“Not me,” Juniper said.
Because all the arrangements for this wedding had been made over the phone and via e-mail, Glory hadn’t met the bride or the groom. She was just putting the potato casserole in to brown when Robynn called out, “Bridal party’s here.”
“Juniper,” Glory called. “Can you show them to the den so I can finish here? My hands are full. Juniper!”
“I heard you the first time, Mrs. Solomon,” Juniper hollered back.
That mouth of hers, Glory thought. Here I am watching the casserole through the oven door to make sure it doesn’t burn like Dan’s yams because it means the difference between paying the feed bill or calling Target to beg for more hours and she’s giving me flack. Most inconveniently, the truck needed new tires now instead of after the first of the year. The casserole’s sharing the 1960s-era oven with the roasts did unpredictable things to the temperatures and the food. She didn’t dare leave the room. As she sat on the floor and peeked through the glass door, she prayed the only kind of prayers she ever prayed: Please come out perfect. Red polo shirts do nothing for me. I’m not old enough to wear khaki pants five times a week. I can’t fall asleep until I’ve counted out every dollar coming in and where it has to go. Roasts, please be evenly browned and pink in the middle, and, Cupid or Eros or whoever is responsible for making couples fall in love, let those arrows fly. Bring more weddings my way. God, our Creator, or whoever or whatever you are, please help me with Juniper. And bless me even though I don’t deserve it.
Just then Edsel came flying into the kitchen and dropped the canvas toy at her feet. He trilled in that strange, catlike way of his, and she picked up the toy and threw it into the living room, guilty all over again.
The roasts continued cooking, but as soon as the casserole came out of the oven, Glory tented it with foil to keep it warm. She knocked on the closed door of the den. “Lily, it’s Mrs. Solomon. Need any help?”
“We’re good” came a chorus of female voices.
“Great. Let me know when you’re ready. Everything is right on schedule. Your guests are arriving, and thank goodness, it looks like the rain has stopped.”
Glory showed the guests into the chapel and clicked off a few shots with the new digital camera and reviewed them. Perfect. She checked the batteries and clattered over the patio in her good shoes. She powdered her cheeks and smoothed the collar on the same blue dress she’d worn for the pirates. Back in the house she returned to the kitchen. Juniper had changed into the black pants, white shirt, and burgundy apron that identified her as a server. She stood in the doorway, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” Glory asked.
“You seriously need to go shopping.”
“What’s wrong with this dress?”
“Nothing if it was 1980. Also, ever heard of a curling iron?”
“Thanks a heap.”
“I’m just telling the truth,” Juniper said.
The phone rang and Glory grabbed it. “Solomon’s Oak Wedding Chapel, this is Glory speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” said a female voice. “I found you on Yahoo’s ‘Pick of the Week.’ You have a great Web site. I don’t suppose there’s a chance that Valentine’s Day is still open for a ceremony?”
Yahoo had featured her Web site? Glory took a breath. Of course it was open. Every day was fair game. If someone wanted to marry in her chapel on Christmas Eve she’d dump her family plans in a heartbeat. But she didn’t dare let this bride-to-be think she was some kind of desperate farm widow. “Let me check. Hold on a second, please.” She put her hand over the receiver and caught Robynn heading out the door with the buffet trays. “Juniper! Yahoo featured our Web site! We may have another wedding if you two don’t mind working Valentine’s Day.”
“Sure, Mrs. Solomon,” Robynn said. “I’ll work any day of the week I’m not in class.”
“Juniper?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Can I have a raise?”
“I just raised your allowance.”
“I spent one-twentieth of it on a toy for a needy dog. That’s called altruistic. Look it up. Seven fifty-five more per month is fair.”
Glory didn’t have the energy to argue. “We’ll talk about that later.”
The two girls collected serving pieces and went out the back door to the barn.
Glory picked up the receiver. “What time of day were you thinking of?”
“We’d love a lunchtime ceremony if you have it open.”
“You’re in luck. I do have that time open. Let me mark my book. I’ll need a nonrefundable deposit, and your contact information.” She scrawled with a pen across the calendar for a year that hadn’t yet arrived. February 14 was two weeks before the anniversary of Dan’s death. “Let me take your number and call you tomorrow. I’m just about to start the loveliest evening ceremony, it’s a solstice wedding.”
“Are they Wiccans?” the woman asked.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I saw the pirate sword-fight picture. You sound open-minded.”
“So long as no animals are harmed and your check doesn’t bounce.” The woman laughed and Glory said she’d secure her spot as soon as the check cleared.
“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow.”
“You better get out there,” Juniper told Glory as she hung up. “Everyone is in the chapel and hap-hap-happy. They’re ready to start.”
Glory rushed to the chapel, which was scented with pine boughs and transformed by the creamy poinsettias and potted firs. In the back of the chapel stood the bride and her maid of honor, no other attendants or flower girl. They were dressed in the palest green satin and taffeta. Their dresses matched the poinsettias so well that Glory felt certain the new camera would do them justice. “Everyone has the correct bouquet?” she asked. They nodded, and Glory cued Juniper, who nodded to Robynn, who told the guitarist to begin.
Glory hadn’t known that Pachelbel’s “Canon” could be played on the classical guitar. The two women linked arms, and she thought, how lovely that these two are such good friends they want to share this special moment together. But when they walked down the aisle together, and the guests who stood for them were mainly women, Glory realized she’d misunderstood. They stopped at the minister—Nola van Patten, Beryl’s recommendation—and faced each other. Standing up for them were two other women. The one with close-cropped hair was dressed in an off-white tux and stood in the place the best man traditionally occupied. The maid of honor wore an ivory dress with long, lacy sleeves that looked vintage.
“Who gives these women to be joined in marriage?” Pastor van Patten asked, and one of the brides laughed and said, “Well, it sure isn’t the State of California.”
“Yet!” someone called out from the pews.
A few guests chuckled, but the couple were solemn when it came to their vows, just as the pirates were. In the benches, people draped arms across each other’s shoulders and murmured. Two kindergarten-age kids couldn’t wait to throw confetti, which Glory knew would show up in the floorboards for months, but that was fine.
Juniper tapped her shoulder. “Where’re the grooms?”
“Shh,” she said, and lifted the camera.
“Are they, you know?”
“It appears to be the case.” Glory concentrated on the clerk’s instructions for the camera and went after capturing the perfect moment, a photograph the couple could show to their great-grandchildren, to prove how backward and narrow-minded people once were in this Golden State of theirs.
Glory poured champagne since Robynn and Juniper were underage. Instead of buffet style, this time they served full plates. Not a quarter hour into the reception, Robynn gave Glory a panicked look. “Mrs. S. They’re asking for seconds. We’re not going to have enough food.”
“More bread,” Glory said, and raced into the kitchen, where she microwaved four frozen loaves of sourdough bread and sliced them raggedly. She sent
two trays out with Juniper, along with bottles of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and sprigs of rosemary, since the butter was gone. “Start up the music and encourage dancing,” she said, and was about to bake another two dozen cookies when she remembered Halle’s good-for-brunch, lunch, midnight-snack, and main-dish recipe she made every Easter: Chile Egg Puff. Glory took out this week’s bowls of eggs meant for the co-op and five cans of New Mexican green chile she’d bought mail order. She’d begun buying cheese already grated, to save time, and all she needed now was flour, baking powder, and salt. She filled her largest casserole dish and set it in the oven to bake. In forty-five minutes, the warm puff would be perfect after the dancing, and before the cake. She’d send them on the road home feeling well fed and as if they’d never enjoyed themselves more, and hurrying to recommend the chapel to all their friends.
The cake had so many pictures taken of it that Glory worried it would melt before they got around to cutting it.
“Look at the wee petals,” one person said.
“It’s askew, just like you are,” Chris told her new wife, and they laughed and fed each other a forkful. Glory set the top layer into a small box for the brides to take home. When a gray-haired woman who looked like her mother’s bridge partner, Opal, asked her to dance, Glory danced. Juniper stood there gawking at her openmouthed. When Robynn brought out the egg dish, the guests lined up holding their plates. Glory realized she’d better have backup plans from now on.
At the end of the party, nothing was left over, not even a broken cookie. Juniper sulked in the living room, her arms around Cadillac.
“Are you still mad at me about the dog toy?” Glory asked. “I made a mistake. I’ll apologize fifty more times if it will help.”
“I never got any cake.”
“Aw, I didn’t get any either.”
“But I was looking forward to tasting it.”
“Juniper, it was their cake. They paid for it.”
Juniper’s lower lip stuck out like a five-year-old’s. Glory told herself a sugar habit was better than drugs.
“I’ll tell you what,” Glory said, though she was bone-tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down on the couch and go directly to sleep. “If you say you forgive me, I’ll go into the kitchen right now and make you some cupcakes.”
“Red velvet?”
Glory sighed. “I suppose.”
“With chocolate buttercream frosting? That really good kind of dark chocolate and maybe a little white chocolate on top?”
Glory laughed. “How about you make the frosting? Besides, you can’t ice the cupcakes until they’re cool.”
“I don’t care. I’ll use it like dip. Will you put the silver things on top?”
“Hey, I’m still waiting for my apology to be accepted. I really am sorry.”
“I forgave you already, I just hadn’t said so out loud.”
“Well, a person likes to hear it,” Glory said, dragging herself to her feet.
“I officially absolve you for assuming I was an adhesive-digited purloiner of canine baubles.” Juniper smiled.
“A dictionary becomes a deadly weapon in your hands, doesn’t it? Okay. Now let’s go beat some butter and sugar. I hope I have an egg left or you might have to crawl into the henhouse and give Heather a squeeze.”
Close to midnight, after the cleanup was done and the dogs let out, Juniper came and sat on the couch next to Glory. She rubbed her foster mother’s neck and shoulders a little too hard, but Glory endured, knowing it was important that she appreciate the gesture. When Juniper was done, she laid her head down in Glory’s lap, looking into the fireplace. The dogs had flaked out on the hearth rug, absorbing the heat like four-legged solar panels. Glory held her breath, wondering how to respond to this quantum leap in affection.
Glory placed her hand on Juniper’s hair. Pretty soon they were either going to have to dye it or cut it. Two inches of pale brown hair against the black was not this year’s new look.
“Mom?”
Mom. Even with all the trouble, Glory loved this kid. “Yes?”
“How do you know if you’re gay?”
“I guess you just know. Do you have emotional or”—Lord, how did she say this?—“physical feelings for women?” That lame description made it sound as if you wanted to be volleyball partners.
“I don’t have any feelings for anyone, except Cadillac.”
“Not even mean old Mrs. Solomon?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Seeing those women tonight. Some of them dressed like guys, some looked totally normal, like you’d see on the street. That one you danced with looked like Principal Phelps, the bee-oche supreme.”
“You’re right, she did. But Principal Phelps is nice, even if you can’t see it right now. Juniper, every person at the wedding was ‘normal’ no matter their preference in partner.”
“So I went on the Internet and looked up causes of being gay.”
Glory tucked Juniper’s hair behind her ear, revealing the bluebird tattoo on her neck. “Somehow I doubt the Internet is the best source for answers of that nature. There are people out there who say and do hateful things out of fear.”
“Duh! I know what prejudice means. What I mean is, I still hate those boys at my last home. All they did was make fun of my boobs and sometimes grab my butt and not let go until I cried. I hate them. Every guy I look at I think, will he be the next one who tortures me? Does that mean I’m going to be gay?”
Glory sighed. She thought of Beryl’s husband, saving her life. Dan had exuded the kindness of a monk. Why hadn’t God, or whoever, kept him alive to continue to provide a role model for teenaged boys? “Juniper, what those boys did to you was wrong. It has nothing to do with being gay or straight or undecided. They’re just adolescent brats with too many hormones and bad behavior.”
“Like me.”
“You can be annoying sometimes, but you’re not a brat.”
“Every time I think about what they did, I get so mad.”
Cadillac sat up, sensing Juniper’s tone. Dodge rolled over to warm his other side and groaned. Edsel climbed on top of Dodge, lay down, and shut his eyes. This family, Glory thought. It was past time to go to bed, but Glory knew she couldn’t be the one to break the tentative embrace of—she guessed this was what it felt like, having a daughter—mother and child.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Glory said. “Sometimes anger’s healthy. Next time you talk to Lois, ask her about it.”
“Sometimes I have nightmares.”
“I know you do. I hear you crying.”
“I can’t help it.”
Glory rubbed her arm. “A lot of things that have happened to you would have done in a weaker person. Me, for example. You’re so strong. Boy, do I admire that. When I’m mad or sad, I sit in my closet and cry. How dumb is that?”
“I know. I hear you, too.”
“What a pair we are.”
“You don’t like men, either. I can tell. Are you gay?”
“No, sweetie. Some people like women and some people like men. Some like both and some like none, for always, or just the time being. Worrying about it is borrowing trouble. Let life unfold and surprise you. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be as happy as Lily and Chris were today. Maybe it’ll turn out that was your path all along.”
“Something more for the kids at school to hassle me about.”
Starting Tuesday, it was holiday break. That meant Juniper 24/7, until January 2. “Have they been bothering you?”
“Oh, you know, they call me ‘tree freak’ and ‘ass kisser.’ ”
“That’s not very nice. Shouldn’t you tell Principal Phelps?”
“Are you kidding? Do you know how much worse that would make things?”
“I wish you’d change your mind about this, Juniper. I really do. There are laws against bullying.”
“No.”
The fire popped and cra
ckled as it burned through the logs. Glory was so tired she couldn’t get up. Working hard for herself was one thing, but was life any better for Juniper since she’d moved to Solomon’s Oak? Was this Christmas going to be a disaster? Could she ever stop worrying about money? Edsel twitched every once in a while, triggering a groan from Dodge, and earning a look from Cadillac, who slept with one eye open. Juniper grew heavy in her lap. When she was certain the girl was asleep, she sang her a Neil Peart song, “The Trees.” The oak trees, selfishly hoarding sunlight, were no match for the maple trees that organized like Teamsters bearing hatchets, axes, and saws. Glory substituted junipers for the maple trees, and though that ruined the rhyme scheme, the song held up just fine.
Chapter 7
JOSEPH
When Joseph felt the thundering under his feet his first thought was earthquake. Then came the wild-eyed horse, reins flying out behind, and the girl hanging on to the saddle horn for dear life, screaming, “Stop! Stop!” at the top of her lungs. He recognized her immediately. It was the teenager with the earrings in her face, the one who’d grilled him at the pirate wedding. Her name was odd, Spruce or Birch or some other tree species. “Somebody help me!” she yelled, and he guessed that somebody would have to be him.
To stop a runaway horse, you needed to project authority and remain calm, something a horse this worked up rarely noticed. Your best bet was to grab a rein and turn the horse’s head to one side, causing its neck to bend, and its whole body to move in an arc or a circle. Such a move slowed the horse down, and when things were in crisis, it was beneficial to go slow. Lucky for Joseph, the girl looked steady enough; she had a death grip on the saddle horn. Lucky for everyone, the horse hadn’t stepped on a rein and brought them both down. Joseph ran toward the horse and grabbed hold of the left rein, pulling hard. He stumbled, afraid he was going to fall down, but found his footing again and pulled. The leather burned his palm, but the horse slowed from a gallop to a trot, mere feet from the part of the oak grove thickest with trees. Any branch could have knocked her off that horse. Broken her neck, maybe. But the horse wasn’t stopped yet. Joseph had no choice but to run alongside, his back be damned. “Grab his mane!” he told her.
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