Loretta's promise held. The service was performed in the little church in Caleb's Creek, with all its doors Sung wide so that those members of the congregation who weren't able to be seated-fully half of them-could either stand along the walls or just outside, to hear the short ceremony. When it was over the whole assembly did as wedding parties had done in Caleb's Creek since the town's founding: they walked, with the bride and groom hand in hand at the head of the crowd, down Main Street, petals strewn underfoot "to sweeten their way" (as local tradition had it), the street lined on either side with local people and visitors, all smiling and cheering as the procession made its triumphant way through the town. The whole affair was wonderfully informal. At one point a child-one of the Creek kids, no more than four-slipped her mother's hand and ran to look at the bride and groom. Mitchell scooped the child up and carried her for a dozen yards or so, much to the delight of all the onlookers, and to the joy of the child herself, who only began to complain when her mother came to fetch her, and Mitchell handed her back.
Needless to say there were plenty of photographers on hand to record the incident, and it was invariably an image that editors chose when they were putting together their pieces on the wedding. Nor was its symbolism lost on the scribblers who wrote up the event. The anonymous girl-child from the crowd, lifted up into the strong safe arms of Mitchell Geary: it could have been Rachel.
Once the pressures of preparation and the great solemnity of the service were over, the event became a party. The last of the formalities-the speeches and the toasts-were kept mercifully short, and then the fun began. The air remained warm, the breeze just strong enough to rock the lanterns in the trees; the sky turned golden as the sun sank away.
"Perfection, Loretta," Deborah said, when the two women chanced to be sitting alone for a moment.
"Thank you," Loretta said. "It just takes a little organization, really."
"Well it's wonderful," Deborah replied. "I only wish George were here to see it."
"Would he have liked her?"
"Rachel? Oh yes. He would have loved Rachel."
"Unpretentious," Loretta observed. She was watching Rachel even as she spoke: arm in arm with her beloved, laughing at something one of Mitchell's old Harvard chums had said. "An ordinary girl."
"I don't think she's ordinary at all," Deborah said. "I think she's very strong."
"She'll need to be," Loretta said.
"Mitchell adores her."
"I'm sure he does. At least for now."
Deborah's lips tightened. "Must we, Loretta…?"
"Tell the truth? Not if you don't want to."
"We've had our happiness," Deborah said. "Now it's their turn." She started to get up from the table.
"Wait-" Loretta said. She reached out and lightly caught hold of Deborah's wrist. "I don't want us to argue."
"I never argue," Deborah said.
"No. You walk away, which is even worse. It's time we were friends, don't you think? I mean… there's things we're going to have to start planning for."
Deborah slipped her arm out of Loretta's grasp. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her tone making it perfectly clear that she did not wish the conversation to continue.
Loretta changed the subject. "Sit down a moment. Did I tell you about the astrologer?"
"No…" Deborah said, "Garrison mentioned you'd found someone you liked."
"He's wonderful. His name's Martin Yzerman; he lives out in Brooklyn Heights."
"Does Cadmus know you go to one of these people?"
"You should go to Yzerman yourself, Deborah."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Advice like that's very useful if you're trying to make long-term plans."
"But I don't," she said. "I gave up trying. Things change too quickly."
"He could help you see the changes coming."
"I doubt it."
"Believe me."
"Could he have predicted what happened to George?" Deborah said sharply.
Loretta let a moment of silence fall between them before she said: "No question."
Deborah shook her head. "That's not the way things are," she said. "We don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Nobody does." She rose from her chair. This time Loretta didn't try to stop her. "I'm astonished that a smart woman like you would put faith in that kind of thing. Really I am. It's nonsense, Loretta. It's just a way to make you feel as though you're in control of things." She looked down at Loretta almost pityingly. "But you're not. None of us are. We could all be dead this time tomorrow." And with that, she walked away.
This odd little exchange wasn't the only crack in the bliss of the day. There were three other incidents which are probably worth remarking upon, though none of them were significant enough to spoil the celebrations.
The first of the three, perhaps inevitably, involved Margie. Champagne was not her preferred mode of transport, so she'd made sure that the bar was stocked with good whiskey, and once the first round of bubbly was drunk she switched to Scotch. She rapidly became a little testy, and took it into her head to tell Senator Bryson who, along with his family, had flown up from Washington, what she thought of his recent comments on welfare reform. She was by no means inarticulate and Senator Bryson was plainly quite happy to be chewing on a serious issue rather than nibbling small talk; he listened to Margie's remarks with suitable concern. Margie downed another Scotch and told him he was talking out of both sides of his mouth. The senator's wife attempted a little leavening here, remarking that the Gearys weren't likely to be needing welfare any time soon. To which Margie sharply replied that her father had worked in a steel mill most of his life, and died at the age of forty-five with twelve bucks in his bank account; and where the hell was the man with the whiskey anyway? Now it was Garrison who stepped in to try and bring the exchange to a halt, but the senator made it perfectly plain that he was enjoying the contretemps and wished to continue. The man with the whiskey duly arrived, and Margie got her glass refilled. Where were they, she said; oh yes, twelve bucks .in his bank account. "So don't tell me I don't know what's going on out there. The trouble is none of you high and mighties gives a fuck. We've got problems in this country, and they're getting worse, and what are you doing about it? Besides sitting on your fat asses and pontificating."
"I don't think any caring human being would disagree with you," the senator said. "We need to work to make American lives better lives."
"And what does that all add up to?" Margie said. "A fat lot of nothin'. Is jt any wonder nobody in this country believes a damn word any of you people say?"
"I think people are more interested in the democratic process-"
"Democratic, my ass!" Margie said. "It's all lobbies and paybacks and doing your friends favors. I know how it works. I wasn't born yesterday. You just want to make the rich richer."
"I think you're mistaking me for a Republican," Bryson chuckled.
"And I think you're mistaking me for someone who'd trust a fucking word any politician ever said," Margie spat back.
"That's enough now," Garrison said, taking hold of his wife's arm.
She tried to shake him free, but he held on tight. "It's all right. Garrison," the senator said. "She's got a right to her opinion." He returned his gaze to Margie. "But I will say this. America's a free country. You don't have to live in the lap of luxury if it doesn't sit well with your political views." He smiled, though there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes. "I really wonder if it's entirely appropriate for a woman in your position to be talking about the agonies of the working man."
"I told you, my father-"