“Oh, Cath, they're beautiful.”
Bobbi lifted the bouquet and at last Catherine moved, wordlessly plunging her face into the nosegay. Looking up again across the flowers, she stammered, “I—I don't deserve all this.”
Bobbi's voice was soft with emotion. “Of course you do. It's exactly what we dreamed about, Cath. One of us has made it, and everything turned out even better than make-believe.”
“Don't say that.”
“Don't dissect it, Cath, just enjoy every precious minute of it.”
“But you don't know—”
“I know. Believe me, I do. I know that you have doubts about the way you and Clay got started, but don't think about them tonight. Think of the good side, okay?”
“You wanted me to marry Clay all along, didn't you, Bobbi?”
“I wanted something good for you and if it's Clay Forrester, then, yes, I wanted it.”
“I think you've always been a little soft on him yourself.”
“Maybe I have. Maybe not, I don't know. I only know if it were me standing there holding that bouquet, I'd be ecstatic instead of depressed.”
“I'm not depressed, really I'm not. It's just more than I bargained for, and it's all so sudden.”
“And so you doubt and question? Catherine, for once—just for once—in your godforsaken life, will you accept a little manna from heaven? You're so used to living in hell that a little heaven scares you. Come on, now, smile! And tell yourself that he asked you to marry him because he wanted to. It's going to work. Clay is one of the nicest men I know, but if you tell Stu I said so, I'll kill you.”
At last Catherine smiled, but she was affected more than she cared to admit by Bobbi's opinion of Clay.
“Now, come on, let's get your dress on.”
They stripped off its protective plastic, looked at each other meaningfully once again, recalling all those childhood games, all that make-believe. But the luxurious velvet was real. Bobbi lifted it high while Catherine raised her arms. When she was halfway into it a sound—suspiciously like a harp—came from below.
“What's that?” Bobbi cocked an ear.
“I can't hear in here,” came the muffled voice from inside the dress.
“Oh, here, get your ears out of there!”
When Catherine emerged, they posed like robins listening for worms. They looked at each other in disbelief.
“It sounds like a harp!”
“A harp?”
“Well, doesn't it?”
They both listened again.
“My God, it does!”
“Could there really be a harp in this house?”
“Apparently so.”
“Leave it to Angela.”
Then they both burst into laughter and finished drawing the dress over Catherine's arms. By now she was shaking visibly. Her palms were damp but she dared not wipe them on the velvet.
“Bobbi, I'm scared stiff.”
“Why? You're the main attraction and you look it. Be proud!”
Bobbi zipped and buttoned busily, then walked around behind Catherine and extended the miniature train onto the pink carpet. Catherine caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pressed her hands to her tummy and asked, “Do I show a lot?”
Bobbi slapped her cousin's hands down, scolding, “Oh, for heaven's sake, will you please!” Then she had an inspiration; she handed over the bouquet. “If you must worry about it, hide behind this.”
Catherine struck a prim pose that made them both laugh again, but now the sounds from downstairs were definitely steadier, the hum of voices intermingling with the mellow tones of the music.
The door opened and this time it was Inella who stood there with a tiny, foil-wrapped box.
“Why, don't you look lovely, Miss Catherine,” the maid said with a wide smile. “Your groom gave me the honor of delivering this.” She extended the box. Catherine only gaped, then reached out a tentative hand, withdrew it, then finally took the gift.
“What is it?”
“Why, I'm sure I don't know, Miss. Why don't you open it and see?”
Catherine turned wide eyes to Bobbi.
“Inella's right, open it! I'm dying to see!”
“But what if it's something—” She stopped just short of saying “expensive.” The box was too small to be anything but jewelry. It lay in her hand accusingly while she wondered with a sinking feeling why Clay had done this to her. Again her eyes sought Bobbi's, then Inella's. Quickly she stripped away the foil and found a small, velveteen ring box. Her heart was hammering, her throat went suddenly dry. She lifted the lid. Inside no jewels glittered, no rings twinkled. Instead, couched in the velvet slot was a brass key. No message, no clues. Catherine breathed again.
“What's it for?”
“Why, I'm afraid I couldn't guess, Miss Catherine.”
“But—”
A knock sounded and Angela came in. As the door opened, the gentle swell of voices told that the crowd was growing below.
“It's nearly time,” announced Angela.
“Look.” Catherine held up the key. “It's from Clay. Do you know what it's for?”
“I'm afraid I haven't any idea. You'll have to wait until after the ceremony and ask him.”
Catherine tucked the key away in her garter where it seemed to burn warmly against her leg.
“Is Mother okay?”
“Yes, dear, don't worry. She's already in her place.”
Inella ventured a tidy kiss on Catherine's cheek, then said, “You do look radiant, Miss Catherine.” Then she was gone to attend to her duties below.
Again Bobbi picked up Catherine's bouquet, handed it to her and gave a last caress on the cheek, and stood awaiting her signal. The door swung open and Catherine watched Angela meet Claiborne in the upstairs hall. There was a brief smile from him, a last hovering look from her before they left Catherine's range of vision. Next came Stu, in a lush tuxedo of rich spice-brown, with an abundance of starched, apricot-colored ruffles springing from his chest below a high, stiff collar and bow tie. Stu grinned in at Catherine, and she attempted a quavering smile in return before Bobbi moved out into the hall and headed for the stairs.
And then came Steve. Her beloved Steve, looking so handsome in a tuxedo of his own, holding out both hands to her as if inviting her to a minuet. He wore a smile that melted her heart, that washed away their earlier disagreement. Catherine knew she must move forward, but her feet refused. Steve, sensing her thoughts, stepped gallantly to the bedroom doorway, bowed from the waist and extended an elbow. Suddenly she realized that people below were awaiting them and were more than likely gazing up the steps.
She felt the tug of the train upon the carpet, Steve's firm arm beneath her hand and the pressure of her heart thudding high against her ribcage. From below came a collective “Oooh . . .” as she stepped to the head of the stairs. A sudden intimidation gripped her as the raised sea of faces swam into view. But Steve, sensing her hesitation, closed his free hand over hers, urging her down the first step. She was dimly aware of candles washing everything with a mellow glow. They were everywhere: in wall sconces, upon shelves and tables, gleaming and twinkling from the floral sprays attached to the railing and from within the study where an overflow of guests watched. A path emerged as she and Steve rounded the newel post and glided toward the living room. Catherine had a fleeting memory of the first time she'd been in this foyer, sitting on the velvet bench now hidden behind the multitude of guests. How apprehensive she'd been then, yet this was not really so different. Her stomach was in knots. She moved in hypnotic fashion toward the living room doorway, toward Clay. From somewhere an electronic keyboard had joined the harp in a simple Chopin prelude. And everywhere, everywhere, there was the aura of candleglow, all gold and amber and warm and serene. The smell of flowers mingled with the waxen scent of candle smoke while Catherine drifted through the throng of guests, quite unaware of their great number, of their admiring gazes, or of how, for many of them, the sight of her bro
ught back quicksilver memories of their own breathless walk down the aisle. The living room doorway captured her every thought; the idea of Clay waiting on the other side of it sent her heart flitting and her stomach shaking.
She had a dim impression of her mother waiting in a semicircle of countenances that faced her from the bay window, of space emerging as people rustled back to clear the way. But then all others were forgotten as Catherine's eyes fell upon Clay. He stood in the classic groom's pose, hands clasped before him, feet spraddled, face unsmiling and a bit tense. She had thought to avoid his eyes, but hers had a will of their own. As if he had materialized at the whim of some talented spinner of fairy tales, both he and the setting were too perfect.
Lord help me, thought Catherine, as their eyes met. Lord help me.
He waited, his hair like ripe wheat with the sun setting over it. A tall sconce of countless candles turned his skin to amber, reflecting from the deep apricot ruffles that only added to his masculinity. He wore a vested tuxedo of rich cinnamon, a sternly tied bow tie which suddenly bobbed up, then settled back in place at his first sight of her. His eyes—in that flawless face—widened, and she caught the nearly imperceptible movement as he began locking and unlocking his left knee. Then, just before she lost his glance, his hands dropped to his sides and he wet his lips. Blessedly, he then became only an impression at her side. But she knew he turned to gaze once more at her flushed cheek while the organ and harp faded into only a murmurous background.
“Dearly beloved . . .”
The charade began. Things became surrealistic to Catherine. She was a child again, playing wedding with Bobbi, walking across a lawn dressed in dishtowels and curtains, carrying a bouquet of dandelions. Pretending she was back there took away the sting of guilt at what she was doing.
“Who gives this woman?”
“I do, her brother.”
Reality returned and with it Clay's arm, taking the place of Steve's. It was solid, but surprising, for minute tremors scuttled there, felt but not seen.
This time I wanna be the bride.
But, you're always the bride!
No, I ain't! You were the bride last time!
Aw, come on, don't cry. Okay, but next time I get to wear the curtain on my head!
From her left, Bobbi smiled, while sweet, naive memories came whirling back. The minister spoke; he had a mellifluous voice and could manage to sound as if what he said were being spoken solely to her and Clay. Catherine trained her eyes on the minister's lips, concentrating hard on the words as he reminded those about to be joined of the importance of patience, love and faithfulness. Some muscle tensed into a knot beneath Catherine's hand, was forcibly relaxed, then twitched again. She realized that the minister had asked all the married couples present to join their hands and renew their wedding vows silently along with the bride and groom. Silently Catherine pleaded, No! No! What you're witnessing is a sham! Don't base your reaffirmation of love on something that is meaningless!
She escaped once again into the play days of yesteryear.
When you get married, what kinda man are you gonna marry?
Rich.
Oh, Bobbi, honestly, is that all you think about?
Well, what kind you gonna marry?
One who likes to be with me so much he comes straight home instead of stopping at bars. And he's always gonna be nice to me.
The minister asked them to turn and face each other and hold hands. The profusion of gardenias and roses was given into Bobbi's hands. During the exchange their childhood fantasies were reflected within a glance the two exchanged.
Then Catherine's hands were clasped firmly in Clay's brown, strong fingers, and she felt dampness on his palms and on her own. The minister's voice droned on, far away, and Catherine was suddenly afraid to look Clay full in the face.
I'm gonna marry a man who looks just like Rock Hudson.
Not me. I like blond hair and stormy eyes.
My God, thought Catherine now, did I really say that?
She raised her eyes to blond hair, to gray, sober eyes that wore an expression of sincerity as they probed hers for the benefit of their guests. His face was limned by flickering candlelight which accented the straight nose, long cheeks and sensitive lips which were parted slightly, but somber. An errant pulsebeat showed just above his high, tight, apricot-colored collar and the stern bow tie. His manner was faultless, convincing. It created havoc within Catherine.
A man who is nice to me. Blond hair and stormy eyes. One who is rich.
Phrases from the past resounded through the chambers of Catherine's heart, filling it with remorse unlike any she'd suffered before. But those who looked on couldn't guess the turmoil within her, for she paralleled Clay's superb act, searching his eyes as he searched hers, while the pressure on her knuckles grew to sweet agony.
What are we doing? she wanted to cry. Do you know what you do to me with those eyes of yours? What do I do to myself by clenching your too-strong fingers this way, by pretending to idolize your too-perfect face? Don't you recognize the pain of a girl whose youthful dreams painted this very illusion, time and time again, who escaped into scenes just such as this when reality threatened? Don't you understand that I honestly believed those dreams would come true one day? If you do, release my hands, release my eyes, but above all keep my heart free of you. You are too flawless and this is too close to the real thing and I have suffered long enough for the lack of love. Please, Clay, turn away before it's too late. You are a temporary illusion and I must not, must not get lost in it.
But she was trapped in a farce of her own making, for Clay did not turn away, nor release her eyes, nor her hands. Her palms felt seared, her heart felt blistered. And for a moment she knew the cruel bite of wishfulness.
At last she dragged her eyes downward. Then Stu stepped forward, drawing a ring from his pocket. She extended her trembling fingers and Clay slid a diamond-studded band halfway on and held it hovering there.
“I, Clay, take thee, Catherine . . .”
While his deep voice spoke the words, Catherine's cheated heart wanted suddenly for this to mean something. But this was only a fantasy. Her thoughts tumbled on while Clay completed the ring's journey to its nesting place beside the heirloom already there.
She was startled then to find a ring placed in her palm—Angela had thought of everything—and her eyes fled once more to Clay's. Another prop for the play? hers asked. But perhaps he had chosen it himself, not Angela. Obediently she dropped her gaze and adorned his finger with the wide, gold unstudded florentine band.
“I, Catherine, take thee, Clay . . .” Her unsteady voice was threatened by shredded nerves, lost dreams and the awful need to cry.
But still there was more to be endured as they turned once again full-face to the blurred minister's garb. Hazily Catherine heard him pronounce them man and wife. Then the cleric smiled benevolently and sealed Catherine's and Clay's joined hands with both of his own.
“May your lives together be long and happy,” he wished simply, never suspecting what the words did to Catherine's already strained emotions. She stared at the wavering sight of all their hands together, quite numb now. Then the minister's hands disappeared and his voice poured out softly for the last time. “And now you may seal your vows with your first kiss as Mr. and Mrs. Clay Forrester.”
Shattered already, Catherine didn't know what to do. She felt as if she aged years in the mere moment while Clay took the lead, turning toward her with every misty eye in the house upon them. She lifted her face; the breath caught in her throat. She expected no more than a faint brush of lips, but instead his face loomed near, those gray eyes were lost in closeness, and she found herself enfolded in Clay's arms, gently forced against the starched ruffles of his elegant shirtfront, besieged by soft, slightly opened lips which were far, far too compelling. Haunting memories came flooding back.
No, Clay, don't! she longed to cry. But he did. He kissed her fully. And in that moment of first contact she se
nsed his apology, but found herself unable to forgive him for the convincing job he was doing.
He released her then, to the accompaniment of a collective murmur, and his breath touched her nose as he stepped back and looked into her startled eyes. There followed the kind of smile she'd been waiting for since childhood, sweeping Clay's face as if the moment were genuine, and she was forced to return one equally as bright. Then Clay tucked her hand possessively within his arm and turned her to face their guests.
She wore the pasted-on smile until it held its own. She was beleaguered by hugs, kisses and congratulations, starting with Stu, who unabashedly kissed her hard on the mouth. Next came Steve, holding her a little too long, a little too protectively, rocking a little while he squeezed her and whispered “Chin up” in her ear.
“Oh, Steve,” she allowed herself to say, knowing that he alone understood.
“Shh, babe, you're both doing fine. I wish you could see how you look together.”
Clay's father appeared, held her by the upper arms and welcomed her to the family with a generous hug and a direct kiss—the first kiss from him ever. Over his shoulder she saw Clay with his arms wrapped around Ada. Grandma and Grandpa Elgin gave her elfin pats and smiles, and Elizabeth Forrester bestowed upon her a regal kiss for each cheek and a tap of her cane upon the right shoulder, as if she were being knighted.
“You are a beautiful young woman. I shall expect beautiful children from you,” the old eagle stated sagaciously before turning away as if the matter were settled. Then Catherine was passed around like a dish of divinity, tasted by many mouths until she was actually quite grateful to be returned at last to Clay—until he pleased every guest there by voluntarily giving them what they waited for!