Page 23 of Charlotte

Mrs. Beck dabbed at her eyes. “Sisters are so dear.”

Mrs. Hanford, who had several pins clenched between her lips, made a sound which suggested sisters were dear but must hold still.

Delly squeezed Lottie’s hand once. “You are not angry?”

“I am trying to decide.”

“That seems fair.”

“I thought I was the romantic one.”

“You are.”

“Then what are you?”

Delly looked toward the window, where the late afternoon light had softened against the hotel glass. Her reflection appeared in the mirror with borrowed lace at her throat and flowers in her hair, so unfamiliar and so not like Delly that Lottie’s heart ached.

“I am,” Delly said, “recalculating.”

That was as close to a confession as her sister could likely manage in a parlor full of Busy Bees.

Lottie leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Then recalculate carefully.”

Delly’s fingers tightened around hers. “I always do.”

This time, Lottie was not entirely certain that was true. By the time they reached the church, most of Wild Rose Ridge seemed to know there was to be a wedding.

The news had traveled faster than modesty. Loggers came down from camp in clean shirts and uneasy silence. Men from town and the surrounding farms appeared and slid into the back pews. The brides gathered in a bright cluster, whispering behind gloved hands. Clara arrived with a white cake boxed in paper and tied with string. Mrs. Schulte moved people into place with the calm authority of a general organizing his troops.

Lottie stood near the front with her Bible in one hand and the botany book in the other. She had not meant to bring both. In the rush, she had grabbed the book from the table next to her bed and held on to it as if one sturdy volume might anchor the day.

Then she saw Mr. Peterson at the back of the church. He stood near the wall, half behind two other loggers, as though weddings were public events best endured from the safest possible distance. His right hand was tucked into his coat again. His left hand held his hat low at his side.

He looked at the front of the church, then at Delly.

Then, briefly, at Lottie.

Her breath caught.

It was not a long look. Mr. Peterson did not seem capable of long looks in public. It differed from yesterday’s careful retreat and this morning’s guarded warning. There was something troubled in the way he looked at her.

Lottie had the sudden, uncomfortable thought he was measuring this wedding against the one they might have.

A hasty wedding. A stranger for a spouse. Vows spoken before a town that had already decided more than either bride or groom had said aloud.

Perhaps Mr. Peterson was wondering if she expected the same.

Perhaps he was afraid she did.

Jebediah Simms stood at the front, near Preacher Sutton, hat in hand. He looked too large for the little church and too solemn for the borrowed flowers tucked beside the pulpit. When Delly came down the aisle, he went still in a way to tighten Lottie’s throat.

Delly did not float. Delly would never float unless pushed into water, and then she would come up furious and practical. She walked down the aisle with her shoulders straight, her chin lifted, her gray dress cleaned as best as could be managed, lace at her collar, and Mrs. Beck’s garden flowers trembling in her hand.

When she reached Jeb, he held out his hand.

His fingers shook.

Only slightly.