Pamela Morsi (3 page)

She glanced down at the basket bouquet she carried upon her arm. The vivid gladioli and hyacinths caught
the eye, but could not distract from the delicate loveliness of the buttercups and roses. Fresh and pretty and bright, it was the perfect offering for a spring wedding. A symbol of all that was beautiful and new. A life together, two as one.

That’s what Gussie wanted for herself. Simply a bond of affection with a man she loved and admired. That did not seem to be asking too much. Gussie loved weddings. She loved the flowers, the bells, the ribbons and the frothy white cake. She had been to many such occasions in her life and mentally she’d taken notes. She knew that when the time came, her wedding would be the most beautiful and perfect one ever.

But before she could have the wedding, she had to acquire a bridegroom. That morning she had seated herself at the escritoire and slowly, thoughtfully, painstakingly made a list of every possible setback or snag her plan might encounter. Though she always kept a positive attitude, especially in front of employees and business associates, she was not naive. It was not going to be easy. Not that Gussie didn’t see herself as a very worthy bride. She was a handsome woman, in an ordinary sort of way. More important, she was neither difficult to please nor in expectation of expensive fripperies. She was practical-minded, owned her home and had a profitable business. After years of taking care of her father, she felt confident of being able to accommodate herself to the vagaries and uneven temper that she assumed were typical of gentlemen in general.

But she knew that bringing a man like Amos Dewey to heel would be extremely tricky. An incautious word or a careless error, and he might easily see through her ruse. And her plan involved more than simply lying to
one man; it meant lying to the whole town. If everyone found out, it surely wouldn’t be appreciated. Any mistake could make her a laughingstock.

That’s the way life tended to be, she thought, a lot like business. If something was worth having, it always involved a certain amount of risk. In business, risks could be calculated; in affairs of the heart, perhaps not so easily.

As she made her way up the church steps, Gussie let that last phrase of thought linger over her.
Affairs of the heart
. She would have liked that, but she didn’t really expect it. Love was a sweet, pleasant and highly suspect notion. Like magic beans or a fairy godmother, it was a device of children’s stories. Not meant to be taken seriously by mature men and women.

Marriage matches, the successful ones at least, were based upon mutual likes and dislikes, similar upbringing and shared moral and religious values. There was nothing magical about those things. And getting distracted by stylish handsomeness was foolish in the extreme.

Still, Amos was quite the looker, no arguing that. Walking at his side was as pleasurable as leading a parade. And just standing next to him made her heart beat faster. She secretly wished he were at her side this very minute. It was very likely, she decided, that she was in love with Amos Dewey. He was handsome, courteous and well spoken. She felt a certain inexplicable tingle in his presence. It was undoubtedly love.

Gussie snorted at her own naiveté. Obviously such feelings were not to be trusted. She must have appeared ridiculous to him. So starry-eyed and dreamy while he was simply passing the time of day. Escorting
her in the interim between his grief and the acquaintance of a woman he truly prized.

It was galling, humiliating. But she was no delicate, easily bruised young girl. She was a woman of consequence and value. And if it took the attentions of another man to demonstrate that to him, well, then, so be it.

She had given Mr. Akers a day to, as he put it, “clear up a few things.” For the life of her, Gussie couldn’t imagine what a single man with no family might have to “clear up” before commencing what was to appear to be a diligent courtship. But his twenty-four hours were nearly up and Gussie would be making her first public appearance upon his arm tonight at Lucy’s wedding. Nearly everybody in town would be there. Certainly Amos would be.

They had both agreed to drop a few good hints today.
Gussie’s new beau
would make for sensational gossip under any circumstances. It would be better if at least the ladies of her circle and the gentlemen of his close acquaintance had some warning. They, like her, had undoubtedly expected an announcement from Amos Dewey.

Gussie sighed and then deliberately forced a smile to her lips as she opened the door to the little church. With any luck, she thought to herself, they would end up with exactly what they expected. Gussie was just going to have to make an effort.

The interior of the church had the somber elegance of a house of worship. The light from the stained-glass windows was muted. And the scent of incense lingered in the sanctuary. On either side of the aisle were padded pews, intricately carved in walnut, polished and buffed to a shiny gloss.

Several of the women were already at work. Madge
Simpson was fashioning a sateen skirt to drape around the podium. Constance Wilhelm was giving her direction.

Edith Boston and Eliza Penderghast, twin sisters, sat in the front pew chatting loudly. The two elder ladies showed up for absolutely every occasion, although they were a bit old to actually do much work.

Loralene Davies, the elected leader of the Circle and best friend to the mother of the bride, was directing what should be done and how to do it. The official title of the head of the Circle was Benevolent Authority. In Loralene’s specific case, it might better have been
Absolute
Authority. Whatever was to be done, it was going to be done her way. Her friend Lulabell Timmons, the Circle’s Faithful Scribe, had long ago given up any pretense of having a thought or idea of her own. She didn’t need any, since Loralene’s thoughts and ideas always prevailed.

Gussie carried her basket of mixed flowers to the front of the building. Though others had also brought blossoms, hers were, by far, the most attractive. She set them upon a dais behind the pulpit, in full view. She had woven lengths of white ribbon into the basket so that they hung from it, giving the arrangement a rich and elegant appearance. Young Lucy deserved that. This was her wedding day, an occasion to recall all her life. Gussie wanted it to be special. The kind of perfect day that she would want for herself.

She fiddled with the ribbons until they seemed to twist around the plain wooden stand like a silken vine. She stood back and surveyed her handiwork.

Helga Shultz, who was married to one of Gussie’s employees, and Kate Holiday, the pastor’s wife, were dusting the window ledges, nodded with approval.

“They look perfect,” Madge reported. “As if they were grown just to be there.”

“And the ribbon is a perfect match for this sateen,” Constance pointed out.

Gussie saw that indeed it was very alike and smiled with some pride.

Unfortunately, at that moment Loralene was distracted from her discussion with Mrs. Timmons and turned to see Gussie’s handiwork on the dais.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she said with certainty. “Remove those flowers from there immediately. We have an arrangement especially styled for there.”

Gussie looked at Loralene, who appeared quite ready to march up to the pulpit and toss Gussie’s flowers right out the door.

“Where is the other arrangement?” she asked gently.

“Over there,” Loralene answered, pointing to the deacon’s table on the other side of the church. “They are real hothouse roses, come by train all the way from Longview.”

Loralene sounded so impressed with that fact Gussie could only raise her eyebrows. With a smile pasted upon her face, she walked over to the deacon’s bench to peruse the actual “hothouse” flowers.

The roses were indeed perfect, pale pink and white blooms about half opened. But they were all cut the same length, stuck in the vase with little greenery and even less thought or attention.

Madge Simpson and Constance Wilhelm stepped up beside her. They too were assessing the train-delivered roses.

“They are very expensive,” Madge pointed out. It was basically the only compliment the roses were worthy of.

“Perhaps we should set them outside for a few
hours,” Constance suggested. “A little sunshine might perk them right up.”

Gussie didn’t think so, but she smiled.

“If they are supposed to go on the dais, then that is where we will put them,” she said.

Both Madge and Constance glanced over at her as if she had lost her mind. It was true that Gussie was opinionated, and she tended to manage the world to suit herself. This was not a particularly admirable trait, but the other women counted upon her to maintain a certain balance in the group. And she did. Loralene didn’t intimidate her in the slightest. In fact, she looked forward to an occasional confrontation. But this morning there was to be no distraction. Loralene might be spoiling for a fight, as she often was, but she’d have to go home to her husband to find one today. Gussie was just not interested.

Dutifully she carried the anemic bouquet of hothouse flowers up to the pulpit. Constance and Madge followed in her wake.

“Put those down on the floor for the moment,” Gussie suggested.

The women did as they were bidden with her beautiful flowers, and Gussie set the pale roses in their place.

She stepped back a couple of feet. Madge and Constance stood on either side of her and gave the roses a long, critical assessment.

“Stubby,” Madge said.

“Washed out,” Constance piped in.

Gussie was in complete agreement, but kept it to herself.

“If this is what Loralene and Lulabell want for Lucy,” she said, “then, of course, we should honor their choice.”

Both women turned to stare at her.

“So what has happened to you?” Madge asked. “A block of ice fall on your head?”

“Oh no,” Gussie answered slyly. “Nothing … nothing at all like that.” She tried to look as if she had a secret.

From across the room Loralene called out, “That’s fine, Gussie. Put the arrangement you brought in the vestibule. Everybody will see it there.”

That order brought the building to almost a complete hush. Only Kate Holiday’s horrified gasp broke the silence.

Flowers in the vestibule would not even be considered a part of the wedding decoration. Under no circumstances on a normal day would Gussie have allowed Loralene to relegate her offering to such an ill-favored position. But today was no ordinary day. Gussie had a job to do, a rumor to start, an impression to make. And she was not about to let anything Loralene Davies might say deter her from that task.

She retrieved her flowers and began carrying them to the hallway between the church door and the sanctuary. She put a smile upon her face and deliberately began to hum. Every eye in the church was on her and she knew it.

“What is going on?” Eliza Penderghast asked loudly.

“Is she leaving in a huff?” her sister questioned with equal volume.

Gussie stopped and looked back at the two women.

“Certainly not, Mrs. Boston,” she answered. “Whyever would I do such a thing?”

Fortunately, neither lady chose to reply.

“I’m simply taking these flowers to the vestibule,” she said.

Gussie could hear the murmur of curious speculation as she went on about her task. She set the beautiful
arrangement on a small table near the entryway. Unnecessarily, she fussed over the flowers for a few moments. They looked perfect, but she knew she should stay just where she was. And she didn’t have to wait long.

She’d expected Madge, who was her closest friend. Instead Constance came. That showed the surprise and seriousness with which they took her strange behavior. Constance was the ear of sympathy and compassion in Cottonwood. A woman could tell her anything and know that she would never be judged.

Unfortunately, Constance could not be relied upon to keep what was told confidential. She shared everything that she knew or heard with Madge. And Madge was an incurable gossip. Absolutely the right friends to assist in Gussie’s plan.

“What is wrong?” Constance asked her.

“Wrong? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing is wrong.”

“You aren’t acting like yourself,” Constance pointed out. “I can’t believe you’ve allowed Loralene to put your pretty flowers way back here.”

“Oh, that,” Gussie said, chuckling lightly. “Well, you know Loralene. Sometimes it’s just better to let her have her way.”

Constance gazed at her as wide-eyed and unblinking as a big old catfish that had just swallowed the hook. It was definitely time to reel her in.

“I just … I just have other things on my mind,” Gussie said.

“Other things?”

“Which do you think looks better on me,” she asked, “the blue spring voile or my claret silk?”

Constance stood there mute and staring for a long moment.

“Which do you think?” Gussie prompted.

“Oh … I … the claret silk,” she managed to reply finally. “You look lovely in it.”

Gussie nodded slowly. “I do want to look my best.”

She finished fussing with the trailing ribbons and turned to walk back into the sanctuary. Constance was glued to her side.

“You always look your best,” she said. “What is going on?”

Gussie hesitated and gave her friend a long look.

“I suppose I can tell you,” she said. “It’s not a secret or anything like that. In fact, tonight everyone will know.”

“Everyone will know what?”

“I’m being escorted to the wedding by a new beau,” she whispered. “Amos?”

Gussie dismissively shook her head. “Amos is not a
new
beau. He and I are still friends, of course.”

“Then who?” Constance hissed. “Who is he?”

Gussie glanced around as if to assure herself that they were out of earshot of anyone else. She leaned closer to Constance and spoke quietly.

“I’m being escorted to the wedding tonight by Mr. Romeo Akers,” she said.

If Gussie had said she was coming with Theodore Roosevelt, Constance would not have been more surprised.

The word spread like wildfire. Constance repeated it to Madge not three minutes after it was told to her. As Gussie concentrated on festooning the pews with love knots of Nile cotton crepe, all around her in little groups the news was repeated. Eventually it even filtered down to Mrs. Boston and Mrs. Penderghast.