Honeysuckle Season

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  When the house had been built in the eighteenth century, the main entrance had faced the river, which had been the superhighway of its day. Travelers had come and gone by the river. What was now the main road leading to the Woodmont Estate had been little more than a deer path in the days of Ezra Carter. Modern transportation had moved on, but the house remained steadfastly attached to its origins.

  The DJ’s speakers emitted the music of a string quartet playing “Are You Gonna Be My Girl.” The DJ and his main soundboard were wisely set up inside the main house.

  Over the last couple of years, Libby had become accustomed to the songs most couples played at their weddings, and after a while, she had recognized a sameness to the songs. Most couples aspired to be different on their special day, but nearly all fell into predictable patterns.

  She looked over her shoulder at the swollen dark clouds moving toward them. At this point the quartet should have been playing the theme to Jaws. “Duunnn, duunnn.” No amount of positive thinking or mason jars of moonshine buried in the dirt was going to stop this beast from rolling over the top of the wedding.

  Another clap of thunder had Libby looking toward the parking lot, where her SUV remained stocked with the umbrellas. She checked her watch. If she ran, she could make it to her car and return with the umbrellas with time to spare. She looked again at the angry sky. Decision made—as the quartet’s next song, “I Will Always Love You,” began—she turned on her heels and took off running toward her car as the thick scent of approaching rain surrounded her.

  The first raindrop hit the top of her head as she opened the back of her SUV. She quickly snapped waterproof cases over her cameras and gathered up the umbrellas in her arms. As she nudged the liftgate button with her foot, a loud clap of thunder cracked across the sky.

  Juggling umbrellas and her cameras, she saw the storm dumping rain on the other side of the river. She started to run. Heat and thick humidity formed a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades and on her upper lip.

  More water droplets fell on Libby’s head as she dashed toward the wedding, hoping to at least get the bride, mother of the bride, and groom under cover.

  The wedding march suddenly began, ten minutes ahead of schedule. At most weddings, she had a second shooter on hand to catch the images from a different angle. But Ginger had been certain Libby did not need the extra shooter. Now Libby was not in a position to catch any part of the ceremony. If she delayed another minute, she would miss the entire main event.

  A red truck rumbled up behind her and stopped. “Get in,” the driver said.

  She recognized the man as the estate manager, Colton Reese—the bride’s brother. He was dressed in a dark suit and white shirt but wore no tie. Dark hair brushed back behind his ears, drawing attention to a face that was not exactly handsome but somehow very attractive.

  Two weeks ago, Colton had had little to say at the walk-through. He had listened to his sister’s ideas and patiently agreed to rent the chairs. He had wanted to also secure a tent, but Ginger had told him not to bother.

  “Why aren’t you at the ceremony?” she asked.

  “I saw you take off running. You’re either abandoning ship, or you could use the backup. Which is it?”

  “Backup.” She tossed her umbrellas in the bed of the truck and climbed inside.

  “It’s going to open up,” she said.

  “Yes, it is.” Colton’s trim body leaned over his steering wheel as he stared up at the sky. “It’s coming across the river fast.”

  “They’re starting the ceremony early.”

  “That was Ginger’s call. Too bad there’s no tent.”

  “Drive it like you stole it. I’ve got to get there.”

  Colton grinned, punched the accelerator, and raced toward the darkening sky. He was in his mid- to late thirties, and she supposed his perpetual frown added a dangerous kind of vibe loved by the ladies. “I warned them this morning to have the ceremony inside.”

  “Your gardens are the reason Ginger wanted to be outside.” Droplets splattered on the windshield, flattening into large watery pancakes.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “You pass out the umbrellas, and I’ll keep shooting,” Libby instructed. “Bride first; mother of the bride second. Then go for anyone who looks like a grandmother. The men get served last.”

  “Just like the Titanic.” He parked within twenty feet and hustled around the side of the truck just as the sky opened up, pelting down rain. Some guests held their programs over their heads, trying to hold off through the ceremony. Others were already dashing to the estate’s narrow front porch, which was quickly filling up.

  Colton opened an umbrella and handed it to her. She held it in one hand and raised her camera with the other. She was shooting as the mother of the bride walked her daughter quickly down the aisle. Colton handed his mother an umbrella, but the bride refused hers as she walked to the arch and her waiting groom. They both were laughing as their guests started racing toward the safety of the house’s front porch.

  Libby gave up on trying to hold an umbrella and shoot. Instead she handed it to a hapless guest hurrying past her and moved up the center aisle, past the emptying seats, toward the bride and groom.

  She shifted between cameras as she moved closer. The minister read the vows, his pace quickening with each clap of thunder. The bride and groom held hands, and then the rain really started to pour.

  Finally, the minister quickly declared them husband and wife, then took off running toward the house. The bride and groom turned, hand in hand, and ran down the muddy center aisle. Mud splashed up on Ginger’s dress and her groom’s tux. Ginger’s hair and makeup had basically melted, and her gown was now soaked. Libby caught every step and every splash, knowing she had captured the money shot for the day.

  She followed the couple toward the main house and onto the porch, where they joined cheering guests. The catering staff and Colton were handing out towels that she would bet he had ordered.

  When Libby reached the porch, her pants and shirt were soaked, and her shoes were filled with water.

  “Never a dull moment,” Sierra said, passing her a towel as she balanced a tray of manhattans.

  “They should have buried the moonshine,” Libby said.

  “Or rented a tent. Cocktail?”

  “Thanks, but I better hold off.”

  “You know where to find me.” Sierra drifted away, smiling as she presented her tray to the first soggy guest.

  Libby moved inside Woodmont, pausing to shoot pictures of a floral arrangement in an antique porcelain vase. The original house had been built circa 1735 and the newer additions in the 1750s and 1790s. The large rooms to her left were tastefully decorated and restored to their original colonial charm. One was painted in a rich hunter green and the other a deep burgundy. Each fireplace was adorned with a white-veined marble, and the walls were painted an indigo blue. The stone and the plush hues were rarities at that time and had announced to the Virginia Colony that the Carters were indeed well to do.

  Drawn to some of the detailed crown molding, marble fireplaces, and handblown glass windows, she snapped several pictures, knowing these were more for herself than the bride.

  Libby’s wedding photography business was five years old now and growing monthly. She had always had a passion for photography and had collected all kinds of antique cameras when she was a kid. But art, her father had warned, did not pay the light bill, so he had encouraged her to go to nursing school. She had to study hard, but she graduated with honors and became an oncology nurse. To her surprise (and definitely her father’s), she had a talent for caring for the sick. Fast-forward a couple of years, and she met Jeremy, fell in love, and got married. Life went on—until it did not.

  Libby watched the flow of guests milling about inside the large front level of the house filled with displays of daisies and marigolds. She moved toward a small side room, where she had stashed some of her camera equipment to swit
ch out lenses.

  Sierra doubled back, her tray now sporting fewer cocktails. “Do you realize you’re shooting the first wedding at Woodmont ever?”

  “It’s a stunning venue.”

  “Think it could be an attraction for weddings and events?”

  “Definitely. It’s a beautiful property, but Mrs. Grant has already turned down several offers. If they jump into the event game, they’ll grab top dollar.”

  Many of the guests had moved toward the two bars flanking the buffet table. The bride and groom had escaped to one of the hidden rooms to collect themselves. Outside, lightning crackled across the sky just as the DJ played “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

  “I need to take pictures of the cake table and the flowers.” Libby rummaged in her pocket for the list of Ginger’s guests to be remembered. The paper was damp, but the ballpoint ink was still intact.

  “Off to shoot at the other end of the room.”

  “Go get ’em.”

  A young boy and girl with matching raven hair and green eyes—siblings, she supposed—approached her. A thirty-some-year-old woman with the same green eyes coaxed them forward and discreetly reminded them both to smile.

  “Ms. McKenzie,” the woman said. “I don’t suppose you remember me or my children, Robert and Kate. Your father was their pediatrician, and he was mine as well.”

  “He always had cherry suckers.” The boy beamed.

  “When he gave a shot, I didn’t feel it,” the girl said.

  “We were so sorry to hear about his passing,” the woman said.

  Libby fiddled with the aperture on her camera. She knew moving back to Bluestone would mean hearing lots of stories about her father. And hearing those stories would make her miss him all the more. But as much as she wanted to shut herself off from people’s memories, she did not. She owed it to her father, who had cared for thousands of area children over the decades.

  When he had died in January, the Episcopal church in Bluestone had been packed with mourners spanning generations of families just like this one. There had been people standing five deep in the vaulted sanctuary. Dad would have been proud. He had always thought a poorly attended funeral was a commentary on a man’s life.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The bride and her groom appeared from a side room, and the guests began to cheer. Ginger looked as happy as Libby had on her own wedding day.

  “I hear you’re back in town for good,” the woman said.

  “Living in Dad’s house.” Nothing stayed a secret in small towns. She had spent the better part of the winter hunched over her computer, editing pictures from weddings, setting up new appointments, and traveling to events. The work had allowed her to push aside mourning for her father, her three miscarriages, and her divorce.

  “Well, welcome back to Bluestone,” she said. “I’m Molly.”

  “Good to meet you, Molly.”

  “Did your husband move back too? Someone told me you were expecting.”

  The baby question still came up. When she and Jeremy had announced to the world that they were trying to get pregnant, the hunt for the emerging baby bump had begun. Each time she took a drink of wine, people noticed. When she did not drink, they noticed. When her first home pregnancy test had come back positive, Jeremy had bought a pint-size Nationals T-shirt. She had found the tiny shirt weeks after the first miscarriage.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the husband any longer,” Libby said. “No children. I’m going solo these days.” Challenge seeped out through the words.

  “Good for you.” Molly nodded slowly, as if realizing her information on Libby was outdated. “Bless your heart.”

  In the South, that phrase basically translated into “I pity your ass.” Libby kept smiling as she returned to taking pictures of the bridal party.

  The next two hours moved quickly. She spotted Colton with his mother and two little boys who looked like mini versions of him. She guessed the kids were his—and about five and six. She was disappointed to think that there was a wife likely lurking among the guests.

  She continued shooting, capturing a picture of Ginger feeding cake to her groom and then later snapping images of the groom dancing with his mother as Colton danced with his mother.

  As the guests danced to “Y.M.C.A.,” Libby checked her list of must-have shots. Confirming they were all filled for now, she made herself a plate and slipped outside to the porch. The rain had stopped, but the air remained thick and hot. In the distance, mist rose up on the river as the sun peeked around the edge of a gray puffed cloud. It was an eerily beautiful sight that reminded her why this area was gaining popularity with out-of-town folks.

  She watched as, in the distance, Colton strode into a large barn and seconds later drove out in a burgundy Model T car. Smoothly shifting gears, he pulled up in front of the steps. There was something about a man who could drive a standard. The engine rumbled, and the hood shook a little as he shut off the engine. On the back was a large sign that read JUST MARRIED.

  Libby caught Colton’s eye as he came around the front of the car. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet. You were a lifesaver.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “Nice getaway car,” she said.

  He had changed into jeans and a white shirt. His black hair was slicked back and damp from the earlier rain. “The car is part of the estate. There are several more vintage cars in the garage. How much longer before the big send-off?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back. Forgot to tie the cans to the back.”

  “You’re going all out.”

  “Big day for my big sister.”

  She was smiling as she watched him jog off and did not notice anyone approaching until she heard, “Libby?”

  The familiar deep voice had her turning her head toward the set of wide stairs. Her ex-husband, Jeremy, approached her, his smile a little sheepish.

  “Jeremy? What are you doing here?” The half-whispered words were tinged with curiosity and dread.

  “I went by your house. Your neighbor said you were shooting a wedding here. I took a chance you might have a break.”

  Jeremy was an inch shorter than her. He had an athletic build that he kept lean by running and lifting weights several times a week. His light hair was starting to thin a little, and the frown lines around his mouth and brown eyes were deeper.

  She almost leaned in to kiss him, but she caught herself. Their divorce had been civil enough, but divorce was divorce.

  “I wanted to bring you some of your things you left behind in the Dale City house. I’m cleaning out the spare room and painting it and came across these.”

  The spare room had been earmarked as the nursery. Made sense now to turn it into something more practical. When she had moved out of the trilevel in Dale City, he had bought her out. The cash had sustained her through the temporary move to Richmond and helped her purchase faster computers and more camera lenses.

  “Getting that home office you always wanted?” she asked.

  He shrugged and dropped his gaze to his hands and his naked ring finger. “I’m getting married again.”

  “Oh.” She waited for the punch of sadness, but it felt more like a soft slap even though she had seen the pictures online. “Good for you.”

  “Her name is Monica Peterson.”

  “Right. The paralegal in your office.” She compared the image of an athletic woman with short black hair and a keen gaze to her own current state, which could only be described as a drowned rat. Jeremy and Monica had been in an office running group, and Libby had crewed for their team at several races.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Good for you.” She repeated the words like a scratched record album.

  His gaze roamed the large front porch and the lavish arrangement of flowers. “Pretty different than our wedding.”

  “Yeah.”

  They had eloped, but a month after the wedding her father had held
a dinner for them at the country club along with family and friends.

  “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.

  “I appreciated the flowers and nice note.”

  “I liked your father. He was a good man. Your father seemed happy for us when he toasted us at our party.”

  “He was happy for us.”

  That had been a perfect weekend. They had left the party close to midnight and taken a car to a historic bed-and-breakfast, where they had made love. It had been one of the few times neither was pressed by work or deadlines. Once her father had commented that the divorce had robbed him of a son.

  “You didn’t have to come all this way,” she said. “You could have mailed it to me or even chucked it. If I haven’t missed it by now, I doubt I would have.”

  Jeremy had always been considerate. He had tried not to be disappointed when she had lost the babies. But his kindness had only fueled her rage. How could he not have been furious?

  “I wanted to tell you about my marriage in person. Didn’t want you to see it on Instagram.” He shifted his hands to his pockets and rattled loose change.

  She still followed him and from time to time checked in. She had hoped his life was still stuck in neutral like hers. Guess not.

  “Go on; show me where you’re parked,” she said with a smile. “I can transfer it to my car.”

  “Great.” As they walked over the gravel pathway dotted with puddles, a silence settled between them. She had never minded the quiet, and neither had Jeremy when they were married. Now, it seemed to bother him. “The Heckmans finally moved.”

  The Heckmans were their elderly neighbors. They were vegan, and Mrs. Heckman drank so much carrot juice she’d actually turned orange. “How long were they in their house? Thirty, thirty-five years?”

  “Forty. They moved to Tennessee to be closer to their children.”

  “Good for them.” Mrs. Heckman was a health nut who had religiously delivered freshly grated carrot juice to Libby each time she had been pregnant.