A Slice of Orange

He was at a wedding, with family all around. The church spire reached into a blue sky, with clouds, it seemed to Liam, placed just right to frame the architecture. He inhaled the rich smell of earth, newly green trees and fresh-mowed turf that formed the perfect background for the white stone steps and the brilliant flowers carried by the bride and her attendants. The men stood in gray morning suits, a solid backdrop for the cluster of pink- and blue-dusted bridesmaids, all young and effervescent as champagne. Everything shone clean, crisp and elegant.

The young man realized the others in his family would remember it exactly like that. They were town people mostly, this day at the English country church only a trip to a picturesque spot suitable for the perfect wedding.

For young Liam it was different. Sure, he admired his cousin Rafe. But it wasn’t worth enduring all this folderol. How could Rafe stand it? The gauzy-eyed bride, the chittering attendants, and Rafe’s glazed look. Totally boring.

Still, Liam couldn’t miss this chance to see Arbot’s Abbey. The trip to his cousin Rafe’s wedding near the village was a pilgrimage. Someday, somehow he’d own a piece of this land. If he couldn’t earn enough as an artist to keep it, he’d farm it himself. Maybe he’d be a farmer. But it was in this place he would put down roots.

Then a single instant taught Liam why his otherwise clear-headed cousin Rafe would consent to the nonsense. It was a private moment only Liam might have seen when a young member of the Archer clan performed some antic and everyone’s attention focused on the little boy. But Liam caught the bride look up at her new husband, her look a pledge, full of affirmation and hope. Rafe had taken her hand and now, set a light kiss on his bride’s ring, promising with his own eyes.

Swallowing and red-faced Liam had to look away, anywhere, and saw the youngest flower girl, Daphne, who couldn’t be more than eight. The little girl turned her face towards his, her gray child-eyes solemn. And knowing, as if she understood what they had both witnessed. Then she looked clear inside him and uncovered the unexpected effect of that exchange between bride and groom on his own heart.

Maybe it was the juxtaposition of so many female Archer profiles: old, middle-aged, teens and babies, all with the same fine cheek bones. Or more likely his artist’s eye that nagged him to see, compare and capture. But for whatever reason, he could see Daphne Wells-Archer and picture her at 10, or 14 – his own age- or as she grew to young womanhood and flowered.

Looking at her fine brown hair above clear eyes, it didn’t take much imagination to project a Daphne grown up and beautiful. No, handsome. She’d never be beautiful. Her nose was just a little too long, her teeth not quite straight. But he could see her in years to come, middle-aged, old, even, with those same clear eyes, fine cheekbones and elegant posture.

As Daphne scratched the side of her nose, Liam noticed the grace of her hand and slender, feminine fingers. The next moment, he watched her dart away from the others to chase one of the church cats. Fat, black and gray, the cat kept to the shadows and delicately treaded the worn stone path around the side of the church to the graveyard. Dropping her basket of petals, Daphne caught him. Then she gathered the large cat in her arms and sat on a stone bench on the shady side of the church.

Liam sauntered over. The cat purred against Daphne’s satin bodice as she stroked him. Liam realized he was only just old enough to have outgrown doing just what the girl had. He smiled a little at himself and when she looked up, he winked at her like a co-conspirator.

He leaned over. “Don’t worry. I won’t scold you about spoiling your dress.” Daphne grinned at him and hunched her shoulders as she hugged the cat.

They spent ten minutes listening to the cat purr and then walked in the dappled sunlight between the gravestones. In lively contrast to the somber yard, the extravagant lace hem of her pink dress fluttered over her ballet slippers. She remembered her basket and fetched it, dropping a couple of petals on one of the graves.

“Come on. It’s time for pictures.” Liam sent her a rueful look and she sighed.

“Well, if I must.” Her small voice floated against the whisper of the leaves. He laughed.

“Want a ride back?” Without waiting for an answer he lifted her up, basket and all, to place her on his shoulders, her white-stockinged legs dangling on each side of his face. She giggled and wriggled to get her seat ensconced.

“Get your ruffles out of my eyes and don’t fidget.” This made Daphne giggle even more. He held her legs securely above the knees as she showered him with petals, laughing harder, her voice cascading, bell-like and innocent.

The cat trailed them back to the front of the church.
“Here you are, Daphne and Liam! Good, you found her.” The feathers on Aunt Sophia’s ridiculous hat bobbed as she nodded to him.

“We’ve been keeping each other out of mischief.” He lifted Daphne from his shoulders to set her down.

Daphne smiled again and curtsied. “We kept ourselves from being bored.” Aunt Sophia laughed.

Liam bent over Daphne’s hand and said, “Get over there and look dignified for a moment, you imp. You’re part of the picture.”

“Of course, silly. I’m in the center.” She marched off to stand patiently as they all posed and posed again.

Liam wondered what Daphne would be like in 15 years. Wondered if she’d still be wise beyond her years, would still see inside. And would her laughter still wrap itself around his heart? He vowed to find out.

Nellie de la Cruz

I couldn’t move.

Halfway down the aisle, I stood in my mother’s wedding dress, the beautiful bouquet my mother-in-law made me clutched in my left hand, my right hand firmly gripping my brother’s arm. And I couldn’t move.

“You okay, sis?” Michael drawled quietly.

My smile firmed as I tried not to move my lips. “I can’t move.”

“What do you mean?” He kept his gaze forward.

I hoped he didn’t think I suddenly had cold feet. I smiled confidently at John, waiting for me at the end of the aisle. Cold feet wasn’t the problem. Stuck feet was the problem! I’d practiced bouncing down the aisle last night in a cute little sundress, not a floor-length dress. When I stepped up onto the riser where our church served communion, I stepped onto the edge of my gown!

“I’m stuck,” I told Michael, still pretending to be a whispering ventriloquist.

He took his cue from me and smiled, speaking without moving his lips. “You’re what?”

“I stepped on my dress,” I hissed, smiling sweetly at the dozens of eyes all fixed on me.

“Step back and try again.”

Easier said than done. I tried to move my feet without looking like I was backing out of the church. Finally, my smile brightened and I took a step forward, unencumbered by lace and tulle.

Michael and I breathed a sigh of relief. From the look of the congregation, they apparently thought I’d stopped so they could see the grand beauty of a bride on her wedding day. Well, if that was the worst thing to happen today, I thought.

Michael turned me over to John – cold, clammy-handed John. I looked up at him in surprise. He wouldn’t look at me. I turned back to our pastor. I’d shed my tears and fears last night. Perhaps John hadn’t been so lucky. I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, reassured myself when he squeezed back.

Now that I understood how easy it would be to get caught in my dress, I moved very carefully when turning or kneeling. And since my sister was at my side as the maid of honor (she’d begged me not to call her the matron of honor), I had no more near misses with the dress.

But a wedding gown isn’t the only hazard at a wedding.

As our pastor talked about the joining of two lives and two families, John and I leaned in to blow out the two candles representing our previous lives.

And my veil went flying toward the flame!

For a heartbeat, I saw it all – the flames licking up the headdress, the hysterics of the congregation, the water sprinklers coming on, the $10,000 prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos! In the next heartbeat, John yanked me back as I grabbed the veil, feeling the heat of the flame on my hand.

Whew! Another disaster averted!

But our day wasn’t over yet. And if the wedding is a portent of things to come, it certainly explains the last sixteen years! Our pastor mispronounced our last name, though we wrote it out for him phonetically. My brother-in-law dutifully took every picture people asked of him, but no one asked him to take pictures of just the bride and groom. The picture sent to the newspapers was a candid snapshot of us leaving the church, with John’s waving hand cropped off – as well as the hightop tennis shoes hanging by their laces from his fingers.

One of our favorite teachers (we were married in college – couldn’t wait any longer!) came in as we were exiting. She’d misread the invitation. “Well, I’ll be the first to congratulate you then!” she said, giving us big hugs.

When John shoved cake in my face – “Bigger, stronger, faster!” he’s always saying – I nearly fell over, my veil went flying, and I had to borrow a tissue and turn my back on our guests to get the cake from up my nose.

Friends came over to our table to talk to us as we ate, stepping back every time people dinged their glasses for us to kiss. By the third kiss, we couldn’t figure out why everyone was laughing so hard. Then we turned around to see our friends had been holding signs with “10” and “9.5” and “4” on them. John and I were the stars of the Kissing Olympics!

My favorite part was driving around town in Michael’s semi, honking his air horn. Our friends had decorated his truck in the traditional manner, and also decorated the stepladder I had to use to get in! The shocked looks from people in their cars and on the sidewalks made me laugh!

John’s favorite part was discovering on arrival at our hotel that our bridesmaids had packed his suitcase and not mine! Good thing we were planning on staying in. And it might explain why John still likes to see me in his shirts.

After we returned from our weekend honeymoon, all our friends around campus had their own favorite story. “We all pitched in to rent you a new car for the weekend, arranged for Rachel to drive you to the hotel with the mirror cocked up, and we find out you fell asleep in the back seat! You were supposed to necking and groping!”

My friends, I assure you, we’ve been making up for it ever since.

And isn’t that the best part about wedding stories? They’re usually full of smiles and laughter and fun, for the tellers and the listeners. Who can have a better start to their new life than that?

Kitty Bucholtz is an OCC/RWA member currently living in Sydney, Australia. For more on our adventures, go to http://johninaustralia.blogspot.com.

“Someone murdered mis palomas,” Susan cried to John. “They were found dead this morning. What am I going to do?”

“Tamara will be okay,” John assured her. “She doesn’t need doves to get married.”

“We have to find new doves,” Susan insisted with the determination of a general planning an invasion. A crash and then smoke erupted from the kitchen and she marched across the courtyard; ready to wrangle pigeons out of the sky and put out flames with her bare hands if that’s what it would take to give her one and only daughter a perfect wedding.

There would be no drugstore bouquet, no sleepy-eyed Vegas officiate, or a 24/7 all-you-can-eat buffet reception while slot machines clanged in the background for her daughter. Instead, rose petals would cascade on Will and Tamara as they danced to an eight-piece mariachi group at sunset.

Speaking of which, where the hell were those mariachis?

“Mom,” Tamara hissed out the window of the hacienda they were renting for the day.

Susan flapped her arms at her. “Get back inside or he’ll see you!”

“Come up then!”

“One moment.”

“But-“

Didn’t Tamara realize what she was trying to do? Doves! Fire! Mariachis! Suddenly doves were spinning in her head, their wings flapping out all sound, round and round until two arms caught her as her legs gave way.

“Mom!” Susan heard Tamara yell and she mumbled, “Stay inside. Will can’t … bad luck.”

She knew without opening her eyes that it was John, his chest a warm, familiar haven. “Slow down, Susan,” he said.

“What happened?” she heard Will ask. He’ll make such a good father, she thought.

“She’s okay,” John answered. “She’s muttering something about doves, do you know what she’s talking about?”

“I was told to rent my tuxedo, wash the paint off my hands and show up on time.”

“Lucky you,” John grumbled.

“I heard that,” Susan said, the wooziness fading away. She had to get up. So much to-

“Mi vida that’s enough,” John said, catching her again when she failed to sit up. “Do you want Tamara to get married while you’re unconscious?”

“No but John-“ She began to cry. “I want it to be perfect.”

He sighed. “I love you, mi vida.” He then jerked his head at Will. “Stay with her a moment. I’ll be right back.”

She cried harder and Will told her it would be okay. But he didn’t understand! Her husband had abandoned her in most desperate hour of need. He didn’t want their daughter to have the wedding of her dreams. He didn’t care that all those hours, all that planning and dieting would all come to nothing.

“If you don’t get two white doves down here in twenty minutes I’ll-” John’s threats made Will tense.

But Susan peeked through her fingers. John stood, feet planted wide with a cell phone to his ear and his left wrist held out. Did his shoulders seem broader, his voice deeper? Her John, the young man she had pledged her life to at 2:37 a.m. on a wintry Vegas night, grew taller right before her very eyes.

She turned to Will. He was so much like her husband, her amor, her corazon. Even if the cake caught on fire or the food was cold, her daughter would marry a man who would comfort his mother-in-law; a man who would take command when her daughter couldn’t go on, who would threaten bodily harm to a stranger over two white doves.

“Mijo,” she said tenderly. “Go inside. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” His intense eyes bored into hers.

“Go tell Tamara that her father and I have everything under control. Vamos.”

A grin slowly stretched his lips. The two of them had been dying to see one another since Susan made Tamara spend the night at home.

“And tell her you love her,” Susan said before he let her go. “Always tell her that you love her.”

Mary Castillo
Author of IN BETWEEN MEN, Avon Trade
and HOT TAMARA, Cosmo’s Red Hot Read April 05
Please visit http://www.marycastillo.com/
or http://www.marycastillo.blogspot.com/

I love weddings. I’ve bought Brides magazines for years whether I knew a bride or not. Fortunately my husband and I got to host our son’s wedding two years ago, during which time I was NOT MOG-zilla. (Mother of the groom.) I admit to using a personal Nordie’s shopper for my own dress but managed to keep else everything Under Control AND to keep my nose out of the bride and groom’s decisions. But after choosing a harpist, they turned the music selection over to me.

Oh yeah. That started a major hobble down Memory Lane. I picked the lovely hymn “Let us Ever Walk with Jesus” sung at my wedding in California, and my mother’s in Oregon, and my grandmother’s in Kansas, and now my son’s…Bach’s Air on the G String (yes, that’s right. Don’t laugh) that was my processional in 1974. Morning Has Broken, the Cat Stevens hit from that same era that my mother allowed in church only because I found it in an Old English Hymnal and proved that Cat hasn’t written it. (My original choice, John Denver’s Sunshine on my Shoulder was staunchly pooh-poohed by my staunch mother, but if you listen to the lyrics, they’re wedding-worthy.)

Well, my own wedding has naturally turned to haze. And in similar fashion, that year of planning and being SuperMog has evaporated into just a few beautiful Malibu hours, too. Fortunately we still have a daughter. And a niece who’s set a date her bridegroom will never forget: 07-07-07.

But can I take you to the chapel in retrospect? I mean, after-the-fact? Like twenty-five years later? Not only did my husband Tim (a hardbodied fireman with not one romantic chromosome) surprise me with a trip to Maui on our tenth anniversary (during which outing the helicopter pilot played a tape of the infamous Air on the G String while over the Io Valley), my non-romantic spouse gave me the the best romance novel scene ever in 1999 when he took me to Kauai for our twenty-fifth. This time wasn’t a surprise, the trip at least. On the actual day of our anniversary, we wandered the grounds of the resort and came upon the outdoor bar where an entertainer was warbling the Hawaiian Wedding Song.

I turned to Tim and said something profound, like “Wow, that’s apt.”

His reply: “Then I guess it’s time for this.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an eternity ring of diamonds and my birthstone, sapphire.

He hadn’t planned the outdoor singer at all. Or the helicopter Air on the G, you know. I guess it’s just, you know, love and luck. Which is my reward for having fainted the first time I was ever a bridesmaid. At the altar and all. Well, it was Arkansas, in July, with both temperature and humidity at about 150….

Tanya Hanson
THE OUTLAW’S WOMAN
url: http://www.tanyahanson.net/