I sat up on one elbow. “Does he by any chance have a tractor?”
“That was me.” Adam smoothed my cheek. “The guy who owns the neighboring farm is hard of hearing, so I begged him to take a shortcut through the field on his tractor. He could see it was an emergency, I guess. I had blood all over me.” He slid his hand down my arm and clasped it. “And so did you. You’re lucky to be alive. I promise you that.”
I glanced down at the bandages. “How bad is it?”
Adam didn’t speak for a while. “It was touch-and-go for a while. None of us knew for sure if…”
I pressed his hand, and he swallowed hard. “The bullet missed your vital organs. The doc says you look good, and so long as you heal with no infection, you’re in the clear. She’ll see you soon.”
Somewhere down the corridor music sparkled from a TV, notes lilting and rising, and I remembered. In one powerful swell.
“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.”
Cut carnations quivered in a vase on the table. Like Ellen Amelia Jacobs, gracefully saying yes.
Adam was holding a cup of water to my lips when his cell phone rang. “It’s Becky,” he whispered. “Do you mind company?”
“Tell her to git her tail in here!” I sniffled in as redneck an accent as I could manage. “And bring me something to eat!”
Adam tucked the phone under his chin. “You’re hungry? I’ll get the nurse. Anything special you want?”
I thought through my list of exotic Japanese dishes, none of which would be available at Augusta County Medical Center. And for probably the first time in my life, none sounded particularly palatable.
I needed something bland. Something warm and slightly salty, mushy, even, and a little…
“Grits!” I cried. “Ask if they have any grits!”
Adam stared at me. “You, my dear Yankee,” he finally said, Timstyle, hands on his hips, “have been in Virginia entirely too long.”
Before I could say another word, I heard a familiar voice crabbing about the “stupid hospital in the middle of Podunk nowhere.”
“Where did you put her? Purgatory?” she snapped as she stormed down the hall. “Oh. Here it is. For the love of mercy…”
She barged in without knocking, snatching off her sunglasses. “Kyoko?” Adam and I both looked up.
“Of all the stupid, idiotic, boneheaded things to do! Why on earth did you go and get shot?” She carried gobs of stuff—flowers, bags, who knows what. The flowers, orange lilies, quivered as she shouted.
“And in a cow pasture, too,” I added when I found my voice. “Nice touch, huh?”
Kyoko hadn’t even heard me. She was too busy waving her arms around. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to get here with all those dumb flight delays? I’ve been on standby for eighteen hours!”
She glared, dark makeup smeared. “You’re impossible, Ro! I don’t know why I stay friends with you! If you’re not getting fired and jumped by rednecks and stalked by lunatics and marrying farmers, you’re…you’re…”
She wheeled on Adam, who put his hands up, and she jabbed her finger at him. “You, buster, better know what you’re getting into!”
And Kyoko Morikoshi burst into tears, throwing all her stuff in a big heap on the floor.
Chapter 39
Becky’s eyes were already running, and I hadn’t even put on my dress yet. “Pull yourself together,” I snapped, shoving more tissues at her while she helped me step into the dress. I stuck my arms in and turned for her to button up the back.
“I’m together,” Becky sniffled. She passed me to Kyoko to expertly tie the red silk obi while Trinity Jackson dabbed more concealer under my eyes.
“What happened to you? Late night?” Trinity teased, tapping on some powder.
“Leaving flowers outside Odysseus’s house,” I retorted, closing my eyes while she turned my face and brushed on mascara.
“That ain’t funny.” Becky smacked me, digging for more tissues.
“Hear, hear,” said Kyoko, pulling the obi a little too roughly. I yelped, clutching my abdomen.
“Sorry, Ro!” Kyoko gasped, instantly contrite. “You okay?”
Her eyeliner looked significantly lighter today, less vampire-like, and she’d even taken out her eyebrow ring. I should be nice. “Now that you all are here, I’m fine.” I shook my finger at Becky. “And that was two words. Not y’all.”
“I heard ya, Yankee. Now put yer head back. An’ hold still.” Becky was always crabby when she morphed into boss mode, and the dresses Ashley hadn’t sent—hadn’t bought, even—exacerbated things.
Becky started pinning up my hair. “Anyway, I’m real proud of all of ya who did show up,” she said diplomatically. “Trinity saved the day, and y’all look mighty fine.”
She curtsied, and Trinity curtsied back: both with hair up.
Sandals. Clad in pink flowered cotton yukata robes with tiny white and lavender details, delicately crossed at the chest. Bright red obi sashes tied around the waist—all courtesy of Faye Sprouse’s sewing skills and Kyoko’s friend Mrs. Oyama.
Becky giggled. “We do look kinda like them geishas, though.”
“Geisha?” Kyoko harrumphed. “Not unless you want Trinity to paint your face white and hang stuff in your hair.”
I was just glad the yukata covered Kyoko’s tattoos.
“You wanted an Asian wedding,” grinned Trinity, clicking the compact shut. “And you got it.”
She looked every inch a model: her curly hair tastefully pulled back with a flower. Long, slim, brown arms gracefully reached for her makeup kit through long, flowing sleeves.
Meg West—sporting a tie-dyed tunic over fraying linen bell-bottoms—was a riot taking photos. Teetering sideways on folding chairs. Lying on the floor, belly up, legs pitched like an awkward yoga position. Climbing up scaffolding in a nearby construction site as we hurried to the church.
Church. Sanctuary. Wedding. My lipstick felt dry, and I checked the mirror. “Chopstick favors done?” I asked, jitters forming in my stomach.
“Check.”
My chiggers itched, and I scratched at my leg until Becky smacked me.
“All the lanterns hung?”
“Thank me later.” Kyoko blew on her nails.
“How about the reception hall? Does it look nice?”
“Done. Beulah’s hangin’ the last a them lanterns, and the tables look real pretty.”
My hands fluttered to my forehead. “Did we get enough panko bread crumbs to finish the tempura, or…”
“Ro!” Kyoko snapped her fingers. “Relax! Everything’s fine.”
“I still need something for people to throw when we go out of the church,” I murmured, barely hearing her.
“Your half sister?” Kyoko glared.
“Panko?” I bit back a giggle.
“Cain’t be rice,” said Becky ominously, “on account a the birds.”
“Actually, Adam says the whole rice thing is just an urban myth—like cow tipping. Birds eat rice from fields all the time. It’s a grain.” I shrugged. “Figures. He knows all about the birds.”
“And the bees?” Kyoko nudged me. “After all, he did extend your honeymoon to about two weeks. Thanks to whoever put all that money in your account.” She put up her hands. “And it wasn’t me. So quit asking.”
“I been nosin’ around, too, tryin’ to find out, but I ain’t found out nothin’. Wasn’t Jerry or Stella or anybody we know. I talked to the bank teller myself, and none of ’em match the description.” Becky cocked an eyebrow. “Anyhow. I’m still worried about them birds. They ain’t gonna explode er nothin’ if we throw rice?”
“Nope. But I’m not using rice because it stings. So says Faye.”
Kyoko’s face hardened in disappointment, probably at the lack of bird explosions or opportunities to sting people. “Well, what else is there
?”
“Birdseed?” Trinity suggested. “Bubbles?”
“Grits!” Kyoko cried. “We can all throw grits!”
We all fell silent, in various stages of shock or revulsion. Or so I thought. Until Becky spoke up, her voice tentative. “Well, ya know, it would look kinda like snow.”
“It really does.” Trinity nodded. “My little brother and I used to make snowstorms in our bowls with the dry stuff. Hey, do you know you can get fifty-pound bags now?”
“Where?” asked Becky.
“Costco.”
“No kiddin’.” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Quaker?”
“Of course. They’re really good. Grandma makes the best grits casserole you’ve ever tasted with them. In fact—”
“Hey!” Kyoko waved a hand violently in front of their faces, scowling. “The grits things was a joke, okay?” she barked. “I’ve got the throwing stuff covered.”
“No shuriken.” I raised my eyebrows in warning.
“Ha. You’re lucky this time.” Kyoko dug in a corner and unearthed a big basket piled high with rose petals in various yukata shades—pinks, whites, lavenders, and heavy on the reds. “Courtesy of your mom. And some of Stella’s peonies to fill in.”
“Mom’s roses?” I fingered the petals, picturing my beautiful, simple bouquet: A fat white ball of Kobe roses, all edged with perfect pale pink. Tied with a red ribbon.
“The same. Just don’t look at your rose bushes when you get home. They’re kind of bare.”
By the time Faye fluffed the veil just under my fashionably messy updo—à la Tokyo, a red flower stuck on one side—I heard the piano music change.
“Well, doll,” said Faye, tears in her eyes and amethyst earrings I’d given her last year sparkling. “It’s show time.”
The nursery stood empty. Becky, Kyoko, and Trinity huddled at the double sanctuary doors, giggling with Rick and Todd Carter and Tim in tuxedos. Everyone fragrant and nervous.
“You’re walking down the aisle just before Beulah,” I said, clutching Faye’s arm. “Adopted mothers of the bride. And then you’ll sit with the family.”
I took the perfumed bouquet of roses, cut, to remind me why I was on this earth: “As long as you both shall live.”
I heard Meg’s camera clicking somewhere nearby, but I didn’t see a thing. Didn’t feel a thing.
“Ready, hot stuff?” Faye wiped her eyes and smiled, holding the door open while Meg adjusted my obi and snapped more pictures.
I took a deep, shaky breath. “Ready, Faye,” I smiled back. “Like Becky says, Git ’er done!”
The doors opened. Aisle scattered with petals. A forest of potted dogwood trees and young maples from Adam’s woods clustered at the front of the church and around the arch, all laced with white lights and little glowing Japanese lanterns. Fresh with leaves. Alive. Radiant. Pots of indigo grape hyacinths, dizzingly honey-sweet in their heady perfume, formed a blue-purple sea of spiked bells that wound through the trees.
Courtesy of Rask Florist, I heard. Something like five hundred grape hyacinth bulbs.
The cross in stained glass glowed overhead, faint sunlight shining through in colored slants. And I spotted Adam’s smile in the distance, past the rows of faces.
I felt a wave of panic come over me, thinking of Kyoko’s cracks about trailer parks and pork rinds. My beloved Japan, thousands of miles away, and nothing but a country house in a redneck neighborhood waiting for me in Staunton.
Except one thing.
I steadied my eyes on Adam. The scar on his forehead was healing, stitches taken out. He looked crisp and clean in a tuxedo, more stylish than I’d ever seen him—and at the same time wonderfully familiar. So simple I could almost have overlooked him.
And yet by some miracle I hadn’t.
“Do not be afraid!” I heard the verses whisper through my mind as I forced my feet ahead. “I bring you good news that will cause great joy…” My nervous breath steadied. His hand in mine. The pastor’s words, something about Adam loving me like Christ loved the church, who gave Himself up for her. Flickering candles. The scent of roses.
Adam and I climbed the carpeted steps together, under the arch made of fresh blooms and tangled white lights, and I felt him slip a silver ring on my finger.
His lips murmured, “I do.”
And mine, softer but just as sure. “I do.”
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Words that jolted like electricity.
Man and wife.
Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.
As long as we both shall live. “You may kiss the bride.”
For one instant I panicked, seeing the crowd, but Adam’s hand steadied me. “Relax,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with love and joy. “It’s me.”
And he kissed me on the cheek.
Wait. On the cheek?!
Then he leaned closer. His lips found mine, there among the flicker of fresh leaves and glowing lanterns. A sweet breath of indigo grape hyacinth whispering around us as he drew me closer.
I couldn’t believe how beautiful everything was. How people packed the sanctuary. The lanterns. The dainty little dishes of mochi and Japanese sweets Kyoko displayed on a side table. Stella’s show-stopping cherry blossom cake, topped with Mom’s pink rose petals.
Nor could I believe the surprise sushi platter Jerry created for the occasion, and probably a good-bye gift before The Green Tree folded: crayfish and venison sushi (cooked, of course). Temaki (hand rolls) with country ham, sweet potato, Vidalia onion, and okra. Hot sushi rolls breaded with cornbread. String beans instead of edamamesteamed soybeans. And a dark brown dipping sauce I was pretty sure he’d spiked with Jack Daniel’s.
It was beyond ingenious: it was southern-fried sushi.
I laughed until my stitches hurt, and Adam finally made me leave the tray with Meg, who alternately snapped pictures and wiped her eyes from mirth.
“Hey, who did this?”
I looked up from the platter at Wayne Grabowsky, one of my former reporter cohorts at the New York Post—now turned editor. The shirt collar under his black Italian suit hung lazily open.
“Wayne?” I sucked in a gasp of astonishment. “You came? To my wedding?”
“Sure we did.” Gina Watkins, my old sidekick back at the Post, grinned over his shoulder in a devastating pale blue silk Versace. “We got your invitation, and I talked him into it. We’re doing a story in Alexandria anyway. It’s not that far.”
“Gina.” I shook my head, the years flashing past me like bullet trains. “I haven’t seen you in what, seven years? Eight?”
“About that, yeah. Wayne and I are both at the Times now. Wayne does entertainment—mainly food—and I’m stuck with the society pages. It’s not so bad.” Her collagen-enhanced cheekbones grinned back, framed by pearl dangle earrings.
“Wait a second. Food? You do restaurant reviews?” My head swiveled to Wayne.
“I do. And hey, you know what? We had the most amazing lunch today. A little hole-in-the-wall place downtown.” Wayne tapped a finger on his chin, his eyes gleaming. “Gorgeous blue-cheese fig tapas, and the best spicy peanut noodles I’ve ever had—with sweet potato, turkey, and serrano chilies. Good ethics, too—organic and heavy on local produce. Southern fusion, no?” He closed his eyes. “I could swear I tasted a hint of maple in the sauce, and maybe balsamic vinegar. And for dessert: green tea panna cotta with blackberry reduction. Perfect.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah!” Gina’s silvery eye shadow shimmered. “I loved that blue-cheese grits soufflé thing! I’m a vegetarian now, so farmer fare is slim pickings.” She raised a manicured hand. “The place was fabulous! The paint, the potted herbs, everything. You’d never know you were in… Where are we, again?”
“What’s the name of the restaurant?” Wayne wrinkled his brow. “The Green something?”
“The Green Tree,” I replied. My heart pounded.
“I’m thinking about doing a write-up.” He squinted at J
erry’s sushi platter. “But this tray is too good to pass up. You got your camera, honey?”
Gina crouched and clicked, pausing only to giggle into her bare shoulder. “Too funny. Tracy’ll love it. Genius!”
And then I saw it—the slight flutter of her thickly mascara-ed eyelashes as she glimpsed Jerry’s business card on the corner of the tray. “The Green Tree?” She snatched up the card. “Is this the same place?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.” Wayne chuckled, reaching for his cell phone. “Let me call Tracy and see if she’ll let us run a two-page spread. A big one—lots of color. ‘Veggie Heaven in the Valley,’ we’ll call it. Four-and-a-half stars, don’t you think? Five if they’d offered ceviche.”
“I think Jerry can arrange ceviche.” I winked. “With a spicy kimchi cabbage base and a garnish of Virginia red onions, peaches, and cilantro.”
“My word. I love kimchi.” He breathed out a sigh. “The place’ll be overrun with foodies from the North, you hear? Carpetbaggers galore. Mark my words.” And Wayne tapped in Tracy’s phone number, his yacht-tanned face breaking into a grin.
“Wait a second. Shiloh?” he frowned at his phone. “Is this you?”
“Sorry?” I turned back over my shoulder.
“Somebody just sent me a picture of a girl that looks exactly like you—and…a cow?”
“Excuse me a minute.” I gave a too-white smile. “There’s someone in this room I need to throttle.”
“It was you,” I whispered in Clarence’s ear over the laughter.
“Who, Odysseus?” The corners of his mouth turned up. Green plaid bow tie. And it even looked half decent with his tweed suit.
“No. The little no-name guy in Verona who won the lottery.” I poked him in the shoulder. “You took the article out of The Leader archives, but I found it anyway. And you put all that money in my account.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “The bank teller gave you away by describing your bow tie.”
Clarence glanced around and quickly lifted his finger to his lips. Winked at me.
'Til Grits Do Us Part Page 36
