Wedding Bell Blues (30 page)

Finally, the door to the limo opened and two people, “pixie” plus another of almost the same ilk, emerged holding the biggest umbrellas I'd ever seen, and also they held some sort of canvas cover that made a canopy to keep Sunnye dry.

Mama Alice would have said, “Does she think she's sugar and a little bit of rain is going to melt her?”

Then, in a flurry of fabrics, feathers and feet, Sunnye Deye got out of the car, stood and shook herself like some giant plumed kiwi-colored bird. Even her hair, what there was of it, was kiwi green. Glowing green.

Well, I thought, she got in tune with the theme of the week, if a bit ill timed. And this was a new shade of green. One we hadn't seen this week.

When Sunnye came onto the porch, she flung open her feathered cape and I saw that she had
found
all the weight Lesley Lynn Leaford had lost. A few hundred pounds of it. Sunnye Deye had become a big woman. She shook herself again, wrapped the feathered cape closer, held it in front with long, green-painted nails that matched her cape and hair. “I may have lost my voice,” she croaked, “but they love me, love me every ounce and pound in Prague. They say my skin reflects light and I do have plenty of it.” She laughed showing little sharp, pointed teeth, wiggled her wide hips. “I do
art
films.” She teetered a bit on her high, high heels.

Ida Plum and I looked at each other. What did she mean by “art films”? Did she mean porno films? Nude? Was this our beauty queen who had been scheduled to lead the parade and crown our Miss Green Bean? Did Mayor Moss know about all this?

“Where's the parade?” she suddenly screamed and waved both hands in the air. “I want my parade.”

“Honey,” Ida Plum said, “that was two days ago. It's all over. Everything is over. The parade's done gone.”

“Where's my Scottie Pie?” Sunnye then tuned up to a whimper. “He's supposed to be here. I need my Scottie Pie.” She sounded as if she intended to increase her volume and start wailing louder any minute.

Did she mean Scott? Was he her Scottie Pie? I couldn't believe it. I giggled and Ida Plum poked an elbow in my ribs, said, “Hush.”

I heard the screen door open and close behind me. Scott had come from Verna's. He must have seen the limo and knew what was going on, what to expect. He stood very close to my side, put his hand on my shoulder.

“Scottie Pie,” Sunnye screamed and came toward us. She lurched and almost fell forward. Those heels were not meant to balance all those pounds of Sunnye.

Scott leaned close and whispered, “She's full of it.”

Did he mean bullshit or alcohol? Or ego? Or all three?

“Sunnye.” He let go my hand and went to her. “You missed it. You missed everything.”

Her entourage waited in the rain, the two elfin people plus the driver in a starched black suit and cap.

“Oh,” I said. And oh, I suddenly saw why Scott returned to Littleboro. Fame and fortune had not been kind to Cedora Harris. Or maybe that lifestyle had been too much for him. Too unreal. What we had the most of in Littleboro was Reality spelled with a capital R. And work. A way to earn our living, a purpose.

As Scott started to hand Sunnye over to her “staff” who had waited in the rain with their canopy and umbrellas, Robert Redford hopped toward the front steps, stopped and gazed up at Sunnye with his big, pink eyes.

Sunnye screamed, grabbed Scott, almost pulled him over. “Don't let it get me. Keep it away.” She started shaking, jerked away from Scott, ran, rocking on her heels, waving both hands in the air, ran, ran, ran toward her limo. She splashed through puddles and rain that poured down in sheets, dampening her feathers.

Her driver opened the door with Sunnye screaming, “They bite. Rabbits have big teeth. They bite. Get me out of here.”

Her two elfin people ran behind her, jumped in and slammed the door. They roared away.

Scott gave a little two-fingered dismissive wave (or salute?) as they left. “I guess that was that.” He turned toward me, said, “I had forgotten she's afraid of rabbits.” He reached down and patted Robert Redford on the head. “Thanks, ole buddy.”

He gave me a hug that lasted a little longer than usual, whispered, “I've got your gazebo walls already constructed. They're nice and dry in my shop. If the rain slacks, I can put them up in no time.” I guess that meant he was sticking around, by me and for me, and most of all, he would stay in Littleboro. My heart felt light enough to sing.

*   *   *

I finished the cake, set it in the middle of the dining-room table. Ida Plum and I whizzed around getting the kitchen cleared and clean, all the sticky wiped off, bowls and beaters, counters and cabinets and the floor mapped to a shine.

We barely had time to shower and change into presentable people ready to celebrate. And I had a feeling I had more than a wedding and some profitable Dixie Dew business to celebrate. Everything, but the rain, was going in my favor if just for a little bit.

Ida Plum changed into something dressy and purple as a muscadine grape. “Perfect,” I said. “That's your best color.” I remembered how she stood on the porch of the Dixie Dew one morning before I was even ready to open as a bed and breakfast and offered to help. She had helped. Been my good right arm, best friend, guide in a thousand ways and times.

I put on my polished cotton dress of pink and green that almost matched the fabric I used for tablecloths for my Pink Pineapple Tea and Thee room. I liked to think I was a sort of walking billboard.

At five thirty the bride alighted from her “carriage,” which was actually a black stretch limo, and the first thing I saw was Juanita in black. “My Lord,” I said to Ida Plum as we peered out the dining-room windows, “is she wearing a black wedding dress?”

“I think it's just a cape,” Ida Plum said. “Look at her hair.”

“My Lord,” I said again. Juanita looked like she had a huge pile of cotton candy on her head. Her three-tier hair was pink and orange. “If it matches her dress, you be sure to reach over and put your hand over my mouth so I don't giggle too loud.”

“Agreed,” said Ida Plum, who went out to meet Juanita on the porch to take her wrap.

And yes, when revealed, Juanita's hair did indeed match her strapless, pink-orange swirl of a dress. She quickly pulled up the long dress train and held it in front of her. Behind her came Tina Marie, who worked with her at Kurl Up and Dye. She was wearing a black, strapless, clinging sort of long dress. She carried a Pekingese puppy under her arm.

“PooPoo doesn't like getting wet,” she crooned, her lips in the dog's face so close he licked her nose with a tiny pink ribbon tongue.

Ida Plum poked me in the ribs, reached down and grabbed my hand and put it over her mouth. “PooPoo? PooPoo?” She nearly bent in the middle laughing. I cupped my hand tighter, so tight I felt her breath's warm, wet sputter.

“Okay,” I pulled myself together. “We got to get this show on the road.” That sent her into spasms of giggles so hard she dashed toward the kitchen.

Half of Littleboro started to arrive: Mr. Gaddy with the Mrs. on his arm. He held an umbrella over her. Then Birdie Snowden from The Calico Cottage came. She held a wadded-up, big, lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I always cry at weddings,” she said. “It pays to be prepared.”

Then people I didn't know, who probably worked at the courthouse and knew Ossie, showed up and almost every woman of any age in Littleboro who went to Juanita's beauty shop on a regular basis came in sprayed and lacquered to a sheen with poofs and beehives that would withstand a tornado. Even Clyde Edgemont from Clyde's Used Cars sidled in at the last minute and Eikenberry squeezed in near the door. Both the living room and hall were packed with people. Standing room only. Packed like sardines.

Next came Ossie—in the police car, of course, with Bruce driving. Didn't the man own a personal vehicle? Was the car part of his perks? And as I asked myself that I wondered where was the man's personal residence? Did he even have one or had he been sharing Juanita's “nest” the whole time he'd been in Littleboro? None of my business, which meant I needed to get to the business at hand, so I opened and held the door for Ossie and Bruce. This time Ossie walked in like an invited guest, a guest of honor, which he was. He bowed at the waist and handed me his big white hat, which I hung on my hall tree. He brushed rain from the shoulders of his very elegant black suit. Rented from some swanky place in Pinehurst I bet. Didn't look like the kind of suit he'd own.

“You aren't supposed to see the bride before the wedding,” I said quietly, almost in a whisper.

He smiled. Ossie had a very nice smile, one I hadn't seen before, and a gentleness in his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, thick, wavy hair that matched his thick, dark eyebrows, which in the past had made me feel scared and threatened. He looked a little like a middle-aged Dean Martin, who I always thought was just plain handsome.

I led him into the living room where he immediately went to stand by the fireplace, like the whole thing had been rehearsed, which of course, it had not. He posed, hands on top of each other at his waist. Just like a picture. Now all we needed was the bride, the best man, the maid of honor, a preacher, and some music.

Scott had set up his electric piano keyboard at the front of the dining room and began playing some sweet old songs like “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” something I didn't recognize, then “I Have Always Loved You” and “My Eyes Adore You.” I often forgot Scott was at heart a musician. He seemed to do so many practical things, like carpentry and roofing and painting and Sheetrock so well. A Renaissance man, a man for all seasons, reasons, yet not a pretentious bone in his body. I had to remind myself of that. A good old boy who was actually
good.
Good as his word, good as his work, good as his heart. Then the music changed to
Clair de lune, Pachelbel's Canon
and finally to
Lohengrin.

Scott, in a white dinner jacket, pink cummerbund and pink bow tie, motioned Randy to take his place at the keyboard and came up beside me. After all, he was in this party and Ossie's best man. I was still bothered by Scott being Ossie's best man. When had this happened? Why wasn't it Bruce Bechner, who had been Ossie's sidekick since Ossie came to town? I peeked in the dining room. Randy, who was Scott's aide-de-camp, was also a musician and had taken Scott's place at the keyboard. All musicians know other musicians. Musicians love company. And audiences.

Tina Marie walked up to stand opposite Ossie and Scott. She held PooPoo under one arm. Then everyone waited.

There was some whispering among the wedding party, then I heard the front door bang open and Pastor Pittman poured in, wet as a drowned rat. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. He shoved his umbrella in the stand, slicked back his hair and rammed his finger in his ear like he was trying to get water out.

He rushed to stand before the mantel. He dripped a wet trail all the way but it actually made a sort of aisle. I thought, Legal, I guess, but not a solemn ceremony if it's done by a soaking wet minister who keeps trying to ream water out his ear.

There was quiet, a bit of rustling among the crowd, and then Randy, instead of
Here Comes the Bride,
played “Oh What a Night,” and Juanita sashayed in and up to the mantel, twisting and shaking everything she had: boobs, butt, arms lifted aloft and her bouquet like a pink spotlight in her hand. The crowd laughed, really laughed. Juanita and Tina Marie laughed loudest of all. “Surprise!” she shouted and ran up to Ossie, who grinned ear to ear and shook his head. He seemed to be saying to himself, What a lady. And she's all mine.

Tina Marie took Juanita's bouquet of huge, bright-pink stargazer lilies and held it along with her own smaller one: two giant lilies instead of three. PooPoo squirmed under her arm. The pink flowers matched their hair. Both of them were so radiant nobody would notice my shabby walls and peeling ceiling. I only hoped the dog wouldn't get down or start barking.

Pastor Pittman wiped water from his Bible and began the ceremony. I'm sure he knew all of it by heart and had the Bible for backup. When he asked for the ring everything stopped. Ossie looked at Juanita, who turned around just in time to see little Elvis in a white suit come flying in, the two wedding rings tied to a satin pillow, flopping. “Here,” he said to Juanita, “take it,” and threw the pillow at her. Then he ran back to Malinda at the back of the room. She picked him up, kissed the top of his head, and I heard her say, “You did a good job, sweetie. You were just perfect.”

More mumbles, rings exchanged, then Pastor Pittman's pronouncement. What began as cute little puckerings of a kiss between the bride and groom became an all-out deep, lingering looooong kiss that had the crowd swooning.

“I didn't know Ossie had it in him,” Ida Plum said at my elbow, then she wiped her eyes with her apron tail. “Allergy,” she said. “The lilies.”

“Ha,” I said, “lilies, my foot. You're as tenderhearted as the rest of us.”

Tina Marie handed Juanita the dog. Ossie took Juanita by the arm and they strode through the crowd amid hugs and handshakes. Hugs for Juanita, handshakes for Ossie, who Ida Plum said looked “right happy.”

I thought, Right happy … for now. The Pekingese had a triumphant grin that seemed to be saying, We're fine now, one happy little family, but just you wait. I could feel real sympathy for Ossie coming in second to a Pekingese named PooPoo. Lord help him.

I started pouring punch. Randy popped Prosecco corks. Sandwiches disappeared, cheese straws inhaled. The pickles and mints vanished. The cake was cut with Juanita feeding Ossie the first bite, then toasts of Prosecco, clinking glasses all around, while I cut more cake and laid the slices on plates. Thank goodness I still had all my grandmother's catering supplies. The little glass punch cups and plates sure saved having to buy and use those awful plastic things.