Stranger On Lesbos (31 page)

Now, in the candlelit quietness of Holy Trinity, she knew for the second time the sensation of reliving her own past. Standing beside Bill as the first strains of organ music filled the vaulted sanctuary, aware of the lacy whiteness that was Mari advancing slowly down the center aisle, she was at the same time standing in that shabby living room. Head bowed, she could see every detail of the rug, tan with faded red lozenges. The minister's thin, kind face glimmered through a sudden mist of tears. In a few minutes she would walk down the village street with her hand still in Bill's, proudly and soundly married, and he would look at her happily, but regretfully too.

"Frankie, I'm sorry we couldn't do it up right, with music and everything. I know it means a lot to a girl, having a church wedding."

"Silly, we're married. That's all that matters."

She actually had her mouth open to speak, here in church. Only the subdued turning of people around her, to look at the bride, covered the sound that had escaped her. She looked around quickly, avoiding Bill's eye.

And here was Bill
no, Bob, grown to his father's stature, very white-faced and serious, coming out of the vestry with his best man, Mari's law-school cousin. Time and place righted themselves. She was no longer Frances Kirby, at the threshold of grown-up life; she was Mrs. William Ollenfield, standing beside her husband, watching her only son get married.

She remembered the predicament she was in, and bent her head a little, hoping that neither the yellowish light of the candles nor the slanting blue-and-crimson rays that filtered through the stained-glass windows would rest on her swollen and discolored eye. Pancake makeup couldn't be expected to do miracles, after all.

How lovely Mari was, her eyes soft, her mouth tremulous as she passed down the aisle and met Bob before the altar. How young and tender
and how vulnerable. Pity flooded Frances' heart, washing away the last traces of resentment.

The attendants stepped back, leaving them side by side in front of the rector
and God, Frances thought, remembering her childhood belief that the Almighty dwelt exclusively in churches.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together
"

Tears welled into her eyes. Hampered by white gloves, she fumbled in her purse for a clean handkerchief. She was conscious of Bill's look, which she ignored. I suppose he'd like me to wipe my nose on my sleeve, she thought crossly, dabbing with the fancy bit of linen and lace.

She ventured a glance at him. Why, he wasn't glaring at all. His eyes were soft with pity and
she looked again, incredulous
something that could only be affection. She knew what it was, because it mirrored the emotion that suddenly overflowed her own heart.

"In the presence of God and these witnesses
"

She was afraid to look at him. Then, looking, she found herself unable to turn away. His gaze held hers.

As though he had told her in so many words, she knew that last night was no longer an issue between them. Out all night, drunk, promiscuous, raped, beaten and robbed
degraded and faithless as she might be, still unsteady on her feet and marred by violence
it didn't matter. He was big enough to bypass it.

There wouldn't be any angry recriminations, any repudiation. There might not even be any discussion. He wouldn't ask for any promises. The matter would be settled by the simple fact of his forgiveness.

He loved her.

Never again, she thought in deep gratitude. I’ll never look at anybody else. Man or woman. Give up the silly job, if he wants me to. Stay home and keep house. Or go back to school and take my degree. If he'll only take me back.

"Pronounce you man and wife."

It was over. How short a time it takes to get married, she thought, and how long it is before you find out what it really means.

She wiped her eyes, unashamed, as Mari put back her veil and lifted her face for Bob's kiss. Nobody noticed. Other women were crying, too, and some of the men wore that tight-jawed red-eared look that indicates suppressed emotion.

Louise Congdon's eyes were still pink when they met in the reception room. "A beautiful wedding," she said mistily. "We already love Bob like a son."

"We adore Mari, too." Frances gave her a wide smile. "If I only hadn't been stupid enough to bump into the bathroom door at the crack of dawn. I look like a prizefighter."

Because nothing mattered now, not even the faint, sickish, recurrent flavor of last night's liquor. What if she was bruised and battered? What if people looked and wondered? Bob was married, and Bill had forgiven her.

She was safe.

"Not at all, my dear, you look charming. I may be old-fashioned but I always think there's nothing like a piece of raw steak for a black eye. I remember when Mari was a youngster, it may seem unbelievable now but she was a terrible tomboy
"