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She appreciated his concern, and his effort. Still, having him sit so close to her, his arm lying against her back, one long leg touching hers, was nerve-racking. She shifted her legs to the side, away from him and closer to Bishop. Why couldn’t Eric wait outside? Did he have to put himself right here?
She supposed she could insist that he leave, but she already knew how much her insisting would gain her, so she saved her breath. He was stubborn and probably didn’t give a rat’s ass what she wanted. Not only that, she wasn’t stupid. Like it or not she knew she was safe with him. She was afraid she might not be safe from him, but that was due to her own weakness, and that acknowledgment carried a sting.
The position of his arm meant she
was almost in his embrace. For a brief moment their gazes met. He had on his cop expression, keeping all his thoughts to himself. Almost. He dropped his gaze, letting it slide down her body and linger too long here and there. She tensed again, because that look made her skin feel too hot and tight.
Then he turned his attention to the altar, and his shoulders heaved as he almost choked on laughter. The minister, the big bald guy who owned Porky’s BBQ, wore a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt and a black do-rag with a white cross positioned in the center of his forehead, so everyone would know his role in the proceedings.
The groom, at least, was dressed appropriately. A tuxedo would be out of place in the barn, but he did have on a nice black suit. He had a baby face and a new haircut, and he looked incredibly nervous. Not like he was about to run, but still … nervous. If he had any brains at all, she thought, he’d rabbit.
Evidently he was brainless.
Normally at this point in the ceremony Jaclyn was with the wedding party, making certain that everyone entered the aisle at the appropriate time, that they walked at the proper pace and were spaced correctly. However, the bride’s aunt, who hadn’t been at all happy that the groom’s mother had hired Premier, had insisted that was her job, and she didn’t need any help. Wouldn’t accept any help was more like it. Still, it was Jaclyn’s job to do what she could and resign herself to gracefully accept what she couldn’t do. Some days that was easier than others.
Next, the bride’s mother was seated, to a Garth Brooks tune of her own choosing. Her dress was at least one size too small, and way too short. Spaghetti straps weren’t what Jaclyn would have chosen for the occasion.
Her entrance was followed by the tulle-draped red wagon in which rode the bride’s eleven-month-old daughter, who was dressed in flounces of white and had a baby blue bow taped to her almost-bald head. Who would have imagined that the something new and the something blue might come in the form of another man’s baby?
That’s not my concern, Jaclyn thought, and not for the first time. It wasn’t her job to fix the couple’s life, just their wedding ceremony.
The baby wasn’t happy. One of her cousins, a sullen six-year-old boy, pulled the wagon, jerking it along. The baby entered the barn crying, her wails getting louder and louder until the wagon reached the end of the “aisle” and she saw her grandmother. “Mamamamama,” she blubbered, holding out her chubby little arms. If the bride had thought the baby was going to placidly sit in the red wagon, looking cute, she was going to be disappointed. The baby wanted out of the wagon, and she wanted out now.
“Raquelle, hush,” said the grandmother, then, when it became as obvious to her as it was to everyone else in the barn that the baby wasn’t going to hush, she sighed and gave in, lifting the little girl out of the wagon, onto her lap.
The baby had a stripper name. At least, when she got older, she wouldn’t have to go online to find out what it was, Jaclyn thought.
Next came the parade of bridesmaids and groomsmen. Garth was replaced by Shania Twain. Originally the bride had wanted to have the attendants line dance down the aisle; she’d gotten the idea from YouTube. In Jaclyn’s experience, some things sounded good in theory, but rarely worked out as well as imagined. This was one of them, and thank goodness the bride had seen the wisdom of restraint in this case.
Except for a groomsman with a plug of tobacco in his cheek—Jaclyn wished she’d seen that earlier—and the occasional hip-wiggle aside, the procession went well.
The music stopped, then changed dramatically, swelling to fill the barn. Originally the bride had wanted her own country song, but Jaclyn had convinced her to walk down the aisle to Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” A touch of tradition in this very untraditional wedding was a very good thing.
Everyone stood and faced the aisle. The snow-white, ankle-length dress the bride wore was cut lower than Jaclyn would’ve suggested—the bride’s philosophy was If you have it, flaunt it—and was a size too small through the hips. Jaclyn’s sewing kit was in her purse. She prayed there wouldn’t be a need for it today, but there was a definite danger of split seams. The hair, another job for the aunt who wanted no help but needed it desperately, was big. Big big. Bimbo big. But thanks to a makeover Jaclyn had recommended, the bride’s makeup was tasteful, and the bouquet Bishop had fashioned was elegant and appropriate. The good helped to temper the bad, and Jaclyn supposed she had to be grateful for that.
After the bride was past them, Bishop leaned in and whispered, “They’re not cousins, are they?” She didn’t even dignify that with an answer. As they sat, Bishop added, “It must be true love.”
Or temporary insanity.
Eric’s shoulders were shaking from suppressed laughter.
The ceremony itself proceeded without incident. For her own peace of mind, Jaclyn spent the entire time leaning slightly away from Eric, trying not to touch him, but he was so blasted big he took up more than his allotted space.
Finally the unconventional minister said, “You can kiss her now,” and then, as the newlywed couple turned to face their guests, he added, in a booming voice, “Now, let’s eat! There’s plenty of good vittles waiting for us outside.”
“Vittles,” Bishop repeated, his pronunciation precise and clipped. “Goody.”
Chapter Twenty-four
THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN AND THE FIERCE HEAT OF THE day was abating, but the barbecue wedding reception party was still going strong. Beer was flowing—both in and out, judging by the number of trips people were making to the two portable toilets that had been discreetly located behind the barn. To Jaclyn’s surprise, the party stayed within semi-acceptable limits, which meant that so far there hadn’t been any fistfights and no one had pulled a knife on someone else.
Unfortunately, the bride and groom showed no sign of going anywhere, and until they left, neither could Jaclyn. Neither the bride’s mother nor her aunt had shown any interest in overseeing that part of the night. If the happy couple was in a hurry to start their honeymoon, it didn’t show. The groom had shed his suit coat and tie, unbuttoned his top shirt button, and rolled up his sleeves so he could better enjoy the dancing. The bride and all of her bridesmaids had disappeared into the barn, reappearing about half an hour later to also join in the dancing, with all of them having changed into short, flirty dresses. A couple of them—okay, several of them—went past “flirty” straight into “slutty” territory, but at this point it wasn’t Jaclyn’s business if the bridesmaids drummed up some extra money on the side.
The live band was comprised of five middle-aged men, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, who weren’t bad musicians. That wasn’t to say they were good, exactly, but they did okay. They had a surprisingly extensive repertoire, ranging from classic rock to a lot of the more popular country tunes of today, all of which the crowd danced to with more enthusiasm than skill, but no one seemed to care if they could dance or not. Having fun was the point.
A huge tent had been erected, with a roughly built “stage” at one end, and at the other end were long folding tables laden with pretty much the same menu that had graced the reception the night before, and set off to the side were coolers filled with longneck bottles of beer. Folding card tables and plastic lawn chairs had been arranged under the tent’s canopy; Jaclyn had done her best here, covering the card tables with picnic-style tablecloths and arranging different-colored jugs filled with daisies in the center of each table. As the twilight deepened and the colored Christmas lights that outlined the tent were turned on, she had to admit the effect, though rustic, did have a certain free-spirited charm. Battery-operated votive candles flickered on the tables. Though real candles had grace, at least these lights wouldn’t set the tent on fire if a table was knocked over, which, considering the amount of beer being consumed, became more and more likely as the party wore on.
Bishop was not only still there, he’d thrown himself into the party spirit. First he’d enticed the groom’s mother—her name was Evelyn—into indulging in a beer, which had helped her relax enough that she’d actually smiled, for the first time that day. After half of another beer Bishop began teasing her about dancing with him, trying to entice her onto the dance floor, which was nothing more than rough wood planking laid in place on the ground and an equally rough frame nailed in place around the boards to keep them from drifting apart.
