As they parted, she heard her mother’s sniffles. The woman’s emotional displays had punctuated the ceremony, but Mara knew her mother’s tears fell because she feared she was losing her baby.
Clay winked at her, and she held back a smile as they began their journey down the aisle. Her mother had accepted Clay’s Indian heritage months ago. She’d changed in many ways, but best of all she had committed her heart to Christ earlier in the summer.
The congregation met them at the back of the church, giving hugs and best wishes. Clay kept Mara in the strong curve of his arm through most of the procession, and she bathed in the comfort of his presence. When the last of their friends had left the building, she started to follow, but Clay grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the empty coat cubby.
She smiled, loving the impish look in his eyes as he pulled her near for a private kiss. She melted into his embrace, forgetting for a moment the people waiting beyond the doors with handfuls of rice. She wrapped her arms around him, bouquet and all. His touch was warm and gentle, and she leaned into him, loving him with every part of her.
When she pulled away, it was only so she could meet his gaze. “I love you, Clay Stedman.”
Her heart paused at the look on his face. “And I love you, Mara Stedman.”
She thrilled at the sound of her new name. She was his, and he was hers. They were joined as one before God and man, and the idea of it delighted her.
For a moment the corners of his lips fell, and his eyes grew serious. “Do you think your mother’s going to be all right?”
A knot of concern tightened in her stomach. Did he think her mother didn’t want him for a son-in-law? “Oh, Clay, you know Mother doesn’t feel that way anymore. They’re happy tears.”
Clay squeezed her hand, the corner of his lip turning up. “I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe I was doubtful when I asked their permission to marry you, but when she started making little baby gowns weeks ago—”
Mara tapped his arm, heat blooming in her cheeks at the thought of carrying Clay’s baby one day. “We need to get out there,” she said, more to change the topic than anything else. She grasped her bouquet with both hands and started to turn, but he held her back.
“Are those bittersweet blossoms?”
Mara nodded, looking down at her bouquet of purple-blue flowers, pleased that he’d noticed. A few leafy vines hung gracefully from the arrangement. She had chosen the vine as a way of remembering on this special day how her life could be a thing of destruction or a thing of purpose and beauty.
Clay’s eyes warmed, and he pulled her close again, the bouquet crushed between them.
From around the corner she heard the door whoosh open, ushering in the chatter from outside. “Yoo-hoo!” Pastor Hill called. “Are a bride and groom in here?” In the background she could hear her mother sobbing hysterically.
She giggled and saw Clay try to stifle a smile. His embrace tightened.
“Clay. . .everyone’s waiting.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “All right, my Bittersweet Bride,” he said. “I’ll share you for awhile, but after that you’re all mine.”
About the Author
DENISE HUNTER lives in Indiana with her husband and three active young sons. As the only female of the household, every day is a new adventure, but Denise holds on to the belief that her most important responsibility in this life is to raise her children in such a way that they will love and fear the Lord. The message Denise wants her writing to convey is that “God needs to be the center of our lives. If He isn’t, everything else is out of kilter.”
A note from the author:
I love to hear from my readers! You may correspond with me by writing:
Denise Hunter
Author Relations
PO Box 719
Uhrichsville, OH 44683
Bittersweet Bride Page 17