THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  * * *

  The Eight Second

  Wedding

  Anne McAllister

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  * * *

  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

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  Prologue

  ^ »

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that, when it comes to their children's happiness, mothers know best. And when the mothers come equipped with a Ph.D. in genetics in one case, and years of experience in anthropological fieldwork in the other, the truth has considerable clout.

  So when Madeleine Frances Decker was born on that bright summer day twenty-six years ago, her future was all but decided.

  Her mother, Antonia, knew precisely what her best friend, Julia Richardson, would say upon hearing the news.

  "It's perfect. I told you you'd have a girl. You had to." Julia rubbed her hands together gleefully as she looked down at the tiny girl child nestled in Antonia's arms. "She's lovely. Whichever she picks, they'll have beautiful, healthy, intelligent babies."

  "It's hard to imagine her having babies," Antonia said softly, "when she's only seven hours old herself."

  "Yes," Julia said. "But it will be wonderful. You said that yourself."

  "I know, but—"

  "And it's not as if we'll be pushing her toward any one of them," she added conscientiously. "She can have her choice."

  Of husbands, Julia meant, for she was herself the mother of the four stair-step sons she and Antonia had decided that in time the unsuspecting Madeleine would be able to pick from.

  Madeleine, of course, knew nothing of this arrangement for years. Neither did the prospective husbands: Channing, Gardner, Mark and Trevor Richardson.

  There was no point in telling them beforetime. Children, Antonia and Julia agreed, couldn't be counted on to act rationally about serious matters like this. In fact, they could be expected to rebel, a fact which both Antonia and Julia well knew.

  There would be time enough, they decided, to inform their respective children when they were older. They would understand better when they were past the childish follies of first loves and adolescent crushes, and so able at last to fully appreciate the scientific, genetic and cultural basis for their mothers' infinite wisdom.

  Then, and only then would they be told, and Madeleine could take her choice.

  At least that was the plan.

  But when Madeleine was only fifteen, Gard Richardson narrowed her choices by marrying Emily Keane a month after his high school graduation.

  Julia apologized to her friend. "But I could hardly tell him not to. He's eighteen. He loves her. And," she added ruefully, "there's a baby on the way."

  "Madeleine probably wouldn't have wanted Gard, anyway," Antonia said philosophically.

  "Probably not. Besides, she still has three to pick from," Julia agreed.

  Or she did have until five years later, when Mark joined the navy, went to Australia and, the next thing Julia knew, married a pretty redhead named Kelly Fraser.

  "I didn't even know until after he'd done it," Julia called to tell Antonia in dismay. "He phoned us from Perth, for goodness sake, and said, 'Guess what, Mom, I'm married!' I mean, really!" It was the most offended Antonia had ever heard her.

  "Don't fret," Antonia said soothingly. "There are still Chan and Trevor."

  Julia sighed. "That's true."

  And the thought of Antonia's Madeleine and her Trevor made her muster her optimism and a smile. The optimism and the smile had lasted until this past December when Trevor called his parents from Boston and announced his engagement to Marybeth Boone.

  "You won't believe this," Julia told Antonia without preamble. "He's given her a diamond. They're marrying in February. On Valentine's Day, would you believe? I never thought Trev would indulge in such romanticism. I really," she confided wistfully, "always thought Trevor was the one. I mean, he and Madeleine both have so much in common. They're both scholarly and intellectual. They're both Ph.D. candidates at top graduate schools."

  "Yes, well, it can't be helped," Antonia said. "And there's always Chan."

  "Yes," Julia said slowly, "there's always Chan."

  Neither of them had deemed Channing Richardson a serious candidate for Madeleine's husband in years.

  Julia considered the possibility now. If she hadn't believed in her research so thoroughly, she would have quailed at the thought of her eldest son marrying Antonia's only daughter. Never, not even in her wildest dreams, had she linked Madeleine and Chan. She didn't imagine anyone else had, either.

  Still, she reminded herself, genetics didn't lie. Chan and Madeleine should have just as good a chance of having wonderful, talented, healthy, strong babies as Madeleine and any of her other sons would have. And Antonia's anthropological research provided substantial evidence that very often the best marriages were made for economic, social and familial reasons, and not for anything so vague as that unpredictable thing called "love."

  Still – and here Julia couldn't help shaking her head – Chan and Madeleine together?

  It wasn't going to be easy.

  But really, now that she thought about it, it might be for the best. It might be the making of both of them, genetics and cultural determinism aside.

  "Let us hope, at least," she said dryly, "that the old wives' tale is true."

  "Which one is that?" Antonia asked.

  "That opposites attract."

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  "I have told you, haven't I," Julia Richardson said to her son, who was currently sprawled on his back in the dirt in front of her, "of the advantages of good breeding?"

  Channing Richardson spat out a mouthful of dirt and hauled himself to his feet. He didn't reply. The monologue was all too familiar. He grunted, slapped the dirt off his jeans and limped over to fetch his hat.

  "I thought I had," his mother went on unconcerned. "And Danny Boy simply proves it." A contented smile wreathed her face as she watched the bull who had just thrown her son into the dirt now trot briskly around the corral with a look of smug satisfaction on his bovine face.

  Chan wiped his hand across his mouth, snagged his hat and jammed it back on his head.

  "Admit it, Chan, he's a fine fellow," Julia said. "You're just angry that he keeps tossing you."

  Chan grimaced. Danny Boy was more than a fine fellow. He was the damnedest hard ride Chan had ever experienced. Every time he came home he made it a point to test his mettle against the young bull, and he hadn't stayed on him yet.

  "Just like his father and his father before him," Julia went on cheerfully. She was perched on the corral fence, a spread sheet of Danny Boy's lineage chart in her hand. She smiled at it as she spoke. "And that lovely little mamma cow I picked."

  "Ill-tempered hussy, you mean," Chan muttered.

  Julia smiled. "Precisely. Exactly what one wants in rodeo stock, isn't it?"

  "Mmm, hmm." He'd give her that much. He'd also admit she was the brains behind the success of the entire Richardson cattle operation, both the rodeo stock and the beef cattle they raised in the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming. Chan's father, Channing, Sr., called Rick, had done a good job developing the herd left to him by his father. He'd bought good stock, grazed them well and doctored them carefully. He'd even gone to Montana State University to study agriculture and he'd learned a lot.

  But the smartest move Rick Richardson had ever made was falling in love with the tall, curvy, chestnut-haired girl with the four-point in his genetics class and having the good sense to encourage her to finish her Ph.D. before he married her.

  Julia Richardson knew her way aroun
d cattle; Chan had to give her that. She had genetics all figured out. She could talk bloodlines in her sleep. Probably she did, he thought wearily, but he didn't dare ask his father to confirm it.

  "You could do as well," his mother said now, climbing down off the corral fence and ambling alongside him toward the house.

  He shot her a sideways glance, but kept on walking. "Huh?"

  She made a huffing sound. "Don't play dumb with me, Chan Richardson. You know very well what I'm talking about."

  Trouble was, he did. When his mother got the bit between her teeth about something, she didn't let up. She galloped right on to the finish, no matter how long it took, no matter how many obstacles loomed in her way. And all the discouragement in the world, which God knew he'd been doing his best to provide, never ever distracted her from her course.

  "Bloodlines," she said patiently. "Good genes. Propagation of the species. Children. Yours," she finished pointedly, in case he decided to continue pretending that he didn't know what she was talking about.

  He went into the mud room and tugged off his boots. Then he turned on the faucet, stripped his shirt off and plunged his head under the stream of cool, running water. It felt good, he couldn't hear her, and with luck, he thought, she would get tired of waiting until he came up for air.

  But he could see the toes of her ropers out of the corner of his eye, and they didn't move as long as he stayed there letting the water sluice over his head. At last, with a groan, he shut the water off, unbent and took the towel she handed him.

  "Ma," he said finally, which he should have done in the first place, "give it a rest."

  "But, Chan—"

  "I'm not marrying some girl just so you can have perfect grandchildren."

  "Of course you're not." Julia looked at him askance. "Did I ever suggest such a thing?"

  "Yes."

  She colored slightly. "Well, you know I mean it. You know I would never presume… I just… Oh, Chan, she's a wonderful girl. So bright. So clever. Did I tell you she's getting a Ph.D. in philosophy?"

  "Fifty or sixty times," he said into the towel.

  "She's writing her dissertation now. She expects to have it finished by the end of next summer, I hear."

  "Good for her." He scrubbed at his hair, then slung the towel around his neck and made himself look down into the hopeful eyes of his mother. He gave her a wry grin. "She's probably too smart for me."

  Julia looked affronted. "Don't be absurd, Chan. You're every bit as bright as she is. Just because you've always profited by less traditional methods of learning…"

  A corner of Chan's mouth lifted. "Is that what they're calling 'the school of hard knocks' these days?"

  Julia put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  He grinned. "Just kidding, Ma."

  "You're far too hard on yourself, Chan, always have been. Now, as I was saying, you two would suit admirably. You're strong and healthy and clever, and she's bright and healthy and—"

  "Ma, I'm not a bull."

  "You're as stubborn as one," Julia grumbled.

  Chan wandered into the kitchen, still bare-chested, the towel slung around his neck. Julia followed him like a determined cow dog trying to bring home a balky steer. He opened the refrigerator and took out the milk, tipping it up and drinking straight from the carton.

  Julia looked annoyed but didn't say anything. So much for trying to distract her. Chan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  "Ma, we don't live in the same world."

  "You're going to New York next week, aren't you?"

  Oh, hell, he'd given her an opening. "So?"

  "So simply drop in and meet her."

  "Yeah, right."

  "What have you got to lose?"

  "My freedom, if you have anything to say about it. Hell, Ma, what's got into you? You never did this with Gard or Mark or Trev."

  "I never had to," Julia said mildly. "They all found lovely girls on their own."

  As he remembered it, she hadn't been overly thrilled with any of her daughters-in-law at first glance, though now she couldn't have been happier. And there were five grandchildren, as well, all warming the cockles of her heart. "Well, give me time. I might, too."

  He heard a muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. He gave his mother a level look. Her smile was a mingling of tolerance and skepticism. "Like you found Vivian or Dena or Callie or Brenda or—"

  Chan grimaced. "So, I was shopping around. I just haven't found the right one."

  "I know that, dear," Julia said patiently. "That's exactly what I've been telling you. But I have. Madeleine."

  "Ma, I'm a grown man. I'm thirty-one years old, for God's sake. You can stop telling me what to do. And you can sure as hell stop telling me who to marry!"

  "I'm only trying to help," Julia said meekly, dropping her eyes.

  Chan looked at her narrowly. He couldn't remember his mother ever sounding meek. She even looked slightly frail, standing there looking up at him. She was close to sixty years old, and he'd never thought about it before. For the first time he was aware that his mother wasn't as unshakable and as enduring as the Tetons. The notion unnerved him.

  But, damn it, he wasn't going to marry some woman he didn't even know just to bring the color back to her cheeks!

  "It won't work," he said gruffly.

  Julia didn't look at him. "I only thought…" she ventured, and he heard it again, that faint meekness in her tone, "Since you're going to New York anyway…"

  "That's another thing. New York!" Chan fairly spat the words. "How can you expect me to marry a New Yorker?"

  Julia sighed. "All I'm asking right now is that you just go see her."

  "And tell her you expect me to marry her?"

  "She already knows that."

  "She does?"

  She smiled, nodding. "Indeed. Antonia thinks it's a wonderful idea."

  Chan frowned. "I thought you said her name was Madeleine."

  "It is."

  "So who's this Antonia?"

  "Her mother."

  Chan put his hands over his eyes and groaned.

  * * *

  "Did you know," Antonia Decker said to her daughter, Madeleine, "that the average Trobriand Island woman marries at the age of fourteen?"

  "Mmm." Madeleine didn't look up from the Sunday Times which she was reading as she sprawled on the sofa on her Upper West Side apartment. She didn't think it was true, but she couldn't argue. Antonia would cite some obscure footnote that Madeleine wouldn't be able to find to disprove her.

  "And," Antonia continued, looking over the tops of her half glasses to catch her daughter's reaction, "that the usual age for marriage among Wapiti women was sixteen?"

  "Because they were dead by thirty-two," Madeleine said flatly, which probably wasn't true, either, but what the hell. "So is I live to be eighty, and I want to be married half my lifetime, I don't have to worry for another thirteen or fourteen years, right?" She lifted her gaze long enough to give her mother a smile as wide as it was insincere.

  Antonia sighed and tapped her pen on the newspaper. "Honestly, Madeleine, the things you say! You'd think I was hinting!"

  "Weren't you?"

  "Not … precisely."

  "You don't have someone in mind?"

  Antonia flapped the book review section of the Times. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but—"

  "The same guy you've been trying to push on me for the past year?"

  "Channing is a very nice man!"

  "I'm sure he is," Madeleine said wearily. "Carlo the butcher on the corner is a very nice man, but that doesn't mean I ought to marry him."

  "Carlo the butcher on the corner has nothing to do with this!"

  "You're telling me," Madeleine muttered. "And neither does your Mr. Richardson, Mother. Because I'm not getting married."

  Antonia pursed her lips. "Utter drivel," she said. "You know you will."

  Madeleine shrugged her off. "In my own good time, then
." She wasn't going to argue with her mother about that, either. No one had ever won an argument with Antonia Decker. "I have a dissertation to write, remember?"

  "Of course I do."

  "And if I don't get it done by the end of next summer, I'm not going to get hired at Chamberlain, am I?"

  "Probably not, but—"

  "So, I have work to do."

  "Well, I'm sure I have no intention of stopping you," Antonia said, an injured tone to her voice, turning back to the book reviews.

  Madeleine smothered a groan. It wasn't fair. Mothers should either be nagging, moaning pests or dedicated, hard-edged professionals; they shouldn't be both!

  But then, when had Antonia Decker ever done what she was supposed to do? Madeleine wondered.

  Ever since she'd realized that her mother was not exactly like other mothers, that she was somehow more clever, more competent, more insightful – more everything, Madeleine thought wearily – Madeleine had been struggling to live up to her parent and yet make her life her own at the same time.

  It hadn't been easy. Antonia Decker was her generation's answer to Margaret Mead. She'd written at least half a dozen definitive studies of tribal cultures. She could speak languages most people hadn't even heard of, and yet could melt into the background so easily that sometimes people forgot she was there.

  Madeleine didn't forget. Ever.

  There was a time that she'd wanted to be just like her mother, do fieldwork like her mother, get down to the nitty-gritty of the way cultures and individual people interacted like her mother.

  But then she grew up. She met reality. And she knew it was never going to happen. She wasn't her mother. So she had to find herself. She changed her major, opting for philosophy, because dealing with abstract constructs seemed about as far as she could get from living in a hut. Antonia was hurt, there was no doubt about it.

  But Madeleine stuck to her guns. Still it was no accident that she was writing her dissertation on free will.

  This was not to say that Madeleine didn't love her mother. She did.