“To what?”
He searched for something familiar. “To make a calf butt his ma?”
They laughed and then Mary helped with the shirt studs.
Forrest’s thoughts lurched forward and his words became disconnected. “All week whenever I took a shower, all I found were some skimpy little towels, no bigger than napkins. I thought, what kind of a place is this that the great Treadways of Hickory Hill couldn’t have decent towels? But I didn’t say anything.” He chuckled. “An hour ago I happened to reach under the towel rack for my shoe, and I found a stack of big thick fluffy ones. I can just guess what the maids have been thinking—that that no account cowman hasn’t taken a shower all the time he’s been here.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “I can’t believe how calm you are.”
“Don’t you know me?” He lowered his head toward her. “I realize what I’m entering into. Pretty big stuff. If there was, even today, an absolute message from on high not to go ahead, I’d pack my bags and hightail it home in a flash.” He tipped his ear to the ceiling. “But I don’t hear any.”
He put on the swallowtail coat and Elizabeth adjusted his bow tie. “Check me over good now. How do I look?”
“Dashing.”
“Debonair.”
He leaned down and aimed a light kiss at Elizabeth’s forehead and got her on the nose. Concentrating more, he turned to kiss Mary who put her face up to his. He squared his shoulders, turned toward the door and offered them both an arm. They walked out into the hall and down to the second floor. He paused outside what he thought was Jean’s door. “Jeanie?” He knocked on the hallway wall. “Let him in, Lucy,” he heard Jean say. A door opened farther down the hall.
“But the bride and groom aren’t supposed to see each other before the wedding,” Lucy protested.
“We won’t. I promise.” Forrest walked until he found the doorway. “Where are you?”
“Over here.”
He heard Lucy go out in the hall and close the door.
“How’s my thirteen-cow woman?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re my thirteen-cow woman, Jeanie. I sold thirteen cows in order to come here and marry you.”
Jean laughed.
“That’s nothing. I would have sold ’em all if I had to. Gonna work to earn them back, too.” Work at what he wasn’t quite sure, but he’d think about that later.
Jean touched him on the arm. “Do you want to see my dress?”
“Can I?”
“You sound like a little kid.” She put his hand on her shoulder. He felt down her arm to the sleeve edge and then beyond, down to her hand to touch her ring and then back up to her shoulder and neck. His hand touched the lace that dripped in loose folds from her neckline. He brushed it gently and followed the neckline as it dipped to a deep V. “The lace is from Mother’s wedding gown. It came from Belgium.”
With both hands he felt the satin smoothness down her bodice to her narrow waist where the cool fabric flowed in gores over her hips. He knelt down to feel the fullness of the gown, as if in supplication at a shrine. His hand stretched around the hemline and he moved to one side to follow the train.
“It’s long, Jean.”
“You have to watch where you’re stepping.”
“Oh, I won’t be behind you. I’ll be next to you. All day. Forever.”
He stood up slowly, his hands feeling again the folds of the skirt, up to the waist and the lace. Gently he took her in his arms and turned her face up to his and kissed her delicately, moving moment by moment into passion. Her lips opened to his, but he pulled away and let out a deep breath. This wasn’t the time, he told himself.
Downstairs, a string quartet began to play. “It’s a Strauss waltz,” Jean said. “It must be about time. Do you want to see my veil first?” She reached over to the bed and found the headpiece. “You have to remember to lift it up when you kiss me.” There was a knock at the door.
“Forrest, it’s time you went downstairs,” said Lucy. “It’s almost 4:30. The music’s started.” There was an urgency in her voice and a bustle of people in the hallway.
“See ya down there, Jeanie baby.” His voice was almost a whisper.
Slowly he went downstairs. “You look pretty dapper,” he heard Mort say. “And so does Chiang.”
“She’s got her bow on, does she?”
“Just like Jean’s dress.” They chuckled. “Chiang’s getting married, too,” Mort said to some guests.
“Sounds like a crowd here. How many have ya packed in?”
“Oh, maybe 200.”
Bill came up to usher Forrest into position in front of the fireplace. “You look splendid,” Mrs. Treadway whispered.
“Thank you, ma’m.” He grinned. “Likewise, I’m sure.” A wave of heat rushed up his throat to his face and despite the crowd, despite Jean just upstairs, he felt unutterably alone.
At precisely half past four, as the invitation had said, the quartet moved into the Mendelssohn march and Jean’s heart lurched. Lucy in a mustard yellow gown started down the stairs. Jean followed on Father’s arm. Since childhood she had walked these stairs. She didn’t have to count. They were in her, part of her, as sure as breathing. She could think about other things—the English ivy she felt entwining the iron railing, the ambrosial scent of lily-of-the-valley in her bouquet, the hush settling over the crowd, the slight dragging feeling her train made on the stairs behind her, the swelling of the wedding march played by the strings, steady but leaping into each new measure. For years she had wondered if it would ever be played for her. Finally here she was, marching to error or to fullness, walking with Father down the childhood stairs for the last time as his unmarried daughter. She squeezed his arm.
He guided her through the crowd, up to the fireplace and stopped her neatly just so her elbow touched Forrest’s. She took his arm and dropped Father’s. There it goes, she thought, the umbilical cord tying her to Hickory Hill. Everything felt good and right. The room smelled of Chanel Number Five, furniture polish, Forrest’s after shave and a breath mint. Reverend Roberts droned on, his dentures clicking so loudly she imagined everyone behind her could hear, too. She couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. Maybe Forrest wasn’t listening either because she heard Lucy whisper from somewhere on the left. “Kiss.”
And then it came, with all the burning of a too-long wait. A rustle of approval filled the room. So this was it. So this was the moment. She turned to hear her mother’s voice. “Congratulations Mrs. Holly.” It was too foreign, too unexpected, too wonderful. She couldn’t keep back the tears.
Deftly Lucy positioned them in a reception line. An endless stream of people came up to greet them. Icy. Tready. Sally Anne. Miss Weaver, dear Miss Weaver. Lorraine. Louise Barnes. Mrs. Sturdivant. Uncle Ed and Uncle Dudley. People from the Ares and Ain’ts. People from the Red Cross, the DAR, the Congregational Church. Everyone from the Hill. From Farmington Country Club. Some said who they were. Others didn’t need to. She wondered if all those people saw a future she couldn’t. She leaned forward to receive their hugs. Her dress pulled at the waist. Lying on her train, Chiang had settled into a bored snooze. Jean felt anchored to the floor.
The receiving line was interminable, even when she knew everyone. It must be worse for Forrest, she thought. After cake cutting and champagne punch toasts by the best man, Alice’s husband’s brother from Ramona, Jean and Forrest chatted with guests on the terrace. Eventually Jean stole a few minutes alone with Icy. They sat on the terrace under the awning and Jean asked her what everyone was wearing. Icy was as meticulous in her descriptions. Lucy came up to tell her it was time.
The new Mr. and Mrs. Holly went upstairs, with Chiang, to change clothes. Afterwards, in the upstairs hallway people moved about hurriedly. Forrest asked, “Am I getting lightheaded or is the air up here actually thinner?” Someone was sniffling. It sounded like Lucy. Forrest put his arms around her and gave her a firm kiss. She stiffened immedi
ately and didn’t say anything. He drew away.
A minute later Lucy’s voice came from another direction. “You can’t get away without giving your sister-in-law a kiss,” she said heartily. She rushed at him like a football lineman and Forrest kissed her again. Forrest and Jean and Chiang were whisked off to the car in a shower of rice and rose petals.
Jean had arranged that they should spend the first few nights at a guest farm in Bridgewater, Connecticut. “It’s not the kind of place most people would think of as a honeymoon spot,” she admitted. “It’s more for New Yorkers to get a taste of rural atmosphere and to watch a farm in action. They have sheep and cows, a vegetable garden and a hay crop. I had to think of a place that could accommodate Chiang. Besides, I thought it would make you feel comfortable.”
“Sort of like a postman taking a walk,” he said.
Bill and Ginny delivered them there late at night, ushered them into their room and promptly left. As soon as the door closed they were in each other’s arms. Together the three explored their new surroundings. Chiang walked Jean around the room and Forrest followed, his hand on her shoulder. They felt the bed and learned where the bathroom and closet were. They opened the luggage and pulled out the top layer of clothes. A shower of rice rained down at their feet.
“This isn’t a farm,” said Forrest. “It’s a rice patch.” Every piece of clothing they lifted from the suitcase brought a new trickle of rice. They walked on it, crunching it and sliding where it had fallen on the bare floor.
“I bet Chiang will try to eat it,” Jean said.
“Nope. I don’t think she wants any part of this wedding.”
For a time Jean busied herself with changing, with hanging up clothes, with tending to Chiang. Part of her wanted to prolong the tender anticipation.
Forrest asked, “When we were upstairs after the wedding and after we changed our clothes, who else was in that upstairs hallway?”
“Lucy and Mort, I think. Maybe Bill.”
“Who else?”
“Mother, for a minute.”
“Is that all?”
“No. Alexina was helping me.”
“Who’s that?”
“The upstairs maid.”
“Was she standing near you?”
“Yes. I think she was crying a little, the poor dear.”
“Well, I’ll be the son of a pig stealer. I thought she was Lucy. I planted a big one on her and she tensed up like a stone cold statue.”
Jean laughed. “It probably did her a world of good. I don’t think she’s ever let a man kiss her.”
She imagined Alexina’s anguish at receiving the misappropriated kiss. “I’m going to miss the maids,” she said softly. She’d known Mary since childhood, and Delia, too. There had been a steady stream of upstairs girls. She had shared some part of her life with each of them. Vincent, too, she’d miss. He’d always been so accommodating. And of course Icy. No more long evening talks huddled around the furnace grating. She grew quiet and was glad Forrest wasn’t saying anything just now. Chiang gave a little whine. Jean tied the leash to a chair and felt for the small pocket in her suitcase, the same suitcase she’d taken to Europe with Miss Weaver, the same one she’d taken to The Seeing Eye, the one she used on her first, bold trip West.
“What are you doing?” Forrest’s voice had a velvety softness that reminded her of a child’s voice asking, “Do you want to come out and play?” She realized she had grown distant for a moment and he was reaching out to her with his voice alone. She loved the voice—its mellow humility, its simplicity. She wanted it more.
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing, Jeanie?”
“Oh, nothing.” She opened Chiang’s mouth wide and carefully dropped two sleeping tablets far down her throat.
“Do you want to come over here?” His voice was tentative.
She wiped her hands on the bedspread and moved toward his voice.
“What do you have on?” he asked.
“A black ribbon.”
“No. Really?” From the edge of the bed, he reached forward and his hand brushed her knee. He moved up her thigh and hip, and explored the distance to her neck. He drew her onto the bed. There was no black ribbon. Anywhere.
Chapter Nineteen
At 6:00 in the morning, Jean awoke with a start and threw back the covers.
“What in tarnation are you doing?” Forrest asked in a daze.
“I have to take Chiang out to the garden.”
“Now? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I have to, Forrest. It’s the first thing we learned at Seeing Eye. Take care of your dog first.”
“Even today?”
“It’s ritual,” she said as she flung on a robe. “You didn’t think Chiang was smart enough to do everything by herself, did you?”
“I don’t know. I just feel kind of funny lazing in bed alone.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
Breakfast was a communal affair, eaten in the dining room with other guests. Chiang led Jean into the room and Forrest followed, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Chiang’s doing double duty,” Forrest said.
“I think she knows it already. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to feed her twice as much.”
“Did you wake up at all during the night?” Forrest asked once they were seated.
“Not for a minute.”
“Then you didn’t hear anything unusual?”
“Like what?”
“Well, like snoring.”
“Forrest, you didn’t tell me you—.”
“Hold on. I mean I heard it. I didn’t do it. When I moved over toward you, it stopped. That worried me a minute or two, but I fell asleep, and then I heard it again. That time I sat up and leaned over toward the end of the bed and it came again, from her. Thank the Lord for that, I thought.”
“I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Can’t she sleep somewhere else?”
“She isn’t supposed to.”
“Holy petunias, Jean, she won’t even let me get close to you half the time.”
“She’ll learn.”
“She may have to be taught. But I don’t even want to touch her. She’s like to devour me in one gulp.”
“If Father can get used to her, you will too.”
After a while Forrest asked, “Are you finished eating?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go back to the rice patch.” It wasn’t his soft, childlike voice. Jean heard some muffled laughter from people in the dining room and her face flushed. Chiang led them back.
They didn’t emerge again until afternoon when they took a slow walk around the farm. The sun slanted low, and Jean felt it warm her face weakly. “The hay smells so sweet and clean and earthy. I love it.”
“It’s alfalfa, probably, and maybe ragweed. It’s tickling my nose something fierce.”
“But Forrest, that’s the smell that reminded me of you all last year.”
They walked arm in arm with Chiang leading them. Forrest offered to do the evening milking for the farmer. Jean smiled when the man relinquished a cow with some hesitation. “By George, you got more milk than I ever get out of her,” the farmer said, his voice an octave higher than before. With Forrest’s hand on her shoulder afterward, Jean could feel him stand up straighter.
After dinner Jean played “Moonlight Sonata” on the upright piano in the living room. She heard doors open all down the hallway. People came back into the living room from their rooms to listen. When she finished, Forrest said, “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve relaxed since I’ve been on the east coast.”
During the second night Forrest had an attack of asthma and had to sit upright in a chair until morning. When Jean came back from taking Chiang out, he said, “I’m in no shape to go down to breakfast. You’ll have to go alone.” Jean sat by herself at the same table for two with Chiang lying at her feet. She listened to other guests in the dining room and imagi
ned them staring at her wondering why a bride on only the second morning was eating breakfast alone. She ate quickly and went back upstairs.
Forrest continued to wheeze the two remaining days at Bridgewater Farm. Jean tried to make light of it, but privately she thought it an inauspicious beginning to married life. He rallied, though, as soon as they were installed on the train south for New York.
They spent one night at the Roosevelt Hotel with Mother and Father in the adjoining room. Jean felt suddenly shy and embarrassed to tell her parents goodnight at the doorway. In just a few days, everything had changed. Father’s arm had been replaced by Forrest’s hand on her shoulder. Mother wouldn’t be there to put her buttered toast on the plate just so. Father and what he could provide would be a childhood, a continent away.
When she climbed into bed that night, she felt her wedding ring on her hand. So this is how it feels to be a married woman. They were to succeed or fail, the two of them together. They were to shape their lives jointly, either empty, sedentary, limited lives, halting in their movement through the years, or confident, adventurous lives, finding a way to experience what other couples do naturally. She put these thoughts behind her the moment Forrest reached for her.
In the morning Forrest checked his wallet. “I’m low on cash,” he said. “Got to cash this last check from the cows. Three hundred. That’s about six and a half cows.” After breakfast he asked Mr. Treadway to take him to a bank on the way to the airport.
“Oh no, we don’t need to do that, Forrest.” Father’s voice had a distant quality in it, Jean thought, as though it didn’t even belong to the same man anymore. He was no longer law to her. Even his voice carried the difference. It sounded less firm. He had relinquished her.
“I need to cash a check,” Forrest said.
She knew what Father was thinking—that he’d like to just give Forrest the money and not take the check in return. Father was like that—generous with people he thought worthy. She could feel the decision working in him. He could give Forrest the money easily. It would make little difference to his bank account. But she knew it would make all the difference to Forrest, the difference between trust that he could support her on his own, and doubt, the difference between pity and love. She held her breath and prayed Father would understand and suppress what he’d like to do. Surely, he must know the significance to Forrest.