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A slightly frantic Jolene appeared and arranged us into our marching order. Zeb was calm, even happy, making Jolene laugh as he helped her work out where we would stand and how we would hold our arms. (Seriously, bouquet grip was a five-minute debate.) I hoped that his strange behavior over the last few months had been just cold feet and that now that the wedding was here, he would be the old lovable Zeb again.
Just as Uncle Creed, the oldest male in Jolene’s pack, who’d been ordained through a mail-order company, was about to run through the ceremony, a rust and blue minivan rolled up to the main house in a cloud of dust.
An “uh-oh” line formed between Jolene’s brows. “Um, I don’t know who that is.”
“That’s Eula with the cake!” Mama Ginger trilled.
Between her family’s open hostility toward Zeb and Mama Ginger’s finding fault with everything from the nautical decorations to the fact that the outdoor wedding site had a dirt floor, Jolene’s last nerve was frayed. I squeezed her shoulder, told her I would take the delivery, and negotiated the yard as best I could in three-inch heels. Smoke rolled out in a choking cloud as Eula opened the back of the van.
“Where do you want this?” she asked, without bothering to remove the Marlboro Light dangling from her lip.
“Oh … no.” Jolene’s cake was an exercise in “yikes.” The icing gleamed greasily, actually oozing essence of Crisco through the cardboard fruit crate Eula was using to cart it around. Jolene had planned to have twisted fondant ropes around the bottom of each tier, which looked like a toddler’s Play-Doh craft. Instead of the subtle hints of navy and ice blue, everything was an electric Cookie Monster shade that must have required most of the bottle of food coloring.
The tiers were assembled at a forty-degree angle. And the whole thing reeked of cigarette smoke. Jolene crossed the yard and was at my side in a blink. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re going to want to—” I waved toward the van. Jolene’s jaw dropped as she took in the sight of the cake. “Yeah.”
I made a quick exit, because my support as best maid only went so far.
“What’s going on?” Zeb asked as he watched Jolene try to absorb the sight of her wedding cake. Mimi followed Jolene’s high-pitched cries to the van, where she had a similar reaction to the cake.
“She may be a few minutes,” I told Zeb.
Zeb watched as Jolene, Mimi, and Eula had a very loud “discussion.” “Should I go …”
“Jane, honey, why don’t you just stand in for her?” Mama Ginger suggested, to Zeb’s horror.
“Mama, I don’t think that’s—”
“You can’t do that!” Uncle Creed cried.
“We can’t have the rehearsal without the bride,” I insisted.
“No, don’t be silly,” Mama Ginger warbled, pushing me into the spot next to Zeb. “There, that looks so much better anyway! Just like I always said, you and Jane are like two peas in a pod.”
Zeb’s brow furrowed. He was wearing his “trying to remember something” expression, or possibly his “I smell something funny” expression. Either way, the way he was looking at me was disquieting. His eyes were unfocused as he stared at me, dazed. “I can’t marry Jolene.”
Mama Ginger gave a victorious squeal as I spluttered, “S-say what now?”
Zeb clasped my hands in his, despite my repeated attempts to yank them loose. “I can’t marry Jolene. I can’t live a lie, Jane. I can’t be with anybody but you.”>“That was entirely unnecessary, young lady,” Wilbur snarled, rolling to his knees and cracking his neck as the bones healed. Mama cried out and wobbled against the table legs. Wilbur pushed to his feet and sneered at me. “You have no respect for your elders.”
“I guess the respectful thing would be just standing there and letting you stake me in my own kitchen.” I tossed the offending wooden dagger into the garbage. “And by the way, one word, two syllables: Altoid.”
“Why, you little—” Wilbur growled. “I won’t stand here and be insulted like this. Ruthie, I’ll call you soon.”
“No, Wilbur, don’t go!” Grandma Ruthie cried as Wilbur stomped out the back door. She turned on me, lip on full tremble. “Jane, I want you to go apologize to Wilbur right now.”
“What? No!”
Grandma stomped her little foot and pointed me toward the door. “That man is going to be your grandpa, Jane. You need to make nice.”
I stared at Grandma. “Are you kidding me? I tell you that he might be the Half-Moon Hollow equivalent to Bluebeard, he attacks me with a stake, and you still want to marry him?”
Grandma pressed her lips together. “You know, Jane, if you weren’t so picky, it might be you standing at the altar.”
“Now, let’s not say something we regret later,” said Mama, who was slowly recovering from Wilbur’s abrupt departure. Jenny, while conscious, still looked a little green around the gills.
With a sniff in my direction, Grandma Ruthie grabbed her raincoat. “I will not set foot in this house again until you apologize to Wilbur and to me, Jane Enid Jameson.”
