Julia 03 - Miss Julia Throws a Wedding (33 page)

“Come on, sport,” Mr. Pickens said, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “We can do this.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Pickens,” I said, plucking his sleeve. “Who’re those people standing around on the front porch?” All I could see were broad-shouldered men with mustaches and military haircuts clustered by my wisteria vine.

“They’re all deputies, Coleman’s friends,” Mr. Pickens said. “Probably keeping an eye on the miracle-watchers.”

As he and Little Lloyd walked toward the door, Miss Wiggins flounced over to Sam and me. I stiffened as she approached, thinking that if she said one word about that trailer park, I was going to pinch her curly head off.

“Oh, Mrs. Springer,” she gushed. “I’m just so thrilled to be here. I couldn’t believe it when Bobby Lee asked me to come with him. Oh, this is Bobby Lee Moser; he’s an old friend.”

“How do you do,” I said, offering my hand to the smiling, but silent deputy, which you wouldn’t know unless you’d been told, because of his dress suit and tie. His suit was a summerweight charcoal, his shirt a blinding white against his tanned complexion and his tie a conservative red with a gold pattern.

Very nice, I thought, until he was close enough for me to make out the gold designs—tiny handguns all over the thing. A dangerous man, if I was any judge, of the ilk of Lieutenant Peavey.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Springer?” Etta Mae said, her eyes darting around, taking in everything. “I’d love to help, if I can.”

“No, thank you,” I told her, wanting to say that I’d had all
the help from her that I could afford. But she was a guest in my home, so I refrained. “Everything’s well in hand . . . except, oh my goodness.” Panic overtook me at my lack of foresight. “Flowers,” I gasped. “I forgot the flowers!”

“Lord, Julia,” Sam said, “you’ve got flowers everywhere.”

“The bouquets and the boutonnieres. For the bridal party.”

“Where are they? I’ll get them,” Etta Mae said, slinging the chain of her purse over her shoulder.

“Oh, thank you, Miss Wiggins. They’re in the refrigerator in the kitchen. Mr. Pickens and Little Lloyd and Sam get the pink rosebuds, and, well, you’ll see the bouquets for Binkie and Hazel Marie. And Coleman, don’t forget his. Everybody’s upstairs, if you don’t mind running them up, but don’t let Coleman see Binkie.” As Etta Mae eagerly hurried off to the kitchen on her errand, I suddenly clasped Sam’s arm. “Oh, Sam,” I cried, “the photographer! Where is he? Or she? Or whoever Hazel Marie got. Oh, my goodness, what if we don’t have one?”

“It’s a he,” he said, “and he’s here. I saw him a minute ago lugging in his cameras. Said he had to walk a mile from where he had to park.”

“Just so he’s here,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I hope he’s competent.”

Sam just smiled and, if I hadn’t been struck with another thought as Miss Wiggins started up the stairs with a box of bouquets, I’d’ve taken note of it.

“Let’s go up with her, Sam,” I said. “I want to pin Coleman’s boutonniere on and have a word with him. And you’re his best man. You should be up there helping him.”

We went upstairs together, waylaying Etta Mae to get the rosebuds for Coleman’s and Sam’s lapels. As we went toward Coleman’s room, we heard Binkie and Hazel Marie welcoming Etta Mae with squeals over the bouquets.

Sam tapped on the door, then opened it. “Coleman? You decent?”

“Yeah,” Coleman answered, as we walked in. “Hi, Miss Julia, Sam. How’s it going downstairs?”

I declare, I’d seen a bait of good-looking men that day, but Coleman took my breath away. So handsome in his wedding apparel that set off his broad shoulders and blond hair—in spite of the sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Coleman,” I said, “Binkie’s a lucky girl. I just want to wish you both a happy life together.”

“Thanks, Miss Julia. Is she all right? She’s not going to leave me at the altar, is she?” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Binkie’s having the time of her life,” I assured him. “Although she is paying entirely too much attention to that apparition on the wall over there. Hold still now, I want to pin this rosebud on your jacket.”

Coleman got that far-off look he’d had the night before, as I began sticking the pearl-headed pin through his lapel and the stem of the flower. “It’s still over there then?” he asked.

“Apparently so. I haven’t seen it, myself. But people are still flocking around, looking at it and kneeling and crossing themselves,” I said, unpinning the flower and going at it again. “You were absolutely right when you told me they were holding some kind of religious vigil. But Sam knows the truth of it. Tell him, Sam.”

So Sam went through the scientific explanation again, intriguing Coleman enough to make him forget for a while to worry and sweat over Binkie’s previous intransigence.

“Now, Coleman,” I said, suddenly fearing that science and reason would overcome his faith in a miracle, which after all was what had set this wedding in motion again. “It doesn’t
matter what it is—seepage or shoddy bricklaying or handwriting on the wall—if it works, we just accept it and go on with our business.”

“That’s what I aim to do,” Coleman said. “Though I don’t mind admitting it shook me up last night when I saw that woman as clear as a bell.” He frowned, thinking about it. “Couldn’t see it so well when I came in a while ago, though.

“Oh, well,” he went on with a smile. “It’s done the job so far, if it’ll just hold out awhile longer. And listen, Miss Julia, don’t worry about the crowds; they won’t bother us. This is the happiest day of my life, and I don’t mind sharing it. Besides, what better time to see a miracle than on our wedding day?”

“You’re as bad as Sam, Coleman, with all that tolerance,” I said. Then picking up the other boutonniere, I turned to Sam. “Hold still now, and let me get this pinned on you.”

While Sam bent his head to watch me as I pushed the pin through fabric and flower, I bit my lip with the effort. “Careful, Julia,” Sam said, smiling. Then, sniffing, he said, “My, you smell good.”

“That’s this flower you’re smelling,” I said somewhat sharply, reminded of what Hazel Marie’d said about the perfume she’d been so free with on my person. Then, my mind switching back to more immediate concerns, I whirled around. “Coleman! What about your car? Will you be able to get through that mass of people when you and Binkie’re ready to leave? Sam, that’s your job, to see that they have a getaway car. And what about your suitcase, Coleman? Did you pack for your honeymoon?”

“All taken care of, Miss Julia,” Coleman said, reassuring me considerably. “Sam put my suitcase in the car this morning, and we parked it where nobody’ll think to look.”

“But how’re you going to get to it? Coleman, I’ll tell you,” I said, getting more concerned by the minute. “I’ve heard of some terrible things being done to grooms in bygone
weddings—things like putting a ball and chain around their necks and throwing away the key, or carrying a groom off and leaving him to walk for miles to get home. Now, I know all those deputies down there are friends of yours, but friends’re the worst kind for mischief such as that. There’s no telling what they’d be capable of if they got their hands on you. I mean, there’re some dangerous-looking men among them, especially Lieutenant Peavey and that Deputy Moser with handguns all over his tie.”

“Julia, Julia,” Sam said, in that soothing way of his. “We’ve got it all arranged. A special car with a special driver will pull up to your front walk when Binkie and Coleman’re ready to leave, and it’ll take them right to their car. Give us some credit, woman, we’ve thought of everything.”

“Well, all right. Now all I have to worry about is if
I’ve
thought of everything.”

Chapter 33

“I’d better go see about those girls.” Then, overcome with the high seriousness of what he was about to enter into, I turned back to Coleman. “Coleman,” I said, smoothing his lapel and giving his bow tie a tweak. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed having you in my house, and how much I appreciate all you’ve meant to me, just by being here.” I snatched a Kleenex from the box on his bedside table. “This is a momentous time for you, a highlight of your life, but I want you to know that I’m always here for you. You’ve been like a son to me, and, well, I guess I hate to see you go.” My eyes began to fill in spite of my relief at getting him and Binkie married.

“Julia,” Sam said, putting his arm around me. “Remember, now, this is what you’ve been working toward for so long. Let’s be happy for them.”

Coleman moved closer and displaced Sam. He put both arms around me and pulled me close. “Don’t cry, Miss Julia. I’m not going far, you know, and I plan to be around so much you’ll think I’m still living here.”

“Well, I know, Coleman,” I said, wiping my eyes and wondering if Hazel Marie’s mascara was the waterproof kind. “But I’m just trying to be a mother to you, and mothers’re supposed to cry at weddings.” I straightened my shoulders. “Well, enough of that. Sam, what time is it?”

“Getting close to three-thirty.”

“Oh, my goodness, we’re running out of time. I’d better
check on Binkie. Sam, you stay here with Coleman and keep him entertained. At a quarter till, you two go down the back stairs and wait in the kitchen. Then a minute or two before four, come out to the living room and take your places in front of the arch. Pastor Petree will already be there, so he’ll make sure you’re in the right place. Coleman”—I sniffed as my eyes teared up again—“this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

I left then, pulling the door closed behind me, to be greeted by a blast of chords from the blessed hands of Miss Mattie Mae Morgan at the piano downstairs. I headed down the hall to my room where the female contingent of the wedding party was congregated. Giggles and laughter from Binkie and Hazel Marie and Miss Wiggins blended with an unfamiliar voice giving instructions to stand here, to smile or to look this way. As I reached the door and looked in, I was stunned at the scene before me. Clothes, stockings and shoes were strewn over the bed and every chair; open cosmetics cases on the dresser overflowed with one beauty aid after another, a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice and soft drinks sat in the corner, and Binkie was still in her robe and bare feet.

That was all bad enough, but the photographer was a redheaded man wearing baggy shorts and a tee shirt. And work boots of all things. There he was in my bedroom, like it was the most normal thing in the world to be in the presence of women in various stages of undress, and not a one of them turning a hair about it. Except Lillian, who was flapping a robe in front of Binkie. The whole unsuitable scene stopped me cold.

While I stood at the door, watching, the man hopped around, giving orders and putting hands on first one and another. “A little closer,” he said. “Okay, that’s good.” Then a snap, flash and whir of the camera. “Now let’s have the bride sit at the dresser, while the bridesmaid fixes her hair. Look back this way. Good.” And another snap, flash and whir.

“Seem like that’s a Lord’s plenty,” Lillian said, frowning at the photographer.

Etta Mae Wiggins couldn’t stay out of the picture. “How about one of Binkie sitting in the window?”

“That’d be good.” Binkie laughed, and crawled onto the windowsill. “Then I want some with you, Miss Julia. Come on in. This is Rusty Reid. You probably know him, he’s the sports photographer for the newspaper.”

“It’s past time for you to be ready, Binkie,” I said. “How much longer is this going to take?” Then I was blinded as the redheaded, freckled photographer flashed the camera in my eyes. Blinking away the afterglow, I snatched up Binkie’s wedding dress and held it toward her.

But Binkie had her attention on the spectacle in front of the house. “Good grief,” she said, leaning her forehead against the window screen. “They just keep coming.”

All of us—Rusty the photographer, Hazel Marie, Miss Wiggins, Lillian and myself—were drawn to the window where Binkie sat and to the one beside it, straining to see. Not only had the crowd grown on the sidewalk and the street, but my front yard was full of wedding guests, as well. To say nothing of the cars lining both sides of the street and, if a turned collar meant anything, a Catholic priest. I gasped at the nerve of him, for he was studying the streaks of mortar or whatever it was on our Family Life Center with a pair of binoculars. I had a good mind to go out there and let him know that Pastor Ledbetter had no ecumenical leanings at all.