A Summer Wedding at Cross Creek Inn

by Cheryl Holt

  His blue eyes were most stunning, and he studied her in a piercing way, as if he could delve down to her smallest pore.

  Or was she wrong about his being stunning? Anymore, she had so few chances to interact with new people that she might be confused. Perhaps any male she stumbled on would seem remarkable.

  She didn’t venture away from the commune very often, so she was constantly surrounded by the same faces and families. They lived meager lives, growing what they ate and bartering for what they needed.

  It was a humble existence, reminiscent of a better era when commercialism and things hadn’t been so important. Life was slow there, and the days passed by with a tranquil rhythm that was soothing. Throughout the prior decade, it had provided more than enough to sustain her, but recently, she’d catch herself chafing.

  She was thirty now, and she’d locked herself away for ten whole years. Was she finally tired of the commune? Had she paid a sufficient price to the universe for her earlier sins? Had she atoned?

  The prospect—that she might be prepared for a change—had her pulse racing with alarm, but with a bit of excitement too. What would it be like to be a normal woman out in the real world? She couldn’t imagine.

  When her sister, Jennifer, had written to inform her about the wedding, her immediate response had been to scoff at the invitation, but the minute she’d declined, she’d felt awful. She’d realized that her decision would hurt Jennifer, and she tried very hard to never hurt anyone.

  She’d been so miserable that she’d ridden into town so she could call her dad and have him ease her guilty conscience, but he’d always been a sly devil.

  He’d told her she should pick the path she thought was best, but he’d cunningly mentioned how Jennifer wouldn’t have her mother present during the stressful event, and he wasn’t exactly a rock she could lean on. His unspoken comment had been that Amy could play that role. It had been an enticement she couldn’t ignore.

  “The Inn is that way,” she said, and she pointed down the trail. “Would you like me to escort you so you arrive safe and sound?”

  “Would you mind? I’ve been wandering in circles for half an hour, hoping I’d bump into someone who could push me in the right direction.”

  “Then I’m delighted to be the one.”

  He grinned a heart-stopping grin that left her totally mesmerized. She didn’t remember ever being looked at like that, as if she was amazing and intriguing. She could have stood there all day, basking in that grin.

  He made a gallant gesture with his arm, indicating she should take the lead, and she started off. The forest was quiet, and he was content to amble without filling the silence with chatter. He was overwhelmed by the scenery, his assessment keen and curious, as if he’d never been out in the woods before. Maybe he hadn’t been.

  As to herself, she resided in the woods, in a cabin with no electricity or running water. There was a well with a pump in the yard, and she hauled it into the house in a bucket. She loved nature and strolling in a thick forest, and she never grew weary of it, but she supposed—for a person from the city—it might seem odd and even a little scary.

  They reached a fork in the trail. One path continued on to the Inn. The other wound up a narrow canyon. She halted and glanced over at him.

  “The Inn is down there,” she said, “but there’s a waterfall in this canyon. Would you like to see it? It’s pretty.”

  “Sure. I’m not in any hurry, but have you been up there already? You don’t have to waste any energy showing it to me.”

  “I’m not in any hurry either. I’ve simply been snooping out the grounds myself.”

  “I was too, but I don’t think I should leave the Inn without a guide.”

  “A wise idea.”

  It was a short distance to the end of the canyon, and management had put a bench in the perfect spot. They went over, and she sat down, but he walked to the water’s edge and stuck his fingers into it. He winced and jerked them away.

  “Brrr . . .” he said. “It’s so cold.”

  She laughed. “You haven’t spent much time in the mountains, have you?”

  “Not ever. I’m from San Diego.”

  “Ah, a Californian.”

  “Yes, born and bred.”

  He came over and sat with her, and they enjoyed another companionable interval as he studied the trees, the water cascading down the rock wall, the blue sky above.

  “You were correct,” he said after a bit. “It’s pretty here.”

  He shifted toward her, and when he stared at her, she wondered what he saw, but she was afraid she knew. For once, she caught herself wishing—in a very feminine way—that she was beautiful and alluring. There was probably no chance of that though.

  In a previous, frivolous period, she’d have described herself as beautiful. When she’d been much younger and ruled by vanity, she’d gleefully pranced in front of mirrors and glass windows in order to gush over her reflection.

  But after a rough decade, she didn’t have many features that would turn a man’s head. She had her dad’s thick, dark hair, and she never cut it, so it hung down her back in a long braid. Her brown eyes were still full and round, but they didn’t spark with the kind of mischief she’d exhibited as a girl. And her clothes were dowdy and out of place, as if she’d traveled in a time machine from an earlier era.

  She didn’t sew her own clothes. A woman at the compound sewed them for her, using organic cotton they purchased in town when they sold their autumn harvest, so she might have been a hippy or a pioneer.

  Her top was sleeveless, plain and cream-colored, with embroidery stitched on the bodice. Her skirt dropped nearly to her ankles and was dyed an array of bright colors, so it was more likely she resembled a gypsy at a fair. If she wasn’t careful, she’d grab his hand and read his palm.

  He was very polite, so his intense gaze didn’t dip to her peculiar outfit. He didn’t display the slightest hint that he deemed her to be very strange. She could have hugged him for it.

  “You’re a guest at the Inn,” he said, “so you must be here for the wedding. Who are you connected to?”

  “My sister is Jennifer. The bride?”

  “Now that you mention it, you look just like her.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. She’s gorgeous.”

  “Who are you connected to?” she asked.

  “I’m Josh Taylor. I’m the groom’s best friend and best man.”

  She didn’t possess any information about who had been invited, and she hadn’t learned much about Eric Benjamin and hadn’t met him. Jennifer had brought him to Oregon at Easter, but Amy hadn’t made it home for the holiday.

  With the wedding suddenly occurring—and so quickly too—she was nervous for her sister. Amy was a good judge of character, mostly because she liked to watch and listen rather than talk. She’d have liked to dig into the sort of family to whom Jennifer was about to bind herself.

  They were extremely rich, so she had her doubts about them, and Eric had already disappointed Jennifer by failing to arrive when he’d promised he would. In Amy’s opinion, if Eric Benjamin was desperate to be Jennifer’s husband, wouldn’t he have taken any step necessary to be by her side?

  “How do you know the groom?” she asked.

  “He and I have been buds since we were in first grade.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty. How about you?”

  “The same. I’m amazed that you managed to remain close to him. Most people move on to new relationships after they become adults.”

  “It never happened to us. He’s like the brother I never had.”

  “I’m not close to anybody from my childhood.”

  Of course that was her own fault, but when she’d decided to attend the wedding, she’d also decided she wouldn’t re
flect on those prior dark days for a single minute. Instead, she would focus on the celebration, so she shoved the terrible, guilt-ridden memories away.

  “I’d claim it’s too bad you don’t have any childhood friends,” he said, “but I’m not sure I’d mean it. Eric can be a huge pain in the butt.”

  She chuckled. “But you like him anyway.”

  “Yes, I like him anyway. He’s a habit I can’t seem to break.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes, I always have been.”

  “Is your home in San Diego?” she asked.

  “No. Dallas.”

  “A Californian transplanted to Texas? How is that working out?”

  “It has its moments,” he said.

  “What is it you do there?”

  “I’m a baseball player.”

  “A professional player?”

  “Yes.”

  “My goodness. I’m so impressed. I’d inquire about your team and your position, but I’m clueless about baseball. It would be like having you speak in a foreign language.”

  “Well, if you don’t live and breathe baseball,” he teasingly said, “we can’t possibly ever be cordial.”

  “Have you met my dad? He’ll love you, and he’ll talk your ear off. You won’t be able to escape.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. If it ever looks as if he’s got me cornered, you’ll have to rescue me.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  She smiled, and he smiled too. It was such a pleasant encounter, the kind men and women constantly shared in the ordinary world. It had her yearning to be ordinary.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Oregon. My family’s from there. Jennifer flitted off to LA three years ago, after she graduated from college, but the rest of us never left.”

  His gaze finally wandered down her odd, out-of-style clothes. “From how you’re dressed, I’m guessing you’re an artist.”

  “I wish I was, but I have to confess I have no talent for any endeavor.”

  “No talent for anything?”

  “No.” The wheels were spinning in his head as he struggled to devise a polite way to ask why she was so weird, and she put him out of his misery. “I live in a commune.”

  “A commune!” He snorted with amusement. “I’ve heard that people in Oregon are strange, but apparently, I had no idea.”

  “It’s not very glamorous. It’s actually a very difficult life.” It was the first time she’d ever stated it out loud, and she was shocked to have admitted it.

  “Why stay there then?” he asked.

  “Habit, I suppose. Like with you and your friend, Eric.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Too long.”

  He stunned her by clasping her hand, and he turned it palm up so he could study her calluses. Her skin was rough, her hands seeming to belong to a much older woman. She tugged the appendage away and hid it in the folds of her skirt.

  For some bizarre reason, there were a thousand comments bubbling to the tip of her tongue. She wanted to tell him every petty detail about her past, wanted to explain why she’d picked such a quiet, small existence, why it suited her.

  It hadn’t been her original plan.

  No, her plan had been very much like Jennifer’s. She’d intended to enroll in college, then strut out into the big world and take it by storm, but tragedy had curtailed the predictable route. Her sins—committed at age seventeen—had rendered her incapable of functioning as she’d hoped and dreamed.

  She was happy to work in her garden, watch over her animals, and sit with her friends while they meditated and prayed. All of it kept her centered. All of it reminded her, on a daily basis, that she was a tiny pebble in the great stream of consciousness. She wasn’t important, and she’d been punished, so she didn’t need to flog herself.

  Forgiveness was allowed.

  “You’re very . . . interesting,” he said, and he had to ponder forever to select the word interesting. “I’ve never stumbled on anyone quite like you before.”

  Her vanity flared, and she tamped it down. “It’s sweet of you to compliment me, but the reality is that I’m odd and peculiar. That would be a more apt description.”

  “Were you always this way?”

  “No, but people make strange choices, don’t they?”

  “They certainly do, and I must proclaim that the commune has had a very beneficial effect on your character. You’re a very peaceful person.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Seriously. There’s a sort of serene aura that practically oozes out of you. I wish I had your ability to be so calm.”

  “If you were more like me, you could never concentrate hard enough to play baseball.”

  “That’s true.”

  “How did you receive time off to come to the wedding?” she asked. “It’s the middle of July. Don’t you have a game somewhere?”

  “I’m hurt.” He waved over his right side. “I’m a shortstop, and I screwed up my shoulder.”

  “How? Were you in an accident?”

  “No. My body is just wearing out. It’s a grueling sport, and I’m moving into the older years for a player.”

  “You’re only thirty! You’re not old!”

  “Not in the real world, but in my sport, it’s nearly ancient.”

  She reached out and laid her palm on his shoulder joint. She shut her eyes and focused in, and she perceived the pain radiating there. She had some healing tendencies. Not many, but a few. She couldn’t heal him though, and she suspected he’d get worse before he ever got better.

  They sat for a lengthy interval, and he was content to let her hold his injured joint, almost as if he sensed the strength she was pushing into him. They bowed their heads, their foreheads close, as if they were praying together. She wasn’t religious and wasn’t much for praying, but she would never discount what could be achieved by a hefty dose of positive thinking.

  After awhile, she eased away.

  “Are you a healer?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s hot where you were touching me.”

  “You might feel some improvement for a bit, but it won’t last. I can’t fix what’s wrong with you.”

  He laughed. “It’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

  The moment grew very intimate, and she thought he might pepper her with questions about what she’d attempted, but she didn’t have any answers to clarify her conduct. Her swami, who’d organized their compound, was very powerful, and she simply channeled his energy. It flowed out of him and through her.

  “I should get back to the Inn,” she said. “My sisters are arguing over a bridesmaid’s dress. I should be there to referee.”

  “I bet you’re good at refereeing. You’re so relaxed. Who would dare to fight around you?”

  He stood then, and she stood too.

  “Will you walk with me again sometime before we leave?” he asked. “I want to explore more of the grounds, but I shouldn’t wander off alone.”

  “No, you definitely shouldn’t wander by yourself, and I’d be delighted to walk with you whenever you like. Just come and find me.”

  They started down the trail, and it was narrow, so they couldn’t stroll side by side. She led the way, and he was behind her. His eyes cut into her back, as he studied every step she took.

  It made her realize she’d been wise to travel to Colorado. She didn’t believe in coincidence. She only believed in fate. If seemed that Fate had plans for her that she hadn’t expected at all.

  “Let’s cancel it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jennifer stared at Victoria DeAngelo, the Inn’s event coordinator, and she wanted to shout, No, I’m not sure! But that would be juvenile behavior, and she was a twenty-five-year
-old adult who was about to get married. It would be rude to fly off the handle, and the debacle wasn’t Victoria’s fault.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Jennifer said. “My father hasn’t met Eric’s parents, and it was supposed to be a cozy meal so they could become acquainted.”

  “And Dennis Benjamin isn’t here yet.”

  “Eric isn’t either. I can’t imagine sitting through it without him, and with Mr. Benjamin not arriving, there’s no point.”

  “We can have it tomorrow night,” Victoria said, “once the pertinent parties stagger in.”

  “We’ll see how my schedule unfolds.” Jennifer was too superstitious to go out on a limb. So far, it seemed as if there was a dark cloud floating over her.

  Victoria patted Jennifer on the shoulder and said, “The world won’t end if we change a few plans, and if the two fathers never have supper before the ceremony, they’ll meet in other ways.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Jennifer quickly concurred, but she was so worried!

  Her dad and Dennis Benjamin were so different that they might not have been members of the same species. Mr. Benjamin was rich, powerful, and omnipotent, and Greg Layton was an ordinary working man.

  She was certain her dad was opposed to her marriage. He hadn’t admitted it, but Rachel supplied constant hints by slyly needling Jennifer as to what their father really thought about the lopsided match.

  Jennifer had no idea if Rachel was simply being her usual bitchy self, but Jennifer wouldn’t raise the subject with her dad. It would crush her to learn his true opinion, and she wouldn’t put him in a position where he would have to lie about it.

  “Would you like me to inform Ms. Kildare and Mrs. Benjamin?” Victoria asked.

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  Jennifer gnashed her teeth. Her relationships with Eric’s mother and stepmother were difficult. She was a stranger to both women, and she’d like to be closer to them, but they didn’t appear to be interested.

  With Eric’s mother, Sharon, she’d developed an absurd sense that Sharon could be a sort of substitute mother to replace her own who’d died when she was a girl. She’d constructed fantasies about how she’d be the daughter Sharon had never had.