a scowl. “And what would that job be?”
Ted’s grin was wolfish. “You get to slide that little honey of a garter up this pretty gal’s leg.”
“C’mere, darlin’,” Sam
