Charlotte Macmillan stood alone on the edge of the crowd, dressed in what my friend Murray Rosenbaum always called “mother-of-the-groom beige.” I was surprised, at first, to see her there but then I realized that Moonbeam must have invited everybody in town. I tried to edge closer to her. But I was sidetracked by a reenactor who saw by my suit I was an outsider and was determined to tell me everything there was to know about staging a Civil War-era wedding.
Janet Margolies and Lizzie Borden had taken shelter under a tree, far off to the right. They waved at me. I tried to squeeze through the crowd to get to them, but it was an impossible task. The two women standing next to me took it upon themselves to tell me who the other wedding guests were. Their own names were Maybell and Grace. They looked identical except Maybell had purple hair while Grace's was snow-white. Grace was grumpy; rather than assume she was always that way, I blamed it on the heat.
“Can't imagine why anybody would want to get married in a place where so many men died,” she grumbled.
“Whatever floats their boat,” Maybell said with a wicked grin.
Grace sniffed and pointed out the tall, handsome middle-aged Asian gentleman pushing Ken Nakamura's wheelchair. “That's the bride's ex-husband. Probably here to celebrate the end of his alimony payments.” She snickered.
President Godlove was also present, surrounded by a half-dozen professors from the college, including Helga Van Brackle. “They're not really friends of Moonbeam's,” Maybell, of the lavender hair, told me. “They're just here because of Professor Nakamura.”
More people were arriving every minute, most of the men in uniforms while the women wore hoopskirts, feathered hats, and crocheted gloves. If the pace kept up, soon there would be more people in the amphitheater than had fought at the Battle of Gettysburg. Vesta Pennsinger, in a long gingham gown, glanced my way but pretended she hadn't seen me. At least she had the good sense to look embarrassed.
“They're coming,” someone called, and the crowd surged forward. Maybell put a restraining hand on my forearm and held me back.
“You'll be able to see from here,” she informed me.
Sure enough, the crowd separated into two parts, and a covered wagon drawn by a team of beautiful horses rode into the center of the parking lot. Woody, wearing a blue dress uniform, sat tall on the bench beside a young man in a black suit and flat straw hat who reined in the horses. When they came to a halt, Woody jumped to the ground with unexpected agility for a man of his size. He straightened his sword, adjusted the tilt of his hat, tightened the gold sash around his waist, then walked around to the back of the wagon and lifted the canvas revealing…
The guests gasped. And so did I, for Moonbeam Nakamura was not only the most beautiful bride I'd ever seen, she was also the most unusually dressed. For her grand occasion she'd chosen a cloth-of-gold sari and had twisted ropes of gold in the single blond braid that hung down her back. Instead of a veil, she wore a gold tiara with a red jewel in the center. A delicate nose ring and a small green stone glued between her eyebrows completed the bride's ensemble. Tiny bells on her anklets tinkled as Woody lifted her from the wagon and set her on the ground.
If Captain Woodruff of the Federal Army of the Potomac found anything strange in his bride's clothing, it did not show in his face. He looked at her with such love and admiration that my cheeks burned with discomfort at witnessing the private moment.
They slowly walked down the aisle to the shelter and stepped onto the platform, he in polished boots, she with bare feet. There they were joined by their attendants, several young women in long cotton gowns and three men in blue wool uniforms.
The minister wore a normal-looking white cassock, and the ceremony was traditional and not at all what I had expected when I first saw Moonbeam's wedding outfit. But Moonbeam didn't disappoint me. After the minister stepped aside, Tamsin Nakamura, radiant in a flowing white robe, walked toward the stage, gently pounding a tambourine. From somewhere in the crowd, a woman's voice began to chant, and soon others joined in. The ceremony that followed was an interesting and quite original blend of Zen, Tao, goddess worship, Native American shamanism, Hinduism, and Tibetan spiritualism. And it climaxed with a performance of didgeridoo music played by an Australian aborigine. “He's from Baltimore,” Grace shouted in my ear.
A woman turned around, looked at me, and said, “Shhh.”
When the female shaman used a turkey feather to fan sacred smoke in their faces, the couple kissed, officially ending the ceremony.
The audience had been stunned into silence throughout the unusual ceremony, and now a few nervous giggles signified relief that it was over. Woody ignored them, stepped to the edge of the platform, and held his arms high over his head until he had everyone's attention.
“Moonbeam and me want to thank you'uns for being here and sharing our happiness. Now we want all of you'uns to make up a car parade and follow our wagon to General Pickett's All-U-Can-Eat Buffet Restaurant.”
A roar of approval rose from the assemblage. Grace whispered in my ear, “ ‘All you can eat’ is the magic phrase here in south-central Pennsylvania.”
“So I've noticed,” I said. “I think I've gained five pounds since I've been here, just from breathing the air.”
Two lines of Union soldiers formed a tunnel of sword blades for the newlyweds to walk through, while the ecologically correct guests tossed breadcrumbs, instead of rice, at them. The last soldier in line swatted Moonbeam on the rear end with the flat side of his sword, and she giggled. Gloria followed closely behind the couple, and I pushed forward and tried to catch her attention. She noticed me and waved.
“Gloria, I need to talk to you,” I yelled.
“Later, Tori. I've got to get out of these seven layers of clothing before I melt,” and she was gone.
Maybell and Grace were swept away in the rush to the cars, while I walked in a dignified manner, very slowly, on blistered feet. Every guest but me had worn sensible flat shoes. But then they had probably known in advance it was going to be an outdoor wedding with limited seating. As soon as I got home, I vowed, the high heels were going in the garbage-not even the Salvation Army bag. I didn't want to be responsible for any other woman suffering similar agony.
By the time I'd managed to stagger to my car, the parking lot was nearly deserted. I dug vainly in my purse trying to find my car key, then spotted it where I'd left it-in the ignition switch, in the on position. I turned the key and said my usual little prayer, but this time the Automobile Goddess wasn't listening. P. J.’s car had come to the end of the road.
CHAPTER 21
“CAN I GIVE YOU A RIDE TO THE RESTAURANT?” Charlotte Macmillan leaned in the window on the passenger side and smiled at me. “Sounds like your battery is dead.”
“It's my own fault,” I said. “I left the key in the ignition, and it must have drained the battery.” I got out and kicked a front tire in frustration. The only thing that accomplished was to hurt my already sore toes.
“Ride with me, then,” Charlotte said.
“I'd better stay with the car. Will you please call Triple A from the restaurant?”
“I insist. You don't want to miss the bridal procession.”
“My car…”
“Hardly anyone comes here in the off-season,” she said. “It will be perfectly safe.”
Reluctantly, I followed her to her Mercedes SUV. She tossed me the keys. “I'm very tired. Will you drive, please?”