Page 161 of Save the Date
“And you!” Ellie stood at the bottom of the ladder, staring up at the groom. “Jack, you were supposed to finish those chandeliers last night. You promised, after the rehearsal dinner…”
“They’re done now,” Jack said, climbing down. “Anyway, it’s Cara’s fault. She decided at midnight last night that we had to wire vines and flowers and moss around those old wagon wheels. And by we, she meant me.”
“Scoot!” Ellie made shooing motions toward the open barn doors. “And what about your brother? And your sister and Harris? And Torie? Are you telling me that not a single member of my wedding party is here yet?”
Jack grinned. “Torie’s up at the house nursing baby Betsy.” He glanced at his watch. “Ryan ought to be back any minute. He just made an emergency bourbon run. Meghan and Harris? Hell, I don’t know.” He jerked his chin skyward. “Check up there in the hayloft. Everytime I look for those two I seem to find them in some kind of compromising position.”
His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged barn. Sure enough, a moment later, Harris Strayhorn poked his head over the loft railing, frantically buttoning his shirt. “Hey, I heard that! We were just, uh, checking the acoustics up here. For the bluegrass band.”
“Since when does a sound check require the removal of clothing?” Jack demanded. “You better not be dishonoring my baby sister up there.”
Meghan Finnerty peeked over Harris’s shoulder. “Mind your own business, Jack Finnerty!” She deftly plucked a stalk of hay from Harris’s hair. “And don’t you say awordto Mama or Miss Libba, or I’ll tell both of ’em what I caught you and Cara up to in that hay wagon after the rehearsal last night.”
“I don’t care what any of y’all have been up to,” Ellie screeched. “I need everybody who is going to be in this wedding to get up to the house right this minute and get themselves cleaned up and dressed for this wedding.”
Harris scrambled down from the loft, with Meghan following a moment later. He turned, caught her by the waist, and swung her to the ground, his hand lingering at her waist just a second longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Tell ’em, baby,” he urged.
“Tell us what?” Jack asked.
Meghan gave a quick shake of her head. “Nothing.” She grabbed Harris’s hand. “Come on. Ellie’s right. My mom will have a fit if I’m not dressed and ready for the photographer in fifteen minutes.”
“Wait.” Jack grabbed Meghan’s left hand and held it up. A large diamond solitaire twinkled in the late afternoon sunlight. “What’s this?”
Meghan gave Harris an exasperated look. “It was supposed to be a secret. Until after the wedding. I don’t want anybody to think we’re trying to upstage you and Cara.…”
Jack pounded Harris on the back. “You son of a bitch! Congratulations! That’s great.” He gathered his sister into a hug. “Do Dad and Frannie know?”
“I managed to get your dad alone to ask his permission after the dinner last night,” Harris said.
“Daddy burst out crying!” Meghan said. “And when Mama walked over and saw Daddy crying, she started in.…”
Harris rolled his eyes. “Which will be nothing compared to the way my parents are gonna react when we tell them.…”
“You can tell everybody later,” Ellie said. “After the wedding. Which starts in forty-five minutes.” She fumbled in the pocket of her all-purpose light blue wedding-reception dress and pulled out a small bottle of pills. “I swear, I am never doing another wedding professional’s wedding. Ever again.” She popped a pill, swallowed, and mopped her face with a crumpled lace hankie.
***
Torie Fanning Finnerty tucked her slumbering infant into the bassinette, kissed her fingertip, and touched it to her daughter’s velvety cheek. She turned and gave the bride an appraising look followed by a smiling thumbs-up.
“You are absolutely the only girl I know who can get away with wearing an antique pink wedding gown and still manage to look fabulous,” she said.
“Thanks.” Cara turned with her back to her almost sister-in-law. “Can you zip me up? My hands are sweating, I’m so nervous.”
Torie grasped the metal zipper and slid it upward. “How old is this thing, do you think?”
Cara turned around and tugged at the dress’s heavy satin bodice, revealing an additional inch of her cleavage. “Hmm. Well, portrait necklines and cap sleeves like these were all the rage in the fifties. And the full ballet-length skirt with the tulle petticoats were in back then too. So it’s at least sixty years old.”
“Do you think somebody dyed this wedding gown this shade of pink?” Torie asked.
“Oh no. This is the original color. And it was a cocktail dress,” Cara said. “I bought it years ago, when I worked at a vintage-clothing shop in Columbus. It’s a knockoff of a Pierre Balmain, who was a famous couturier back in the day.”
She fluffed her skirts and stepped into her pink satin pumps. “And I’ll tell you something I haven’t shared with anybody else. I bought this dress thinking I would wear it to my first wedding. But Leo—and my dad, and Leo’s mom—wereappalledthat I’d even consider not wearing white… or a brand-new bought special wedding gown.”
Cara shrugged. “So I did what I always did back then. I gave in and bought this big, stupid expensive virginal white dress that made me look like an overdecorated lampshade.”
Cara twirled in front of the three-paneled mirror in Libba Strayhorn’s guest bedroom, and smiled when she caught her own reflection in the mirror.
