peer over Laurel’s shoulder at the calendar. “A blue moon—there’s your theme, Lizzie; so suitable!
And
your color! At your age, white would be too silly. And with your eyes, blue’s absolutely perfect!”
She pulled out her minuscule cellphone and began to punch in numbers. “I’ll just check with Keith—if by some miracle he’s not booked … blue flowers … What were those gorgeous blue flowers he used on the tables at Eleanor’s birthday luncheon …”
I started to protest that
I
had thought the summer solsticewould be a good time and then, like a leaden bell tolling, the voice in my head started up again.
What
was
Dodie trying to tell me?
“Gloria, stop right there,” I heard myself saying in a harsh tone I didn’t recognize. “Nothing’s definite yet.
Nothing
. You two just back off.”
Chapter 8
A Lot You Don’t Know
Wednesday, May 16
T hey stared at me as if I had just kicked one of the dogs. The shocked looks on their faces quickly gave way to a bustle of subject-changing small talk. Laurel asked her aunt how the beignets were made and, at the same time, Gloria began to quiz Laurel about her bartending job.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice choking. I grabbed the bucket of scraps for the chickens. “I didn’t mean to sound so … I had trouble sleeping last night and I guess I’m a little … Oh hell, I’m going down to feed the chickens.”
They broke off their chatter and turned wide eyes on me as I croaked out another
Sorry
and hurried out the door before I had to hear their soothing reassurances … or their questions. I made it off the porch before the tears came.
Crying doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve always fought against it, especially if I’m around anyone else. Maybe I see it as betraying weakness—I don’t know. I do know that it’s something I do best in private. And even then, only rarely. But when the tears come, despite my best efforts, they come in a torrent—as if to make up for a long drought.
So I picked my way down the steep gravel road, eyesstreaming, nose running, snuffling and sniffling in a way that I’m sure Sophia Loren would have had something to say about. I wasn’t crying because my wedding was in danger of being hijacked by Gloria and Laurel and their ideas and their themes—well, maybe that was some of it—but the thing that had me in its grip was the thought that, after all this time, after I’d finally made the decision to marry Phillip, to trust him—oh, bloody hell!
By the time I reached the place in the branch where a little trough over a rock allows me to fill a bucket with water for the biddies, I’d pretty much run out of tears and was reduced to gulps and the occasional hiccup. The inviting patch of grass by the branch was out of sight of the house so I plopped down in the shade of the trees and tried to regain some measure of calm. After wiping my face on my T-shirt, I closed my eyes and began to take deep breaths.
So many thoughts were fighting to surface—my feelings about Gloria … Why was I turning into such a bitch? And Phillip—
no
, Phil,
all of a sudden he’s Phil
.
Was I jealous of my sister?
Oh, please. I’m not the jealous type. Am I?
And that mocking inner voice whispered,
Not the crying type either, are you?
Something bumped against my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see Ursa. Shaggy, muddy Ursa, who had evidently been taking her ease in the little pool lower down the branch, was rubbing against me with what I chose to interpret as doggy concern rather than an attempt to dry herself.
I put an arm around the big dog, ignoring the dripping fur. I’d already trashed my T-shirt wiping my eyes and my runny nose—at least now I could cover up the evidence of my uncharacteristic crying jag.
Ursa sat down beside me with a heavy thump, then laid her head in my lap and promptly went to sleep.“Our Zen dog,” Laurel calls her; whether it’s the result of philosophy or just a slow
And
your color! At your age, white would be too silly. And with your eyes, blue’s absolutely perfect!”
She pulled out her minuscule cellphone and began to punch in numbers. “I’ll just check with Keith—if by some miracle he’s not booked … blue flowers … What were those gorgeous blue flowers he used on the tables at Eleanor’s birthday luncheon …”
I started to protest that
I
had thought the summer solsticewould be a good time and then, like a leaden bell tolling, the voice in my head started up again.
What
was
Dodie trying to tell me?
“Gloria, stop right there,” I heard myself saying in a harsh tone I didn’t recognize. “Nothing’s definite yet.
Nothing
. You two just back off.”
Chapter 8
A Lot You Don’t Know
Wednesday, May 16
T hey stared at me as if I had just kicked one of the dogs. The shocked looks on their faces quickly gave way to a bustle of subject-changing small talk. Laurel asked her aunt how the beignets were made and, at the same time, Gloria began to quiz Laurel about her bartending job.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice choking. I grabbed the bucket of scraps for the chickens. “I didn’t mean to sound so … I had trouble sleeping last night and I guess I’m a little … Oh hell, I’m going down to feed the chickens.”
They broke off their chatter and turned wide eyes on me as I croaked out another
Sorry
and hurried out the door before I had to hear their soothing reassurances … or their questions. I made it off the porch before the tears came.
Crying doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve always fought against it, especially if I’m around anyone else. Maybe I see it as betraying weakness—I don’t know. I do know that it’s something I do best in private. And even then, only rarely. But when the tears come, despite my best efforts, they come in a torrent—as if to make up for a long drought.
So I picked my way down the steep gravel road, eyesstreaming, nose running, snuffling and sniffling in a way that I’m sure Sophia Loren would have had something to say about. I wasn’t crying because my wedding was in danger of being hijacked by Gloria and Laurel and their ideas and their themes—well, maybe that was some of it—but the thing that had me in its grip was the thought that, after all this time, after I’d finally made the decision to marry Phillip, to trust him—oh, bloody hell!
By the time I reached the place in the branch where a little trough over a rock allows me to fill a bucket with water for the biddies, I’d pretty much run out of tears and was reduced to gulps and the occasional hiccup. The inviting patch of grass by the branch was out of sight of the house so I plopped down in the shade of the trees and tried to regain some measure of calm. After wiping my face on my T-shirt, I closed my eyes and began to take deep breaths.
So many thoughts were fighting to surface—my feelings about Gloria … Why was I turning into such a bitch? And Phillip—
no
, Phil,
all of a sudden he’s Phil
.
Was I jealous of my sister?
Oh, please. I’m not the jealous type. Am I?
And that mocking inner voice whispered,
Not the crying type either, are you?
Something bumped against my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see Ursa. Shaggy, muddy Ursa, who had evidently been taking her ease in the little pool lower down the branch, was rubbing against me with what I chose to interpret as doggy concern rather than an attempt to dry herself.
I put an arm around the big dog, ignoring the dripping fur. I’d already trashed my T-shirt wiping my eyes and my runny nose—at least now I could cover up the evidence of my uncharacteristic crying jag.
Ursa sat down beside me with a heavy thump, then laid her head in my lap and promptly went to sleep.“Our Zen dog,” Laurel calls her; whether it’s the result of philosophy or just a slow
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