Marrying Molly

by Christine Rimmer

  Dixie's lush lips pursed up. "Baby, will you just let me finish?" Molly nodded, her mouth shut. And Dixie delivered the big news at last. "Whatever you think about Tate, we like him. A lot. And he has just helped Ray to get a job—and he's been real nice to your granny, by the way. So Ray asked him to be Ray's best man. Tate has agreed."

  Tate had agreed to be Ray's best man. Whoever would have imagined it? Molly felt positively giddy, for some crazy reason. A giggle rose up in her throat. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into a laugh.

  "Is something funny?" Dixie asked, getting irritated.

  The giggle subdued, Molly took her hand away from her mouth. "Oh, no. Not a thing. I think Tate being Ray's best man is a great idea."

  Ray and Dixie turned their heads in unison and stared, wearing matching expressions of shocked amazement. Under the table, Snowflake squinted at Molly as if she didn't believe a word of it. Dixie said, plainly doubtful, "You do?"

  Molly nodded, with firmness. And then she couldn't help asking, "Will Tate be wearing a powder-blue tux with a ruffled shirt, too?"

  "Not as many ruffles as mine," muttered Ray, a wistful light in his eye.

  "But that's a yes on the light-blue tux?"

  Both Ray and Dixie nodded. A warm-fuzzy, sentimental sensation moved through Molly. It was so sweet, really, Ray and Dixie all worried about how she was going to take the idea of Tate being Ray's best man.

  "I understand," she reassured them again. "I know he's been good to you—and to Granny, too. I really do think it's a fine idea."

  And besides, she wouldn't feel quite so over-the-top in her lavender ruffles and big picture hat if Tate was there beside her all dressed up in a powder-blue tux.

  The day before the wedding was town council-meeting day.

  The meeting room off the library was packed, with folks standing in back, spilling into the hallway. Nobody wanted to miss the show when Mayor Molly O'Dare and Councilman Tate Bravo locked horns again. Just about every person in town who wasn't a total recluse or under the age of three knew by then that Molly was pregnant with Tate's child. They also knew that in spite of his persistent and creative efforts to convince her otherwise, she had refused to take his hand in marriage.

  The minutes of the previous meeting and the town financial reports were read by the clerk and treasurer respectively. A few minor issues came first on the agenda, giving time for building anticipation over the yelling and angry words that would start flying when they got on the issues of allocating funds for Center Street improvements proposed by Councilman Bravo, and Mayor O'Dare's plan for community-supported indigent and shut-in care.

  The indigent and shut-in care issue came up first of the two. The townsfolk held their collective breaths as Mayor Molly announced the issue. The mayor introduced the committee head, Estella Lopez, who spoke for a few minutes, outlining the plan as she had in the previous meeting, explaining the changes made in the meantime and adding new information and developments.

  There was discussion. Very calm and reasonable discussion. Discussion that didn't include Councilman Bravo, who sat silent and scarily pleasant-faced through not only the council's discussion of the issue, but also the hour or so when citizens were allowed to step forward and speak their opinions for or against, and the question-and-answer period that followed.

  At the end, Tate Bravo finally spoke up.

  Everyone knew the fireworks were coming.

  But he only made two specific suggestions for reining in the expense of the program and asked that the budget for it should be cut by a third. "Is that possible, do you think, Mayor O'Dare?"

  The mayor, with a slight flush on her cheeks and surprise in her eyes, turned to her committee head. Estella said cutting the budget by a third was impossible. However, just maybe, with a heavier volunteer emphasis and some matching funds, they could manage to cut the expense to the town coffers by a fourth. "I'll get the committee working on it right away."

  "Do that," said Tate. "And I'm sure that next month we can get the ball rolling."

  There was dead silence. Not one person in that room could believe his own ears. Tate Bravo had just as good as given the go-ahead to a program that wouldn't make money for anyone.

  The Center Street Improvement Project came next. Citizens licked their lips. Surely the expected fireworks would start exploding then.

  Councilman Bravo introduced his committee head and the same process occurred as with Mayor Molly's plan—including the reasonable discourse and the pleasant give-and-take all around.

  In the end, it was the mayor, with a soft smile for Tate Bravo, announcing that now they were moving along on the indigent care plan, they needed to make sure that the tax base stayed strong. Better access to Center Street businesses should increase spending, which meant more sales tax collected to replenish the town coffers.

  She suggested a few cuts in the plan's basic budget. The cuts were accepted. The council voted. The plan passed.

  Dazed and amazed, the good citizens of Tate's Junction poured out of the meeting hall into the hot Texas sunshine. Not one of them could believe what they had just witnessed. Mayor Molly and Councilman Bravo had spent four hours working together for the good of the town.

  Molly's mother got married at two the next afternoon, out in Patriot Park, beneath an arch of three thousand pink crepe-paper flowers. Dixie's dress was the color of Pepto-Bismol. Tight on top, showing off Dixie's magnificent cleavage and still-slender waist, the dress had fat puff sleeves and a wide full-length beruffled Hostess Snowball of a skirt. Her pink veil sprouted from the back of her head, poufed on top and trailed down behind her to float above her ruffled pink train.

  Ray, in his sky-blue tux with the explosion of ruffles in front, looked a little like an aging refugee from some seventies senior prom.

  But they did look happy, the two of them. They stood under the pink arch and said their vows out loud and proud and Pastor Partridge from the local Church of the Way of Our Lord pronounced them husband and wife.

  When Ray kissed his bride, Molly found herself looking past the embracing newlyweds to the other man in a blue tux—the man who stood up beside Ray. Tate looked right back at her, a steady, knowing kind of look.

  Her insides went all hot and mushy, and she smiled—feeling ridiculously hopeful, weak in the knees and glad to be so. She supposed the relentless kindness he'd kept on displaying in the face of her every insistent refusal had finally worn her down.

  And oh, it did feel good. To admit she intended to give Tate Bravo—and whatever kind of life she might have at his side—at least the beginnings of a chance. Tate smiled back at her, that slow smile of his, the one that made her body feel shimmery and hungry for his touch, the one that made her heart go light as a white, fluffy cloud in a limitless blue Texas sky.

  The four-piece band—old friends of Ray's—struck up a rousing rendition of "Love Will Keep Us Together." The bride and groom led the way down the makeshift aisle, which was really only a space on the grass between two clumps of standing spectators. Tate and Molly followed, also side by side.

  And they stayed that way—side by side—for the rest of the day, as they joined in the Tate's Junction Independence Day festivities. By three, Tate had shed his tux jacket and his tie. He'd rolled up his sleeves and loosened the top two buttons of his ruffled shirt. It was ninety-six degrees in the shade, no scorcher by Texas standards, but hot enough to make a man want to rid himself of some of his clothes.

  Molly ditched her picture hat. She gave it to Granny, who was looking sharp in a light cotton shirt and her favorite wide-legged pants and walking around with her arm through Skinny Jordan's.

  My, my. Love—or at least more cordial relations between the O'Dare women and certain members of the male gender—seemed to be the order of the day.

  Tate played horseshoes and won. They had hot dogs and Cokes from the 4H booth and watched the parade that marched down Center Street at four. At six, it would be Molly's turn in the D
unk the Politician booth, so at five-thirty, she told Tate she had to run home and change.

  "I'll go with you..." The light in his eyes had her thinking naughty thoughts about how much could be accomplished between a forceful man and an eager woman in just a few moments in a quiet, empty house.

  She spotted Granny over by the Knights of Columbus booth, with Skinny. "Come on." She grabbed Tate's hand. "Let me get my hat from Granny and we can go."

  "Have a seat," she said, sending her hat sailing toward the sofa as she led him in her front door. "There's cold tea in the fridge if you want some. I'll just..." But by then he'd caught her hand and hauled her to him. "Tate," she said chidingly, a slight smile on her lips that she knew would just egg him on. He wrapped his arm around her waist, gathering her in close. He looked into her eyes, and she sighed and reminded him, "We've only got a few minutes..."

  He chuckled then. The sound vibrated against her breasts and it was lovely, oh it really was: just the two of them stealing an intimate moment or two, in the cool dimness of her little house. In the other room, the window air conditioner hummed, and Molly shivered in delight.

  "Cold?" he asked.

  "Not in the least." She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He lowered his mouth and she raised hers.

  They kissed, and it was a kiss of promise. Of sweet possibilities. She eased her lips apart, welcoming the tender invasion of his tongue, sucking on it, then following it back where it came from with her own.

  She felt the cool air against her back as one by one he released the tiny row of hooks there. Oh, that Tate. So good with his hands. And so helpful. After all, she did need to get out of her big, lavender maid-of-honor dress.

  Those hands went roaming. He stroked her bare back, his fingers nimble and knowing. In one easy flick, he had her bra undone.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed, breaking the deep kiss and pulling back to look up at him through eyes much too heavy to open all the way. "I don't need my bra unhooked, thank you," she told him in a lazy drawl.

  "But I do." His head swooped down and he claimed her mouth again in a kiss that heated her body and melted her heart. Oh, she could have stood there kissing him forever.

  But in ten minutes flat she had to be back at that booth and ready for dunking. She squirmed away, pressing on his hard, hot chest, craning her head back.

  "Tate. I have to—" She giggled as he captured her lips all over again.

  And she let him kiss her some more—well, okay, she more than let him. She moaned into his mouth and pressed her breasts to his chest and lifted her hips so she could rub against the hard ridge in his trousers that said he really, really wanted to get her prone with all her clothes off.

  He was pulling her balloon lace sleeves down over her arms when she finally had to admit that if they went any further, she wouldn't make it to the dunking booth at all that afternoon.

  She broke their kiss for the third time, squirming around so her back was to him. He still held on tight, his arms wrapped good and hard around her, but at least now, unless she craned her head back, he couldn't capture her mouth. She intended to exert every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep from doing that.

  He slid the eyelet sleeves down her arms and was kissing her neck, his hands on the move again. He pushed the front of her half-pulled-down dress out of his way and slid those hands up under her unhooked bra.

  "Tate." She said the word on a hungry groan as his hands cupped her breasts and squeezed.

  "Urn?" He opened his mouth and sucked on her neck.

  "Tate..." She pushed her bottom back against him and moaned. "You are an octopus..."

  "Is that a complaint, Madame Mayor?" He nibbled on her ear.

  "Well..." She lost her train of thought as he started tugging on her nipples. "Oh! Really, I... um..." Words deserted her—and she knew they would stay gone until he stopped touching her.

  She grabbed both his hands and peeled them away. He didn't fight it—well, at least not too hard. He brushed one more kiss against the side of her neck and reluctantly let her go. She grabbed the front of her dress and faced him, backing toward the hallway and her room.

  He laughed then, a rough, deep laugh that sang along her nerves and hollowed her out down below. "Hurry up," he advised. "You don't want to be late to get a few good, hard dunkings." She turned for the bedroom. And he said, "Molly."

  She stopped and they looked at each other for a breath-held kind of moment. "What?"

  "It's been too damn long."

  "Yeah," she admitted with no hesitation. "Yeah, Tate. It has."

  They made it to the dunking booth a few minutes late. But no one seemed to care all that much. Molly, in a T-shirt that said Ms. Mayor To You and a pair of short shorts, got up on the platform above the thousand-gallon tank of water. Everyone seemed to want a shot at her. If it hadn't been for such a good cause, she could have been insulted.

  She got dunked more times than the town treasurer or the two councilmen or the three county supervisors who'd volunteered earlier, grinning and waving every time she dropped into the cool water. The proceeds were going for books and supplies for district schools—and besides, it just plain felt good to be out of her big dress and to be soaking wet on a hot summer evening.

  When her turn in the dunking booth was over, she darted into the tent in back and changed into the fresh pair of shorts and a dry tank top she'd brought with her.

  As the night came on, she and Tate danced together in the grass to a local country band. They had barbecue from the DAR booth. And after full dark, they watched the fireworks display together, sitting on the grass with all the other folks, making sounds of awe and wonder as the bright colored lights exploded in the wide night sky.

  They were walking toward Tate's Cadillac when Molly spotted Granny and Skinny not far away. She waved and Granny waved back.

  "You have a fine night, now," Granny said, and the light in her eyes said she'd have a fine night, too. Skinny had his arm draped easily across her shoulders.

  Who would ever have thought it? The man-hatingest woman in Throckleford County, with a romantic gleam in her eyes and Skinny Jordan close at her side.

  Her fingers twined with Tate's, Molly climbed the wide steps to the ranch house's long front porch. At the front door, Tate paused to punch in an alarm code. They went in, and she waited beside him on the polished Texas pink granite of the entryway floor as he punched more buttons to reset the alarm.

  Then he turned to her. He backed her up against the wall by the doors to his study, right next to one of his mother's bad paintings—this one of a bow-legged cowhand leaning on a rail fence. Bracing a hand to either side of her head, he leaned forward just enough to tease her with a brushing kiss.

  She gave a slow look to one and then the other of his imprisoning arms. "I do believe you have trapped me."

  He lifted a dark brow. "But are you willing to be trapped?"

  She thought about that, lazily slipping her foot from its sandal and hooking one powder-blue trouser cuff with her big toe. "Yes," she admitted as she ran her toe lightly along the hair-rough inside of his leg. "You have me now and I am willing...."

  His mouth met hers. The kiss was long and wet and sweet, punctuated by sighs and low, eager moans. Molly's knees went deliriously weak and she made full use of the supporting wall at her back.

  When they came up for air, Tate's housekeeper was standing near the foot of the wide staircase, looking as if she'd been just about to duck for cover when they spotted her.

  Molly stiffened her passion-wobbly knees and pushed herself away from the wall, turning in Tate's arms so she faced the housekeeper. "Hey, Miranda." She put on a big, cheerful smile and hoped her cheeks weren't as flame-red as they felt. "How've you been?"

  Miranda dipped her dark head. "Just fine, Mayor Molly." She said each word with care. "Nice to see you again."

  One arm still wrapped good and tight around Molly, Tate nodded at the housekeeper. "I'm okay for the night. Go ahead a
nd take off. See you in the morning."

  Miranda muttered a soft, "Buenos noches," and fled toward the kitchen.

  Molly waited till she was gone to remark, "I think we've embarrassed poor Miranda by our shocking behavior right here in the front hall."

  He shrugged. "I'm the boss." And he drew her around to face him again, gathering her tight in both arms, lowering his head to nibble her ear. He whispered between nibbles, "I can be as shocking as I want to be."

  Molly moaned, then stiffened a little. "Shame on you." She lightly punched his shoulder. "Miranda's a good Catholic woman. She probably knows what kinds of outrageous things you intend to do to me as soon as you get me into your bedroom."

  "Probably?" He laughed his wonderfully deep, rough laugh and then, yanking her close again, he caught her earlobe, so lightly, between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue.

  Her blood humming hotly in her ears, Molly whispered, "Little does Miranda know you won't be the only one doing shocking things tonight..."

  He licked the side of her neck. "Go ahead. Drive me crazy."

  She grabbed the open front of his rumpled tux shirt in either fist and got right up in his face. "Oh, you watch. I definitely will."

  He craned back enough to grin down at her, his eyes lazy-lidded and his mouth temptingly soft from kissing her. She let go of his shirt and pushed away from him, the movement so quick, he lost his hold on her.

  "Hey..." He tried to grab her again.

  But she only laughed and reached for the hem of her tank top, holding his hot gaze as she slowly, teas-ingly began sliding it upward over her rib cage.

  "Wait." His eyes gleamed dark as night.

  "Wait?" She let go of the half-raised tank top to step in close to him again. "Are you crazy?" Surging up on tiptoe, she planted a quick, hard kiss on his mouth.

  "Crazy?" He frowned—and then he grinned. "No doubt about it. But there's something I..." He didn't finish. He had the funniest nervous kind of look on his face.

  What was going on here? Tate Bravo at a loss for words? This couldn't be happening. She lifted up again and pressed another short, hard kiss on his lips. "What? Tell me. Don't be shy." She giggled and rolled her eyes. Yeah, right. Tate Bravo. Shy.