The Wedding Machine (7 page)

“You understand what I mean?” LeMar says to Ray while he eyes Kitty B. hard.

“Hi, Ray!” Sis calls, midway down the soft dirt path that leads to the water. She runs barefoot toward the house, a cloud of dust rising behind her, and Ray has never been more relieved to see her.

What astounds Ray most as Sis scurries toward them is how her dear friend appears to have hardly aged at all. Her soft black bob shows no sign of gray, and she's still got that terrific little figure—those thin ankles and that cinched waist and those perky well-proportioned breasts that seem immune to gravity itself. She must wear the same size she wore in high school! It's like time has stood still for Sis Mims. As if someone sealed her in the PVC pipe the town council used for a time capsule in their 250th anniversary of the founding of Jasper last fall, along with the church cookbook and the minutes of the town hall meeting and a photo of all of the children sitting on a joggling board in front of Mayor Whaley's house.

Sis's youthfulness strikes Ray as eerie sometimes. Granted, Sis is the only one among them to have had a hysterectomy thus far. But she bounced right back like nothing ever happened. Except for the blue pills that her gynecologist prescribed for her. She calls them her happy pills, and she shakes them like a maraca when Hilda rants about Trudi Crenshaw or Ray complains about her fibroid tumors or Poop 1 or Poop 2. “Ya'll really ought to try these antidepressants,” she says. “They have jump-started my
life
!”

Thing is, Ray cannot believe that Sis never married. Never had children. Never had sex, as far as she knows. Never had her offspring throw up or poop on her or grab for her breast in a feeding frenzy.

All she's really had is her music. The piano and the church organ and her students. They've set her up tens of times, with relatives and work associates and any single man they can get their hands on, but it never seems to work out. Ray hopes the new Episcopal priest, the Reverend Capers Campbell IV, will be Sis's match. Honestly, it was one of the reasons she voted that All Saints hire him. She wants Sis to experience a little more of the companionship she's yearned for since Fitz, and Rev. Capers couldn't do any better if he searched the state over.

Kitty B.'s house is a wreck as usual. There are bills and magazines and old newspapers scattered across the coffee table and black dog hair on the upholstery and the corners of the room. No, she is not blessed with any sense of domestic order, and Ray knows Roberta would have a fit if she saw the way her daughter lived, with the Hathaway family's old summer home rotting right before their eyes and LeMar whining and picking paint chips on the sloping front porch. Not to mention their youngest, Katie Rae, stroking her parrot up in her room with no college degree and no plan to ever leave home or get a job
.

But despite the chaos, Kitty B. is the best durn baker the town has ever known. She bakes all of the cakes and sweets for the town's social events, and she headed up the church cookbook publication,
Lowcountry Manna
, a few years back. That book made so much money for the parish that the vestry was able to put a new tin roof on the sanctuary and the rectory. Kitty B. has won numerous pie and cake contests across the southeast, and her lemon squares and hummingbird cakes were featured in
Southern Living
's special baking issue two years ago.

“Let's eat on trays in the living room,” Kitty B. says, sliding the newspaper across the couch and taking a seat.

As the gals load their plates with freshly fried chicken, LeMar turns up
Salome
. He shuffles into the living room as they take their first bites. “Now she's dancing with his head, girls.”

“Turn that off, LeMar,” Kitty B. says. “We're trying to
eat
.”

LeMar nods and moves over to the stereo. He places his head on the speaker and says, “Next thing you know, Herod will have her killed too.”

Richadene strides out of the kitchen and across the room and yanks the stereo plug out of the wall.

“Supper time,” she says to LeMar.

“Poor John the Baptist,” LeMar says to Ray as Richadene brings him a tray of fried chicken legs, a slice of watermelon, and a big helping of creamed corn. “He had his role to play in history, and then he was chopped right out of the picture at the whim of a seductress. It just doesn't seem fair.”

Ray clears her throat and looks awkwardly around at the other gals. LeMar says a blessing and then excuses himself to eat on the porch, and they get to work sorting out the final wedding preparations. The Tea and See and the bridesmaid luncheon, the rehearsal dinner, and the wedding itself. It will take place at All Saints Episcopal Church, followed by a reception right across the street at Pink Point Gardens, a beautiful park on the water where colossal live oaks stretch their long moss-covered limbs out over the seawall. Little Hilda and Giuseppe will leave by boat—a fifty-foot yacht that Kitty B.'s brother, Jackson, has agreed to let them borrow for the occasion. It will be tied to the dock at the yacht club right next to the park, and the guests will line up on the seawall and throw birdseed on them as they race to the dock and sail away, standing on the upper deck of the grand vessel. Jackson will deliver them to the Sanctuary Resort on Kiawah Island, where they will spend one night before flying to Italy for their two-week honeymoon and tour of Giuseppe's homeland.

As the gals gnaw on the chicken bones, they strategize.

It's not the nitty-gritty details that concern them. Ray keeps the wedding box within arms' reach at all times, and she can handle any logistical emergency that could possibly come up among brides and bridesmaids. The wedding box consists of smelling salts, stain remover, buttons, needles and thread, safety pins, starch, a mini iron, breath mints, scissors, tape, bobby pins, tampons, Band-Aids, superglue, cover up, hairspray, baby wipes, Kleenex, and more. No button will pop, no heel will break that Ray can't handle; no stain or wrinkle will appear that can't be eradicated.

But there are other concerns with this particular wedding. There's the weather, of course, and the mosquitoes, not to mention the population explosion of various reptiles that have been a particular nuisance this summer, but more hazardous than that are the people and the tensions rising between them, so Ray refers to her notes and reels off the damage-control plan:

“If Hilda blows up at Angus's fiancée or whatever she is—Trudi Crenshaw—then Kitty B., you pull her outside and take her on a walk.” Kitty B. nods and Ray continues.

“If Dennis Dannals shows up to take the pictures after having tipped the bottle as he is apt to do, Sis, you pump him with coffee and take the rolls of film out of his box so they don't get lost. And ask Capers to take over the camera. He took a photography course at the College of Charleston a few months back.”

“Got it,” Sis says.

“And if the good Reverend doesn't ask Sis to dance, let's force him to have a little champagne so that he will shrug off his inhibitions and spin her around in her spiffy blue dress with the big silk ecru sash and high-heeled sandals that Hilda picked out for her last May at the Copper Penny in Charleston.”

“I can't believe how much I spent on that dress.” Sis shakes her head. “I feel a little ridiculous about the whole thing.”

“Oh, what else are you going to spend your money on?” Ray asks, hoping that Capers will finally notice the little knockout of an organist in his midst.

“I could have bought a whole new wardrobe with what that ensemble cost!” Sis says.

“Sis.” Ray leans in toward her friend and nods once. “I'm going to put it to you plainly. None of us are getting any younger, and there comes a time when one must put all of one's eggs in a certain basket. You understand?”

“I guess,” Sis says, her head shaking back and forth. “There aren't too many empty baskets coming through Jasper these days.”

They all chuckle.

After they put aside their trays, they get out the tulle and the birdseed and the funnels and the satin ribbon and start making the sweet little sacks to hand to the guests before the bride and groom's departure.

“Well, anyway girls, we need to work out a damage-control scenario with one more issue,” Kitty B. says.

“What could we have possibly left out?” Ray studies her notes one last time.

Kitty B. lifts up the newspaper she's been sitting on and points to the color image of Eleanor swirling across the Bahamas. “Oh, just a little tropical beast.”

Ray swats her hand. She's tired of having to think about storms. “They've been predicting it'll hit Georgetown on a Thursday. Nothing to worry about.”

“It almost always bumps north, and it's always at least two days delayed,” Sis says.

“I know, I know, but every now and then it bumps south,” Kitty B. says, “and you know how it slows down when it comes ashore, so there is a slight possibility we could be looking at a Friday sideswipe.” “I hope not.” Sis pinches her chin.

Ray stands up and says in a firm tone, “I can't put much stock in worrying about storms. There are always storms looming in the tropics that could have our name on them, but in truth, it's been over a decade since our fair state has really felt the blow of one.”

As the dogs begin to bark outside, Vangie Dreggs pokes her made-up face through the window between LeMar's speakers. “Just pray it away. I saw y'all's cars over here, and I just wanted to pop in and say hi.”

Ray rolls her eyes. “So you just happened to be at the tip of Cottage Island?” she asks.

“Well, you know I'm looking at a piece of property out here.”

“Really?” Ray says. “What in the world for?”

“For an investment . . . and a getaway. It's either this or Edisto Beach, and I just can't decide. Little Bit and I are testing the sunset at both places.”

Vangie turns around toward the Ashepoo River and takes a mock picture with her fingers as her skirt billows up around her knees.

Why don't you just buy the whole durn county?
Ray's tired of outsiders poking around Jasper in search of a little coastal living. Heck, Florida is already the north, and so are Hilton Head and Kiawah Island for that matter. Maybe the Texans should take over the rest of the southeastern coastline—buy it up and build their oversized houses and fancy chain stores around it. Is there no way to
stop
them?

A hot flash starts in Ray's chest and moves down her arms and up to the top of her head. She picks up the newspaper and starts fanning herself.

“Do come in,” Kitty B. says to Vangie.

“Can't.” Vangie winks. “Going to Charleston to hear Beth Moore speak at the Gaillard. Then out to dinner with some friends to the Peninsula Grill. Oh, I just love their coconut cake. It's eight layers, Kitty B.! I'll bring you a slice to the tea tomorrow.”

“All right,” Kitty B. says. “I'd love to try it.”

“No, seriously, Ray,” Vangie says as she lifts her palms up to the sky. “Just pray that storm away. The Lord won't let it ruin that sweet child's wedding day!”

Ray shakes her head, and Sis lets out a nervous giggle.

“Hope it's okay for me to bring my sister-in-law to the tea tomorrow?” Vangie says as she turns toward the porch. Ray bristles. “She's looking to buy a place in Charleston, and she wants to sample a little of the outlying small-town life.”

Flavor. Sample. It's as if Jasper County is one big spiral ham that Vangie will slice off layer by layer until all that's left is the knobby bone.

“Why don't you give her a taste?” Ray says, but Vangie doesn't pick up the sarcasm.

Then the Lone Star Realtor of the Lowcountry bids the gals good evening, her heels clacking down the steps as she scurries out to her white Lexus SUV that looks like a slick horse pill that would be painful to swallow. They watch from the window as she pulls out, the silver Jesus fish on her bumper catching the afternoon light.

“Pray, pray, pray, pray, pray!” Ray says to the gals. “She thinks she's the Lone Star Coordinator of Divine Communications too. The gall! Do you know she's talked Capers into having some kind of ‘prayer revival day' at All Saints? Now does that sound very Episcopalian to y'all? The Reverend Capers has lost his mind if he entertains all of this pray, pray, pray kookiness!”

“Pray for world peace!” Sis says.

“Or for a million more bucks!” Kitty B. adds.

“Or for God to snuff out my fibroid tumors!” Ray stands up and adjusts her skirt. “If she tells me to pray one more time, I just might slap her!”

“Or for Sis and the Reverend to fall hopelessly in love!” Kitty B. says, unable to stop the banter. “Or for LeMar's chronic fatigue to vanish!”

Kitty B. looks at a picture of Baby Roberta in her pink day gown the week before she lost her, and they all know what she really wants to pray for. She picks up the picture and plops down on the couch, and they come over and rub her back.