Carla Kelly (16 page)

“The answer's still the same.”

He sat in the swing next to her. “Any questions for me?”

She shook her head, too shy to look at him. “You already answered my only question the last time you were here. You'll be good to me, and that's all I need.”

“I couldn't be anything else,” he said quietly. “Want to just walk?”

She nodded. “I just want to walk and walk until I wear myself out and drop into a deep sleep of the Rip Van Winkle variety. Maybe when I wake up, it will be Friday morning and we'll be in the temple.”

“No such luck, sport,” he told her, “although your father and David are taking
me
to the temple tomorrow for my own endowment.”

“I thought they might. You'll come home knowing more than I do.”

“It's still not a competition, Darling.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “You have to endure another two days of relatives.”

She stopped walking. “I just can't,” she said, and it sounded to her ears very much like whining. “I want to be married and on horseback and on my way with you to the Double Tipi.” She was suddenly tired of overheated rooms and cooking odors and waiting and being polite when she wanted to just sit in her room with the door closed. “I'm whining and I'm sounding so ungrateful for everything. Forgive me, Paul, but thanks for letting me complain.”

He held her close.

“I know we've done the right thing by waiting, but enduring isn't exactly a picnic, is it?”

“Nope.” He looked up at the sky. “It's stopped snowing, thank the Almighty. A few blocks south of here, we passed a sweet shop. Could I buy my best girl an ice cream cone? Better say yes, because it's a real novelty to me. And don't tell me I'll ruin my appetite.”

They stayed in the store until the owner, her ward's newest member, gave her the high sign and started lowering the window shades. Julia smiled her thanks at him. “See you at my wedding reception, Brother Grant?” she asked.

“I wouldn't miss it.” He nodded to Paul. “Do you have any idea what a wonderful cook she is?”

“I have an inkling.”

They walked home slowly, stopping in front of the big veranda finally, where she and Iris had played almost non-stop jacks one summer until they wore down the nails on their little fingers. She clutched Paul's hand and thought of the games of pickup sticks, the dolls the two of them had dressed and undressed, the whispered secrets. As she looked at the welcoming light, she remembered the trick or treating; the time she had the mumps and Santa knocked on the front door to cheer her up; the boys from Stake Academy who had escorted her home from dances; the neighbor children who had left May baskets on the front step, rung the doorbell and run away, giggling. A lifetime of living seemed to unroll in front of her, and she knew how blessed she was. The whole house seemed to glow with electric lights. Julia watched her relatives inside the parlor: her folks, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, nieces and nephews—all there to wish her well. She smiled to see some of Paul's Hickman relatives too. “I love them all,” she whispered into Paul's sleeve.

“Of course you do.” He kissed her cheek. “Take a deep breath and go inside. I'm right beside you.”

And you always will be
, she thought suddenly,
even when I'm crabby
. “Paul, do you ever ask yourself how you ever got so lucky? I do.”

“So do I,” he told her, his lips on her hair now. “Just nearly every minute of every day.”

They were married in the Salt Lake Temple at ten o'clock, Friday morning, March 17, 1911, a year and a day after Paul was baptized in Denver, Colorado. Kneeling across the altar from him and holding his hand, Julia had to remind herself again to breathe. Her whispered “yes” was as soft as his, as though a louder voice would somehow ruffle the serenity of heaven.
I am marrying the best man who ever lived
, she thought, looking into his brown eyes and seeing a mirror image of her own serious face.

Julia didn't try to stop her tears when she saw tears welling in her husband's eyes too, after he helped her to her feet. They stood in front of the officiator, and Paul slid a ring on her finger. With a little cry she couldn't help, she let him gather her into his arms and just hold her, his heart pounding as hard as hers.

“We did it, Mrs. Otto,” he said softly, then released her as Mama and Papa gathered close and enveloped them both in an embrace that went on and on, reflected in the mirrors on either side of the altar.

Paul and her new Hickman relatives had arranged for a wedding breakfast at Salt Lake's finest restaurant. She had been properly impressed when Paul had written about it in one of his letters and had been looking forward to the meal for a month now. It might as well have been gritty canned pears eaten at the Double Tipi, because her mind was in such a jumble.

Then it was off to Shipler's Galley for a portrait, wearing her wedding dress for the first time, since she had worn a simpler dress in the Temple. It was Paul's turn to look stunned. “What a beautiful daughter you raised,” he commented to Papa.

“I blame her mother,” Papa replied.

As Harry Shipler set up his camera, Paul walked around Julia. “I like the pleats in the back,” he said after a complete circuit. “Is that on purpose? They really remind me of that skirt you wore on the train platform.”

“Useless skirt, wasn't it?” she said, holding still while Mama set her shoulder-length veil on her curls.

“Hardly. It gave me a great excuse to pick you up and set you in that wagon. That was the best skirt I ever saw.”

Julia laughed out loud and looked at her mother, who was arranging the soft, shirred folds on the front of her dress. “I told you he'd remember, Mama.”

Sitting in the chair with Paul standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, Julia found it too hard to keep a serious face for the photographer, so she didn't try.

“This is a permanent record,” the photographer reminded her.

“Let her enjoy the moment,” Paul said in that tone of voice that never got an argument from anyone in Wyoming. “She hasn't seen her new house on the Double Tipi yet.”

After she changed into her suit again, Mama and Papa gave her no argument either, when she told them to go on ahead. “Just put my dress in my room, please,” she told Mama. “I want to walk around the temple with…” She took a deep breath. “… with my husband.” She glanced at him and wondered for the tiniest moment how it was possible for him to look even more handsome than he had in suspenders and shirt sleeves that morning over bacon and eggs. “Then I think we'll take the streetcar home.” She smiled at her father. “You know, Papa, sort of like you and Mama going home in a wagon to a meatloaf dinner.”

It was a slow walk. The sun was shining and the air crisp. They stood for a long time, just looking up at the spires. Another slow amble took them to the entrance, where two couples, surrounded by family, were leaving.

“There seems to be a lot of that going on in the temple,” Paul said. “Why does it feel like we're the only ones who ever got married?”

It wasn't a question that required an answer, so she just tucked her arm closer and leaned against her husband's shoulder.

She had to nerve herself again outside her house. “Look at all those people,” she said, staring through the front window. “The walls are bulging.”

“Courage, Darling. I know you're braver than that.” He took her hand firmly in his and tugged her up the front steps.

Mama opened the door and stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “It's a madhouse in there,” she said. “Julia, your room was full of cousins changing their clothes, so your father and I just took your dress and everything else you'll need next door.” She fanned herself and pushed a few stray hairpins back into her pompadour. “Then David said the dining room was too full of all those presents, so he and Papa put most of them next door too. And there is general rejoicing, because we just received a telegram from St. George, saying that we have a new granddaughter. Everyone is fine. Just a typical day at the Darlings’!” She took Paul's arm. “My dear son, your Hickman relatives dropped off such a wonderful gift!”

“Say that again, please,” he asked.

Julia almost held her breath at the look he gave her mother.

“My dear son,” Mama said softly. “It's true, now and forever.” She dabbed at her eyes and released him, looking at Julia this time. “My aunts are in the kitchen, so all is right in their world. Best you avoid it. Paul, take her next door. Be sure to look in the parlor at the painting before you go upstairs. The reception starts at six. Don't miss it.” She blew a kiss to them both, then left them standing on the porch.

Paul turned Julia around without a word and started down the steps. “Your parents are simply…” He shook his head. “I have no words.”

“Yes, aren't they?”

He unlocked the door to the Callahan's house, ushered her inside, locked it behind them, and took her in his arms.

“I think we're supposed to look in the parlor before we go upstairs,” Julia said when she eventually emerged from his embrace.

“Parlor?”

“A room with overstuffed sofas, usually a fireplace, lamps, and tables. This way.”

The drapes were still closed, but it was only three in the afternoon, so they were able to thread their way through the presents to the painting. Paul picked it up and went to the window, pulling back the drapes to see it better. Curious, she peered over his arm and then leaned against him as the impact of the little painting struck her.

A family of six stared back at them, dressed in clothes stylish before the War Between the States: mother, father, two daughters, two sons. Paul traced his finger lightly over the older daughter, tall for her age, standing with her hand firmly on her younger brother's shoulder, already his protector.

“Mama and Uncle Albert,” Paul said. “And my grandparents. Grandmother Hickman is buried on the trail somewhere.” He made a soft sound in his throat and said something in Shoshone. “Maybe even near our ranch. Who knows?”

“Uncle Albert told me he wouldn't let the daguerreotype out of his possession, but he was thinking of having a painting made for you,” she said, her voice soft, because the moment seemed almost as sacred as the temple.

“If we ever get a parlor—you know, a room with sofas, a fireplace, and a few tables—we'll hang it there. Julia, I'll race you upstairs.”

He put his arm around her shoulder as he opened the door to the blue bedroom and just stopped. “My word,” he said finally. “Iris's quilt. Your mother must have done this when they brought over your clothes.” He chuckled. “I didn't even take time to make the bed this morning.”

Julia took off her suit jacket and hung it over a doorknob. She turned around, her back to her husband. “I have lots of hooks and eyes in this shirtwaist. Get started, cowboy.”

He did as she said, stopping between each hook and eye to kiss her spine. The flutters in her stomach moved lower, and she wanted him to hurry up. He took his time, though.

He must have read her thoughts. “I'm relishing the moment, sport. You know, with so many hooks and eyes and petticoats, it's amazing that the human species propagates. Another P word, in case you're wondering.”

She wasn't. “I never thought I'd say this, but you talk too much, Paul.”

“Ah, the complaints begin,” he said with a laugh. “Be gentle with me, Julia. I'm a brand spanking new husband.”

“Paul? Wake up. It's almost four-thirty.”

Julia leaned over and looked under the bed, trying to find her nightgown, then realized she had never gotten that far. There wasn't even a robe in sight, just two piles of clothing, right by the bedroom door. After the tumult of the last hour, she was amazed she could still blush.

She looked at Paul again, ready to shake him awake, but suddenly content to lie down again and just watch him breathe, with even more interest than she used to just watch him eat. He had a half smile on his face, which didn't surprise her in the least. His fine-veined hands lay open on the sheet, as stretched out as he was, completely at ease.
I certainly know what relaxes you
, she thought, amused.

She kissed his bare shoulder and leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Paul, the wedding reception starts in an hour and a half.”

She gasped when he opened his eyes suddenly, growled, and grabbed her. The growl turned into a murmur, and then she forgot about the wedding reception.

“My hair is a total ruin,” she said a half hour later as she lay beside him, tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, her head on his chest. His heartbeat had nearly returned to its normal rhythm.

“That's the beauty of short hair,” he told her, his hand twined in her hair. “Just give it a fluff.”

“Mama's going to arrange a little seed pearl hair net on it, because I don't want to wear that veil.”

“How long will that take?”

She laughed and kissed his chest this time.

“Best stop doing that, Darling, if you want me to get out of bed,” he warned her.

“It will take five minutes for the hair net, and it's five o'clock now, cowboy.”

“Jee-rusalem Crickets, you are a spoilsport,” he told her as he sat up and contemplated his clothing by the door. “I should have hung up that suit. Don't know why I didn't think of it.” He padded over to the door and picked up his suit, shaking it out, and regarding it with a frown. After draping it carefully over a chair, he put his paisley tie around his neck and winked at her. “A gentleman always feels more dressed with a tie.”

“Not in your case,” she joked. She sat up in bed, the sheet high under her armpits, feeling shy again.

Paul took the tie off his neck. “Scoot over,” he said and sat down beside her. Eyes on hers, he took the sheet and pulled it down.

“I wish I didn't have these scars,” she said.

“And I wish you wouldn't give it another thought,” he told her, tracing the scars with gentle fingers. “I didn't hurt you, did I? There or anywhere else?”

She shook her head.

“Well, then, Mrs. Otto, better look lively.” Paul stood up and glanced at the clock. “We have forty-five minutes now to spruce up and look innocent.”