Every Bride Needs a Groom

  “Yep. It won’t hurt anything to try. You can write a compelling essay. Give it a title. Call it ‘Small-Town Wedding, Big-Town Dreams.’”

  “‘Small-Town Wedding, Big-Town Dreams,’” I echoed. Sounded about right, though I certainly had no aspirations of becoming a big-town girl.

  “What have you got to lose?” Lori-Lou asked. “Wouldn’t you like to win a gown from Cosmopolitan Bridal?”

  The idea of wearing a designer gown on my big day seemed like something out of a fairy tale, not something likely to happen to a girl like me. Still, what would it hurt to write an essay? Maybe I could play around with the idea a little.

  After having an Oreo Blizzard with my sweetie.

  I waved at Casey and then said my goodbyes to Lori-Lou, promising her that I would at the very least pray about it. No harm in that. Surely the good Lord would show me what to do. And maybe, just maybe, I could throw in a “please let Casey pop the question soon” prayer while I was at it.

  After all, what was a potential bride . . . without a groom?

  2

  Don’t Mess Up a Good Thing

  Everybody wants you to do good things, but in a small town you pretty much graduate and get married. Mostly you marry, have children, and go to their football games.

  Faith Hill

  In the Fisher family, we celebrated traditions that went back dozens, if not hundreds, of years. Springtime tea at Queenie’s house, Christmas Eve service at the Baptist church, reinventing the front window display at our family’s hardware store with the change of every season, and canning local peaches from Cooper Farms. These were the things I’d grown to appreciate.

  The tradition I loved most took place every Friday night when the whole Fisher clan gathered at Sam’s Buffet, the best place in town for good home-style cooking—outside of Mama’s kitchen, anyway. I’d never known a finer location for barbecue, salad, home-style foods like macaroni and cheese, chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and more. And the pies! Coconut meringue, milk chocolate, deep-dish apple, lemon meringue . . . Sam’s always had an assortment guaranteed to make your mouth water. In the South, grazing around a buffet was something of a religious experience, and we Fishers were devout in our passion for yummy food.

  Our weekly dinner routine usually kicked off with Queenie and Pop arguing over who’s going to treat who—or would that be whom?—to dinner. Queenie always won. Pop, never one to offend his mother, sighed and conceded, then proceeded to order the buffet. We all ordered the buffet. Well, all but Mama, who, under doctor’s orders to lower her cholesterol, ordered the salad bar. That happened one time, and one time only. From that point on she ordered the buffet and made healthier choices. Mostly. There was that one time when, stressed over losing her top soprano from the choir, Mama ate her weight in lemon pound cake. But we rarely spoke of that anymore. In front of her, anyway.

  Not that anyone blamed my mother for giving in to temptation. Who could go to Sam’s and nibble on rabbit food with so many other flavorful offerings staring you in the face? Not me, and certainly not my three brothers, who all chowed down like linebackers after a big game. The poor employees at Sam’s probably cringed when Jasper, Dewey, and Beau came through the door, but they never let it show. Instead, they greeted our family with broad smiles and a hearty “Welcome!” then told us all about the special of the day.

  As much as I loved Sam’s, it wasn’t the first thing on my mind when I awoke on Friday morning. I’d tossed and turned all night as I pondered Lori-Lou’s suggestion that I enter the contest. Should I allow the lack of a groom-to-be to stop me from writing an essay? I needed to check out the fine print myself, just to put my mind at ease. And if I decided to go through with it, I’d have to get my act together . . . quickly!

  I stopped by Brookshire Brothers and was relieved to find several copies of Texas Bride on the rack. The rules seemed simple enough and, just as Lori-Lou had said, only referred to the “potential bride,” not an engaged woman. Still, I wondered if—or when—I would find time to write my essay, what with family dinner plans and all. An evening at Sam’s with the family meant I wouldn’t have time to carefully construct my entry until later that night. Hopefully I could press the Send button before midnight.

  I read and reread the rules while I worked at the hardware store that afternoon. Pop never seemed to notice, thank goodness. I would get the usual ribbing about needing a fiancé if he saw me with a bridal magazine. I didn’t need to hear that again. Besides, Casey would propose. Soon I would have a fiancé. But what would it hurt to give this contest thing a try in the interim?

  Carrying the magazine to the restaurant that evening seemed a little over the top, but my mother and brothers were used to me daydreaming with a bridal magazine in my hand, so they probably wouldn’t mind. Queenie would likely take it as a hopeful sign. And with Casey out of town—again—I was safe to browse the pages without putting him on the spot.

  I pulled into the parking lot of Sam’s Buffet in my ’97 Cadillac DeVille—a hand-me-down from Queenie after she purchased the 2001 model—and noticed that my parents had just arrived. Mama bounded from her Jeep, nearly stepping into a pothole as she headed my way. I noticed her new hairdo at once and gave a little whistle.

  “Mama! It’s beautiful.”

  “Do you think?” She fussed with her hair and grinned. “There’s a new girl at Do or Dye and she doesn’t know a thing about my usual cut, so she just went at it like a yard guy with a weed whacker. Said this style was all the rage in Dallas right now. I guess that’s where she’s from.” Mama ran her fingers over her hair. “I’ve never considered myself trendy.”

  Boy, you could say that twice and mean it. Mama’s usual style was reminiscent of the early eighties. But this new do suited her. In fact, she looked downright beautiful.

  My father approached, his expression a bit sour as his gaze traveled to my mother’s hair.

  “You okay over there, Pop?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not sure yet. What do you think of Mama’s hairdo?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous.” I offered an encouraging smile. “She looks like Diane Keaton in that one movie, you know . . .”

  “Oh, that one with Nicolas Cage?” Mama fumbled around in her purse, obviously looking for something. “I always loved that movie. So funny. Well, except that one part where I had to fast-forward because it was so, well, you know.”

  “It was Jack Nicholson,” Pop said.

  “Nicolas Cage, Jack Nicholson . . .” Mama pulled out a tiny compact, popped it open, and gave herself a look. “What’s the difference?”

  “Trust me, there’s a world of difference.” My father dove into a passionate dissertation about Jack Nicholson’s performance in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  “I don’t know what that has to do with anything, Herb,” my mother said. “Katie wasn’t even talking about that movie at all. Were you, Katie?”

  “Oh, no ma’am. I—”

  “And this conversation about cuckoos has nothing whatsoever to do with my hair.” She snapped her compact closed and shoved it back into her purse.

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. I’d better get this train back on track. “Pop, I mentioned Diane Keaton because she wears her hair just like this.” I pointed to Mama’s new do. “And she’s gorgeous, just like Mama.”

  “Humph.” My father’s nose wrinkled, and I could almost read his mind: It’s not your mother’s usual style.

  And heaven forbid anything should change. Consistency was key in his life, after all. To my father, staying regular had less to do with the bottle of fiber on the kitchen counter and more to do with the day-to-day routine of everyday life.

  “I think it’s kind of nice to try something new.” Mama looked at her reflection once more and giggled. “Would you believe that stylist tried to talk me into going blonde?”

  “B-blonde?” My father’s eyes widened. “Glad you didn’t bow to the pressure.”
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  “Hey, what’s wrong with blondes?” I pointed to my long mane. “It’s worked for me.”

  “And for your mama, back in the day.” Daddy slipped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “Your mother was quite a looker.” He kissed her forehead.

  “Back in the day?” My mother shrugged off his arm. “Was quite a looker? For those remarks, I might just have to go platinum to spite you.” Her gaze narrowed and I thought for a minute she might throw her purse at him. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d used the oversized bag as a weapon.

  “Well, if you ever did I’d love you anyway. You were beautiful then, but you’re even lovelier now, Marie. Or should I call you Ms. Keaton?” My father pulled her into his arms and planted kisses on her cheeks.

  My mother’s expression softened like a chocolate bar left sitting out in the sun. “Call me whatever you like,” she said, her face now lighting into a smile. “Just call me.”

  Mama gave him a playful wink, and before I could look the other way, she kissed him square on the mouth. In front of God and everyone. Well, not that anyone happened to be looking. Our early arrival at Sam’s always put us here ahead of the dinner crowd. This to help Queenie, who struggled to get around on her cane.

  Queenie.

  Strange that she hadn’t arrived yet. I glanced around, curious. “Have either of you heard from Queenie?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.” Mama turned to look at the handicapped parking spaces, which were all empty. “Odd. She always beats us here.”

  “Oh, she probably stopped off at Brookshire Brothers on the way.” Pop waved his hand as if to dismiss any concerns. “It’s double coupon day. You know how careful she is with her money.”

  Mama didn’t look convinced. “Maybe, but I’m still concerned. If she doesn’t show up in a few minutes I’ll call her.”

  Pop laughed and led the way toward the door of the restaurant. “You’ll be wasting your time. She’s having the hardest time getting used to that newfangled smartphone of hers. Says it’s smarter than she is.”

  “Nothing is smarter than she is,” I countered.

  “True.” Both of my parents nodded. Queenie wasn’t just smart by the world’s standards, she had the wisdom of the ages wrapped up in that eighty-one-year-old brain of hers.

  Just as we got to the door, my brothers rolled up in Jasper’s new Dodge Ram. His tires squealed as he whipped into the parking lot from the feeder road. I knew Mama would give him what for the minute he joined us.

  “Jasper Fisher!” She hit him on the arm with her overloaded purse as soon as he was within reach. “What if there had been a small child or elderly person in your path?”

  “Mama, really.” He pulled his baseball cap off and raked his fingers through his messy blond hair. “Ain’t never run over anyone yet.” He slipped his arm over her shoulder and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “But don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time to remedy that. Give me awhile.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Good thing your grandmother wasn’t here to witness your driving skills or to hear you smart off to your mama like that. She would tan your hide.”

  “Wait, Queenie’s not here yet?” Dewey yanked off his cap and looked around the parking lot. “That’s weird.”

  “Very.” Beau shrugged. “It just won’t be the same if she doesn’t show up. Who’s gonna talk about hernias and hemorrhoids and stuff?”

  “I volunteer.” Dewey raised his hand. “I’ve become an expert after hearing her stories.”

  For a minute I thought Mama might smack him with her purse too, but she refrained.

  “Are you sure Queenie’s coming?” Jasper asked.

  “Sure she’s coming?” Mama, Pop, and I responded in unison. We’d never had Friday night dinner at Sam’s without her—unless you counted that one time when she was hospitalized after having an allergic reaction to her titanium knee implant. And nothing had seemed right that night.

  Mama glanced out at the feeder road. “I sure hope that old car of hers is working. I’ve been telling her for years that she needs a newer vehicle, but you know how she is about spending money.”

  I knew, all right. My grandmother was ultra-cautious when it came to the financial, unless she happened to be springing for dinner at Sam’s. I also had my suspicions she planned to pay for my wedding dress when the day came. If I entered that contest and won, it would potentially save her a bundle. Just one more reason to write that essay.

  “I doubt she’s running late because of her car,” Pop said. “That Cadillac of hers is in tip-top shape. Fred Jenkins up at the mechanic shop keeps it running smoothly.”

  “She’s always been one to get folks to work hard,” Mama said. “And Fred Jenkins tops the list.”

  “Think we could get her to light a fire under Beau here?” Pop slapped my youngest brother on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  “I’m hungry,” Beau grumbled. “We gonna stand out here all night talking or get inside and eat?”

  Minutes later we were seated at our usual table, eating our usual slices of yummy bread and fighting one another for our usual place in the buffet line. I’d just filled my plate with thick slices of barbecue beef and mashed potatoes when Queenie showed up, looking none too happy. She shuffled toward our table, her cane providing just the right balance to get her there.

  “Well, thanks for waiting, everyone. Don’t I feel special.”

  She might not feel special, but she certainly looked it. Soft white curls framed her perfectly made-up face, evidence that she’d made it to her usual Friday morning beauty parlor appointment. And the outfit! I thought I’d seen most of her ensembles, but this one surprised me. The blouse and slacks had a colorful springtime look—all flowery and pink. Beautiful, especially against her pale skin. Well, mostly pale. If I looked hard enough, I could see bits of foundation between the teensy-tiny wrinkly folds.

  Unfortunately, one thing dampened her overall look—the sour expression on her face. And trust me, if Queenie wasn’t happy, well, no one in the Fisher family was happy.

  “We waited like pigs at a trough, Mama.” Pop forced a smile, clearly trying to make her laugh. When she did not respond in kind, he rose and pulled out her chair.

  “I raised you better than that.” Queenie lifted her cane and pointed it at him as if to use it as a weapon.

  He took it out of her hand and hung it over the back of her chair. “Well, we’re happy to see you now, Mama. We’re already prayed up, so grab a plate and dive in.”

  “Hmm.” She eased herself down into the seat, which happened to be to the right of mine.

  “You look fabulous, Queenie,” I said. “Like something straight out of a magazine.”

  “Thank you, child.” She offered a warm smile, the first sign that she might have forgiven us for starting without her. As the edges of her lips turned up, the wrinkles in her soft cheeks disappeared for a moment. Then her expression shifted and the wrinkles became visible once again. Fascinating. Who knew the human skin had that much elasticity?

  “So glad you made it.” I wiped my hands on my napkin and then reached to pat her arm. “We were getting worried.”

  “Blame it on the Methodists.” She unfolded her napkin and draped it over her lap.

  Mama looked perplexed. “The Methodists made you late?”

  “Yes.” Queenie gestured to the waitress, then turned back to Mama. “The Methodists are having their annual craft fair tomorrow. The whole church is flipped upside down. The WOP-pers had no place to pray, and there’s nothing more annoying to a group of prayer warriors than missing out on an opportunity to pound on heaven’s door.”

  “But that was all taken care of in advance,” Mama said. “You ladies were supposed to meet at the Presbyterian church this week. Bessie May told me that—”

  “Nope.” Queenie put her hand up as if to bring the conversation to a halt. “Decided to stay put at the Methodist church, even under the circumstances. I do not believe th
e Presbyterian church is an appropriate place to meet for prayer.”

  She turned her attention to the waitress long enough to ask for a glass of tea, no sugar. Queenie was the only one in the family who didn’t take sugar in her tea. Her concerns about type 2 diabetes kept the sugar at bay.

  I found myself distracted by what she’d just said. “So, the Presbyterians can join your prayer group, but you can’t pray at their church?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” Queenie nodded and reached for a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table. “Discussion ended, please and thank you.”

  “Probably best to change the subject.” Pop gave me a “can it!” look, sticking a piece of sliced beef in his mouth.

  “I do hope you’ve saved some of that barbecue for me, son. You know how I love it.” Queenie took her fork and stabbed a piece of meat on his plate, then took a bite. “Mmm. That fixes everything.”

  “Even the brouhaha with the Presbyterians?” I asked.

  She gave me a “let it go, Katie” look, but I couldn’t get past her earlier comments. I wanted to ask, “What’s your beef with the Presbyterians?” so we could get to the bottom of this once and for all. From the look on my father’s face, though, I knew this wasn’t the time or place to press the issue.

  “Wait. I thought it was the Methodists we were mad at.” Jasper looked up from his plate, his brow wrinkled.

  “We’re not mad at anyone. I’m just irritated because the Methodists made it difficult to pray.” Queenie slapped his hand as he reached across her to grab a slice of bread from the basket in the middle of the table. “Discussion over. Now, let’s all just get busy doing what we came here to do.”

  “Gossip about folks from other denominations?” Dewey asked.

  Queenie scowled at him. “We don’t gossip. We share our concerns. And if I can’t share them with my own family, who can I share them with?”

  “She has a point there, you must admit.” Pop snagged a piece of bread and tossed it to Dewey, who caught it in midair. Queenie let out an unladylike grunt and shook her head.