With a sudden tousling of hands, clothes, and breath came the desperate drive toward consummation. There was Tom’s hoarse “That’s it, baby . . . lift . . .”
And her own breathless “Wait . . . there . . . oh, my . . .”
“Higher . . . wrap your legs . . . yessss . . .”
“Touch me . . . there!”
“You’re so hot . . .”
“I can’t . . . hold back . . . Tom!”
Her last conscious thought before her climax consumed conscious thought was that this was a reality she could live with.
The next morning, riding high on Bree’s love and knowing that he would never feel bolder, Tom called his father. The older man’s gruff “Hello” had him gripping the phone more tightly.
“Dad? It’s Tom.”
Silence.
“Dad?” His heart was beating up a storm, but nothing at all came from the other end of the line.
So he tried “How are you?”
When that didn’t evoke a response, he jumped in with, “Something’s happened here, something really exciting. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it for a long time—” He thought he heard a click. “Dad?” he tested, fearful. “Dad?”
When a dial tone came on, he let out a disappointed breath and quietly hung up the phone.
If Bree hadn’t believed that anything was possible, she would never have believed the kind of wedding that occurred three days later. When she set the date with Tom, she had envisioned something small, a simple church ceremony with a brief reception at either the diner, an inn in a neighboring town, or even Tom’s house. That was before the townsfolk got wind of her plans.
Flash, who was the first to know, insisted that he was catering whatever, wherever. Jane, who agreed to be Bree’s maid of honor, insisted that the whole of the town should be invited, since the whole of the town loved Bree. Jane called Dotty, who called Emma, who called Eliot and Earl, and before lunchtime of that very first day, the entire town was involved.
The pastor, who was thrilled with the idea of having a large and captive audience, promised to set up folding chairs in every available space in the church and perform the most beautiful ceremony Bree had ever seen. The organist secured a list of Bree’s favorite songs and, insisting that the organ alone wouldn’t do, called for a choir rehearsal that night. Emma, being as close to a mayor as the town had, insisted that the reception be held in the town hall, which had been newly painted in anticipation of the March town meeting anyway and was, after all, “the only suitable place for a town-wide event.”
Volunteers began calling Flash to offer help in preparing the food. The owners of the Sleepy Creek Brewery pledged kegs of their best sellers. The owner of the local bread company announced plans for a huge four-tiered wedding cake.
By the time Bree dropped by the shop to talk flowers with Julia Dean, Julia had already gathered buckets of imported blooms. “I have people out collecting greens enough to decorate the church and the town hall,” she said, with satisfaction. “All you have to do is tell me what flowers you want to carry, and I’ll make up a bouquet. What are you wearing?”
Bree was feeling slightly breathless. “I don’t know yet. I’m going shopping later. I don’t think I can get a gown so late, but I should be able to find a pretty suit or a dress.”
Julia set the stems she was clipping in a pail of water. Coming out from behind the counter, she stood back and studied Bree, up and down, for a quiet minute. Then, even more quietly, she said, “I have a gown you could wear.”
Bree’s heart tripped. “A wedding gown?”
“Can I show it to you?”
Too touched to refuse, Bree followed her out the back door and across the drive to the small house where Julia lived. Once inside, they climbed two flights of stairs to the attic. There, hanging in a small cedar closet, covered with wrapping that Julia carefully removed, was the wedding dress of Bree’s dreams. It was ivory in color and Victorian in style, with a high neck, long sleeves, and a hem layered with ruffles and lace. Delicate beads dotted the bodice, right down to the fitted torso.
Bree swallowed. “It looks so slim.”
“You’re slim. Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Try it on.”
Bree tore her eyes from the gown. “Really?”
Julia nodded, looking pleased.
“Right now?”
“It’ll save you a trip to the mall.”
Bree knew that she could look for weeks and weeks and not find anything half as beautiful as this gown. Without another word—and only a brief thought to the scars Julia might see—she slipped off her jeans and shirt. By that time, Julia had tiny buttons unbuttoned and the back zipper down. Bree stepped carefully into the dress. Just as carefully, she drew it on. Julia helped her straighten the fabric and secured the zipper.
It fit. Perfectly. Amazed by that, and awed by the dress, Bree smoothed her hands over her stomach while Julia did up the tiny buttons, adjusted the shoulders, gently pulled at the sleeves. When Julia came around to the front and stepped back to look, Bree held her breath.
Julia’s eyes teared. “At the time I wore this,” she whispered, “I was sure it had been made for me and no one else. I was wrong.”
“It looks okay?”
Julia’s “Oh, my” said it looked a far sight better than that, and Bree could feel it. Everything was right—the style, the fit, the length.
“When I sold my house in Des Moines and came here,” Julia said, in a distant voice, “I thought about giving it away, but I couldn’t. My wedding day was glorious. When my daughter got married, she wanted something new. So this has been wrapped up all that time. Something must have been telling me to take it along.” Julia raised her eyes. Though they remained moist, her voice was clear. “I would be honored if you would wear it, Bree. It would mean the world to me.”
“To you,” Bree breathed, through her own film of tears. “It would mean the world to me.” She imagined walking down the aisle of the church in this dress, imagined putting her hand in Tom’s, imagined walking back up the aisle as his wife, and her throat swelled. Then she imagined dancing through a boisterous reception at the town hall, and had a thought that caught her breath up short. “What if I spill something on it?”
Julia laughed and brushed at her tears. “It’ll clean.”
“I’d feel terrible.”
“I won’t,” Julia said, but she had turned away. Pulling a box from the closet shelf, she removed its lid and reached inside. It seemed that the magic wasn’t over. She drew out a veil to match the dress and lifted it above Bree’s head.
“My hair’s a mess!”
“Just a quick look,” Julia insisted. She set the band of the veil in place and, as though she were touching gold, arranged Bree’s hair around it. Then she stood back and smiled.
“Yes?” Bree whispered.
“Yes,” Julia said, and held up a finger. She went to the far end of the attic, bent her knees, moved this way and that. Then she motioned for Bree to come.
Bree walked on tiptoe so that the hem of the gown wouldn’t touch the floor. The fabric made an elegant swishing sound as she moved. Once Julia had Bree positioned, she saw her reflection on the window. There were four pieces to it, where the mullions divided the glass, and while the image was remarkably clear, it was a total dream.
Bree could only stare.
“Quite something, isn’t it?” Julia asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“You look stunning.”
“Tom will die.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“I look like a bride.”
“You are a bride, or will be. Day after tomorrow. Oh, my.”
“Too soon?” Bree asked, turning to her. “This is happening so fast I feel like I’m out of breath. Am I rushing it?”
“Not if you love Tom.”
“I do.”
“Then why wait?”
Good old commonsense Bree co
uldn’t think of an answer.
“I was engaged for a week,” Julia told her. “My husband was going into the army. We decided to get married before, rather than wait.”
“Did you ever regret it?”
“Regret marrying Teddy?” Julia’s smile was wistful. “No. I adored him. We had a wonderful life together. He’s been gone three years. I still miss him.”
“Is that why you left Des Moines?”
“It’s one of the reasons. Everything there reminded me of him. And then there were the children. Not children any longer. Adults. A son and a daughter, both married, with kids. I was too close to them. Our relationship wasn’t healthy. We needed distance between us.”
“You must miss them.”
“Not as much as I thought I would.” She laughed. “That sounds terrible, but the truth is that I’m busier here than I was there, and then, each time I start thinking that it’s family time, something happens here to make me feel as if the people here are family, too. Like this wedding. It’s going to be special.”
“It isn’t the first wedding the town has put on.”
“But it’ll be the best. You’re respected here, Bree. Loved.”
Bree saw tears refill Julia’s eyes. Her own throat grew tight. Laughing brokenly, she said, “Let’s not start this again.”
Julia nodded, wiped the corners of her eyes, straightened, and smiled. “So. Since flowers this time of year will have to come a distance, we can choose whatever we want.” Thoughtful, she studied the dress. “What do you think? Would you like white tulips with baby’s breath? Lily of the valley? Something with sweet alyssum or roses?”
Tom had been warned to wear a tuxedo, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight of Bree when she appeared at the back of the church and began her walk down the aisle. She was a vision in ivory and lace, primly covered from neck to foot but provocative where the dress clung, and beautiful, so beautiful that she stole his breath.
She carried a bouquet of small white flowers and greens, and wore a veil that shaded her face, but he saw her eyes through it, saw her eyes and felt her love. When she reached him and he draped the veil back over her hair, the feeling intensified.
Incredibly, it just kept growing. If, a mere year before, someone had told him that he would be marrying a smalltown girl in a wedding put on by her town, he would have laughed himself silly. But there was nothing silly about the wedding Panama gave them. It was the most touching wedding he had ever attended. From the church that was packed to the gills, to the town hall that wasn’t much different, to Flash’s food, to live music from a jazz band, a string trio, and a barbershop quartet, to the strobe lights of no less than four self-appointed photographers and two videographers, to smiles and wishes and handshakes that never stopped coming—he had never in his life been the recipient of so much sheer goodwill, and all because of the woman at his side.
He only wished that his family were there. He wished they could see Bree, wished they could feel the decency and caring in this room. He wanted them to be part of his new life, but his father had refused to talk to him, and when he finally reached his sister, she had declined his invitation to come. He offered to pay her way, to pay the way of any or all who would come, but she held firm. She had told his brothers that he had called, she said. She had argued in his defense, but the anger was still there. She begged for time. When he argued that a wedding was a onetime event, she argued that a mother’s funeral was, too, and he had been silenced. His mother would have loved Bree, he knew, would have loved her spirit and her strength. At the drop of a hat, she would have become the mother Bree had never had.
On her wedding day, though, Bree didn’t look to be missing a mother. She had dozens of mothers, dozens of sisters and brothers. Her face was wreathed in smiles from the minute he slipped a wedding band on her finger, through laughter and dance and food, to the minute she fell asleep against him in the wee hours of Sunday morning at the inn where they spent the night. Come morning, when they drove to Boston to catch a plane to the Caribbean, she was smiling still.
Tom had chartered a boat with a captain and a cook. It was the perfect way to island-hop without hassle. Their stateroom was luxurious, the food gourmet, and the schedule theirs for the making each morning when they arose.
He had done the Caribbean before, but this time was different. This time, he did it through Bree. Through her eyes he saw the brilliance of aqua water and the novelty of sun and warm sand in the middle of winter. Through her ears he heard the flap of sail against mast, the rustle of the palms, the laughter of native children on the docks. Through her hands he felt the beat of a steel band on Nevis, through her nose smelled goodies at a patisserie on St. Bart’s.
Between the joy she took in each new thing she saw and the joy he took in her, Bree made his week. They returned to Panama tanned, happy, and rested. He was more in love with her than ever.
Chapter
13
Mud season in Panama wasn’t attractive. With the last major melt of winter’s snow, the ground grew sodden. Hillsides seeped onto hardtop and slithered down lawns. The half of Panama’s roads that were unpaved became all but impassable for anything that didn’t have chains, while the rest of the roads were just messy. Cars grew mud-spattered, shoes and boots caked. Those patches of snow that lingered in shady spots were edged with dirt. The town green became something to avoid.
The onset of mud season occurred anywhere from the fifteenth to the thirtieth of March. It lasted from two to three weeks. During any other time of the year, there were things to do outside. During these few weeks, there was nothing. Cabin fever raged. Tempers were short. The coming of spring seemed improbable.
The general assumption was that the founding fathers of Panama had held the town meeting at the end of March because, lacking snowplows, they couldn’t mobilize themselves sooner. Modern-day Panama wasn’t as concerned with snow as with creating a diversion in this bleakest, dirtiest, most boring of times. To that end, the town meeting was drawn out over three nights and sandwiched between parties before and after.
Bree was looking forward to the week, not because she was feeling bleak, dirty, or bored, but because she was happy. She was back working at the diner, which she loved. She had blissful memories of her wedding and honeymoon, and, still, healthy traces of a Caribbean tan, which she loved. And she was married to Tom, which she really, really loved. The fear that he would come to have second thoughts hadn’t materialized. Nothing had changed with their marriage to dampen his ardor. He was as attentive, as protective, as interested and loving, as he had been before. She was deliriously happy.
So her reaction to the partying took her by surprise. Seeing families, seeing families with children, caused the same pangs she had felt in November. She thought she had come to terms with not being able to have a child. After the holidays and Tom’s repeated assurances that it didn’t matter to him, she thought she was comfortable with the idea. Then she saw Tom at the dinners and dances and fairs that brought the town together, only now he wasn’t just looking at warm family groupings from afar. He was in the middle of them.
It started with Joey Little. But Joey had friends. When those friends discovered that Tom had infinite patience and kid-friendly shoulders, they were all clamoring to climb up. Tom loved it. He was large and physical. He could toss giggling children around with such care that anyone watching laughed, too. He removed little noses and held them between his fingers, could pull quarters out of ears or throw shadows of wolves, witches, and turkeys onto the wall. He was a kid when he was with kids. He was meant to be a father.
Bree needed to talk about that, but she couldn’t talk with Tom. She knew how he felt. He had expressed it often enough. She needed to figure out what she wanted to do. So, as casually as she could, she raised the subject with friends.
Flash was the first. “Do you miss having children?” she asked one afternoon in the diner’s kitchen. He was experimenting with dessert presentations and had spread raspberr
y sauce on a plate.
“How could I have kids?” he asked, preoccupied as he dropped a glob of white cream in the center. He took a knife and drew it from white to red, one way, then another. “I’m a kid myself.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me, too. How could I take care of a kid? I can barely take care of myself.”
“That’s not true,” she scolded, though, thinking about it later, she wasn’t so sure.
So she drove out to see Verity. Verity was a perfect example of someone who could take care of herself. Bree brought a piece of wedding cake from those sliced and frozen, and scolded Verity for having left the reception too early to get one fresh.
“It was better that I left,” Verity said. She was crocheting, working so nimbly that Bree had trouble following the in-and-out of the hook. “You don’t need people making a connection between us. Besides, I don’t do well in crowds.”
“Because of the children?”
Verity’s hands stilled, though her eyes remained on her work. “Why do you ask that?”
“Children make noise. They don’t allow for peace and quiet. Or for privacy.”
“I never wanted the privacy. The peace and quiet is part of me. It has been so all my life. That was the only way I survived my marriage as long as I did. I used to withdraw into myself.” Her fingers returned to activity. “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d had children.”
“Are you sorry?”
“That I didn’t have children?” She didn’t break the rhythm of her work. “Given the circumstances, no. I didn’t want to have his children. With another man, maybe. In another life, maybe. But it’s too late in this one. No herbal potion or alien encounter will bring it about. I’m well past my childbearing years. And yes,” she added, “I’ve come to like the privacy.”
The only other woman Bree knew who prized privacy as much as Verity was Julia. Indeed, she sensed that Julia told her as much about herself as she told anyone, and that wasn’t much. But the wedding dress had created a bond between them. Bree enjoyed being with her. She had taken to stopping in at the flower shop to talk whenever she passed.
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