It was family tradition, betting.
She smiled. "My pleasure." Then she thought of his wife. The woman was better off at home in bed. She said as much: "You should be home in bed, my dear, you look like you’re ready to foal any moment."
The woman laughed—that’s how it was in their family, that’s how they talked.
And the bride meant her concern too. All her brothers had married splendid women. They had all asked her to stand with them, even before she could justify high heels. And didn’t she have all the formal bridesmaids dresses to show for it?
But her sister-in-law had ambled past by then, too busy herding her boys. Maybe having some girls in the family might be up to her.
~~~
Across the gardens, the bride heard a burst of manly laughter. The crowd parted slightly, and she saw her new husband. He was not the tallest or the shortest. He was not the thinnest or the stockiest either. He was an ordinary man, with a charming sense of humor and a quick wink her way.
She lifted her glass of water in toast—it had a lime and an umbrella so that it looked like a gin and tonic, but she had had enough of that to last for the rest of the day.
Another voice sounded close to her ear. The other man said, "Toasting your new husband?”
"And why not, he's a brave man."
"Brave to marry you, you mean?" he said, his face in his glass to hid his intrigue.
He thought he had been clever.
She said, "Brave to marry anyone. I wonder if I shall regret what I have done more than what I have not."
He thought for a moment, but she knew he wouldn't figure it out. Instead, he said, "That's quite profound, let me think on it a bit."
"Think on it forever, I have other guests."
She didn't see his surprised look—the bride didn't look back at all. It was done, a clean cut. Still, she felt strange, empty for some reason.
Had she let the right man slip through her hands after all? Maybe it was all the gin and sentiment that had her thinking too much. She was hoping that she’d soon sober up and not be worse for the indulgence.
Shouldn't have a headache on my wedding night—that would not be practical, given the expectations.
She felt herself blushing, because there had been nothing physical between them at all up to now.
"I must get some food," she mumbled and walked to the buffet table.
She heaped her plate and ignored the comments of the old ladies nearby.
"Married now, doesn't have to watch her figure."
"Suppose she might be eating for two? Can't think of why else he would marry the likes of her."
"They say the first child can come at any time."
"No, he married her to get his money."
"The same is true of her—married him to get his money. Some women will do anything for money."
The bride could only laugh. It was that, or cry. What she wanted to do was run away, hide from it all.
What have I done?
In a quiet little corner, behind a palm, she settled down in welcome solitude and began to pick at the food. Occasionally, a few children ran by, some with a thoughtful word to the bride, others with just a giggle.
It was somehow reassuring—naïve and sweet little children versus vindictive and bitter old women. What could happen in a lifetime to change one to the other?
Was it just growing old?
Was it marrying the wrong man for the wrong reason?
I need something else . . . but no more liquor.
The bride stood, but then froze in place. Her new husband was standing quite close to a very pretty woman—quite close and far too pretty. She could have been a model, or an actress; the woman was that attractive and well dressed.
In fact, the woman’s gown was probably more than the bride had spent on her wedding dress. That was the practical side of her—why spend so much for something that would only last one day. The veil was heirloom; the shoes were a sister-in-law’s wedding pumps—white satin with Rhinestone buckles. And she had on shockingly pretty blue underwear—both new and blue.
But the bride felt another stab of something she had never felt before, not even with the other man—this time she knew what it was: It was definitely jealousy.
Well, that's a good sign, isn't it? A wife is supposed to be jealous of her husband. She held her breath, thinking how foolish she must look, hiding behind the palm and spying on her groom.
If she turned her head just so, she could hear them murmuring too. Occasionally, a word raised higher with emotion—from the woman, not the groom. Then the groom bent his head toward the woman: The kiss was long and sweet.
He was the one who broke away, and the woman fled.
The bride thought women only fled in romance novels, but clearly she was wrong. Wrong about a lot of things today, she thought.
She blinked, trying to recall if this was this fiction or real life?
He sat then, adjusting the little umbrella in his G & T. The bride slipped out of the disguise of the palm, blue underwear and all.
She said, "A final good bye, my dear?”
He patted the seat beside him as he sipped his drink. "A few actually. I dare say we broke a few hearts today."
"Do you think it will work out then?" she asked, also sipping from his drink.
It was far more tonic than gin—bless him, she thought.
He said, "I suppose we'll have to find out."
She said, "My family doesn't divorce, it's simply not done."
"Nor mine.”
He sounded old just then. She wondered if he realized that.
The bride murmured, "Until death us do part, I recall, we both promised. Do you suppose we did the right thing?"
He seemed to know exactly what she meant. Had he seen her earlier with the other man? Was he also having thoughts of the second kind?
"All things considered," he said, "those others had their fair chance, yet we ended up with one another. There's something to that, I would say."
She took his empty glass, ran her finger around the rim—it was just a nervous habit. Then the music started; there would be dancing too. They had already done the expected—shared the first waltz together, and she danced too with her father.
They got that out of the way immediately, as she wanted everyone to dance while they were still upright and not wavering. They had also cut the cake, so everything on the checklist had been complete.
Later in the evening, things would get . . . messy.
The bride knew that for sure, because she had been to her five brothers’ five weddings—she knew how these things worked.
She said, "Do you suppose we are smarter than all the others, or just the opposite? Do you think friendship is enough to build a marriage, a life together?"
He laughed then, taking her still-busy hand in his.
"Actually, I was wondering if love was ever enough. Friendship is much more sensible. I plan on being old and pragmatic for much longer than I have been young and romantic. We already know that we'll still be friends after the passion is gone."
"So, you plan on having affairs? How nice of you to tell me ahead of time, saves all the nasty rumor-mongering, all that sneaking around."
"No plans for affairs, not at the moment.”
He said it all too casually, like he'd already thought it all out. The bride wished the glass had more than ice.
He spoke in a faraway tone then: "I suppose it might get expensive—mistresses, I mean. I had set my heart on a nice old house on the coast instead."
"How practical you are! And I was only planning on a new doormat, perhaps a new dish towel or two.”
"Think big things, my dear, we'll have new doormats on every door, and a whole new set of dish towels, maybe even one for every day. Together there is much we can achieve.”
He squeezed her hand gently, and she felt comfortable. No, she felt safe. At that moment, she wished he were the last man on earth, because she knew he would still be hers. Ye
s, that was safe indeed, and she wouldn’t trade it for anyone else.
She had no need to say it, but she did so anyway, "Yes, I suppose you're right."
He smiled, gave her a quick peck on the forehead. "Well, must be off. I have to thank the best man, and all that. I'll see you at dinner."
"I have a few things to do as well.”
He kissed her hand before he left, one final gesture of caring.
Not a classically handsome man, my husband, she thought, not like the other man. But there is something there. Dynamic? Yes, that and more. People seem drawn to him. I am drawn to him. Well, goodness, I hope so. After all, I have the wedding night to get through.
Charismatic—yes, that was the word.
Sensible, that was another, but she was beginning to find that one annoying.
~~~
Dinner was the same as the day: sensible, traditional, perfect. Some might say uneventful, but boredom didn't cross her mind given the other events of today. With their permanent bonding came the goodbyes to past loves as well—for the groom, and for the bride.
At the dinner table, her father-in-law sat on one side, her husband on the other. The view down the table was disturbing. In the dull glow of candlelight, the other man seemed mesmerized by her and their distance: He was now the moth to her flame. Would he make a scene?
Or was she only thinking fanciful things? Too much liquor, and her stomach still felt funny.
She asked the waiter for milk, then she amended, "No, make that lemon squash!”
It wouldn't do for a bride to be drinking milk on her wedding day; the old ladies might talk. The bride then laughed heartily. It surprised both of the men around her. They didn't know there was a punch line, but she never was very good at telling jokes.
"Are you all right, my dear?" said the groom.
"Terribly tired. What time is it?" she said with a yawn.
"Steady, my girl," said her father-in-law, an older version of her husband.
Lord, these were good men. The same could be said for her father and her five brothers. But her mother and mother-in-law were . . . superficial . . . trivial . . . flighty?
None of that sounded complimentary, but any of the words would do. Accurate too.
Heavens, am I frivolous too and don't realize it? Or does life with these strong men turn a woman into fluff?
The bride started to giggle, only stopped at the glare from the other man. Was that lust in his eyes? Yes, she had seen it there before, but only once for her. She had turned him down back then, but knew when he was on the prowl for other prey. What more tantalizing piece could there be than another man's bride?
It would make his victory today complete.
Ah, so that was it. She knew then that the other man only wanted what he could no longer have. When she turned him down before, it didn’t seem to matter. He passed it off like it was a choice between seducing her, or playing another round of cards—all the same to him to pass an afternoon in the countryside.
A cover for damaged pride?
Another cliché.
He was quite the cliché himself; just now he looked older—not in years, actually, but he seemed well worn and used up.
Not like my husband, she mused. He looks strong and steady. He looks . . . happy.
The kind of man a girl would want to marry.
"And I just did.”
"Pardon?" said her father-in-law.
"I think we better call it a day, Pa," said the groom.
The older man winked, and the couple rose to leave. It was the first unusual note in the perfect day.
"Aren't you going to wait until dinner is finished?" her mother said. "There are speeches, and we have rice to throw and the car is all ready. Your brothers spent hours on it. We need pictures and—"
"No, dear," the groom said, leaning over to plant a dry peck on the older woman’s cheek. "It's been perfectly lovely, but we are both exhausted.”
He spoke to the rest: "Please, finish up, make merry, enjoy. We have other plans."
The crowd roared its approval, and they were thankfully off. The bride fell asleep in the car on the way to the hotel. He touched her softly, and she opened her eyes with a sigh.
"I was only dozing."
“You were drooling.”
“The honeymoon seems to be over before it even begins.”
He smiled. "Shall I carry you in?"
"That would be a spectacle, as well as inconvenient."
"And of course, we have a marriage of convenience."
She smiled too, and they walked to their suite. They couldn't help but get curious stares, still dressed in their wedding finery—it wasn’t that kind of place.
In their room, he poured their complimentary champagne—not a good year, but no sense in wasting. They drank a toast, only one.
She said, "No more for me, you wouldn't want your bride to pass out."
"I confess—I'm a bit drowsy myself. It has been a strenuous day. All that socializing wears a man out—let’s make a pact never to do it again.”
She agreed.
He said, “I'll just take a shower to wake me up. I promise I won't make it a cold one."
The bride slipped out of her mother's preference for a wedding dress, draping it across a chair. Yet she touched it lovingly, thinking about what it meant. In the mirror, a haggard woman in a long satin slip and a wilted flower circlet peered back with a crooked grin.
She wondered if her own daughter would want to wear this veil as well. Someday. The bride wondered too how her grandmother had felt back in her day . . . had it been the same? Her mother hadn’t worn the veil; her mother was into more modern things . . . for her time.
The bride took it off carefully and hung it on the coat rack so that it wouldn’t get tangled up or damaged. She studied the lace—it wasn’t perfect, though it looked so from a distance.
There were just little flaws . . . only a perfectionist would notice. The lace of the veil was handmade, and these things happen. Would her grandmother have approved of her marriage? The woman died when the bride was a child.
She had seen me into the world, and died on my third birthday. The bride hadn’t thought of that in years.
"How foolish women become on their wedding day."
I am tired; perhaps I could use a shower myself.
She removed the flowers from her head and tossed them over the champagne bottle, then walked to the bathroom as she listened to her husband sing in the shower—off-key.
The bride moved the curtain back, and noted that her husband really did have quite a nice backside. He had dimples there too—who would have guessed?
The bride slipped off her things and joined him, because conserving water is quite a sensible thing to do.
The End
The Sensible Bride
* * * * *
“A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.” ~Grace Pulpit
“Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.” ~Rod McKuen, Looking for a Friend
“We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today.” ~Stacia Tauscher
~~~
SHE WAVED
It seems her family had forgotten the old woman—not that she had much of a family to begin with.
Claire signed over a power of attorney of all her sizable assets to her lawyer, Roland (a man she had known since childhood), instead of to her daughter and son-in-law. Her son-in-law had demanded it after the accident, but Claire didn’t like the way he treated her daughter—and never had.
It only made the man angrier, and so while they lived in the same area, now they rarely came with her grandchildren to visit anymore.
They also put her in this inexpensive hospice called Shady Grove, where no one seems to be treated well. Claire just assumed she had to go because he wanted to move into his in-laws’ home. She couldn’t really protest, they never let them use the phone here at Shady Grove, and while some of the reside
nts wrote letters, no one actually saw them go out with the post.
The place was located in what Claire’s parents used to call the unfortunate part of town. That is, the area of town where the folks were poor, the houses were small and close together, and everything just looked . . . tired. The streets here had big potholes too, the few street signs were sometimes crooked, and the dogs and cats all acted like strays.
Looking out the window at the neighborhood children was the only joy she had. They were dirty and not dressed very well—faded clothes, some too big, others too small; many of the clothes were stained or torn.
The kids were also noisy, which some of the nurses in the hospice complain about, but she loved the sound of them, the sound of their living life to the fullest—it was like a healing tonic directly flowing into her veins.
She’d been here almost three years, and while she was not really overweight to begin with, she had lost almost twenty pounds in the last six months. It didn’t do to complain—nothing ever came of it, though sometimes rations were subtracted out of spite, and the old men in the place would be left grumbling in their hunger.
One morning, Claire realized that it was spring again. She was watching the patch of green outside her window, enjoying the few valiant flowers blooming. She heard the kids as usual, but then she spotted a little girl playing by herself. She had never noticed her there before. Claire could barely hear it, but she knew the little girl was humming a tune she used to know herself.
The little one probably didn’t even know what that song meant. Or that anyone else was near to hear and remember other times and better days. They were such sweet remembrances though, and Claire felt . . . grateful.
She waved.
The little girl didn’t see Claire at first, and when she did, she gasped and ran behind a tree. But she only hid, and gradually, she peered around again. Claire pushed her wheelchair closer to the window and put her face near the pane. She smiled and waved again, and this time the girl smiled before she ran into a nearby house.
A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 18
