“Are you...comfortable in your room, Ginger?” Sue asked.
“Yes, of course. And thank you for making it so nice for me.”
She kissed them both on their cheeks and went upstairs. Upstairs to the large bedroom and small adjacent nursery that had been renovated especially for her when she’d come home to her parents’, pregnant and alone; to the room where she had cared for her little son for the four short months of his life.
Ginger had been staying with her father’s cousin Ray Anne in Thunder Point for the last month. It was through Ray Anne that she’d gotten the job in Grace’s flower shop, a job that was really saving her life, hour by hour. Before she came back to Portland with Grace for this wedding and weekend visit, Ray Anne had called Sue and asked her to pack up all those baby things that Ginger had been looking at since his death over nine months ago. The crib and mobile had been taken down, the clothes removed from the drawers, boxed up and stored, the necessary accoutrements like the car seat, bouncy chair, baby bean bag, bath items and changing table were all gone. She didn’t think her parents had given them away, but they were out of sight. Probably stored in the attic or garage. There was only one framed picture of Ginger and Josh that she found in the top drawer.
She took it out, put it on the bedside table and changed into her pajamas.
When her father had suggested, rather emotionally, that Ginger go to Thunder Point and stay with Ray Anne for at least a few weeks, she had not wanted any part of it. But it was plain to see her parents needed a break from her grief. Now she was so glad she had gone. When she was in Thunder Point, she at least had the illusion of getting on with her life. She had a new, improved appearance, at Ray Anne’s insistence. She had that lovely little job in the flower shop. She had slept well and had an appetite again. Oh, she’d longed for little Josh, like always. But she was marching on.
She crawled into the bed at her parents’ house, turned the picture of herself and her baby toward her, left the light on so she could see it and sobbed.
* * *
Troy Headly had missed the Lacoumette-Grant wedding ceremony and barely made it to the reception. His Jeep had broken down by the side of the road and AAA had to send a tow truck. At least the tow-truck driver had been willing to drop him off at the Lacoumette farm where the festivities were held, but it left him and Grace with her flower-delivery van to drive to a hotel in Portland. They left the valet to park the flower van so they could check in. The day was not going the way he’d hoped it would.
He had proposed, however. In the pear grove at the farm while the revelers had partied under a big tent beside the grove. And Grace had said yes.
When he finally had her alone in the hotel room, he kissed her senseless. “Do you really like the ring, Gracie? Because we could go together to the jeweler and get a better one...”
“You’re not taking my ring!” she said emphatically. She placed it on her finger. “You picked it out yourself and I love it! I love you! I couldn’t wear it tonight and draw attention to myself like that—it’s Peyton’s day. But the second we get home, I’m going to be showing everyone.” Then she was the one who grew serious. “Are you sure about this, Troy? Because you didn’t want a wife so soon...”
He laughed and whirled her around and swept her onto the bed. He pulled off her pumps and ran a hand up her thigh. “I didn’t want children so soon, either, but guess what? We’re starting right now.” He covered her flat belly with his big hand. “We’re going to have to get better at this birth-control thing or we’ll end up with twenty.”
“I don’t think there’s time for twenty,” she said.
“Gracie,” he said, his hand roaming, his voice a little breathless. “Is this a garter belt?”
She shrugged. “I think you bring out the slutty underwear in me.”
“Oh, honey, you plan to drug me with sex and get at least ten babies out of me before I know what’s hit me. Is that right? Huh? When are we getting married?”
“We have a little time. Maybe we should elope before my mother tries to plan a coronation from her sickbed.”
“I don’t want to elope,” he said. “I want to party! Please, Gracie, take off this dress! Let’s do it, then we can argue about the wedding. I always get my way after I make you feel good.” He kissed her. “I know exactly how to get my way.” He pulled down the zipper on the back of her dress and helped her shimmy out of it. “God,” he said. “I’m going to make you very happy.”
* * *
George Lacoumette and his wife, Lori, insisted on taking Matt to the hospital...with a bucket in his lap. They didn’t really think he’d cracked his head open, they explained. They thought the likelihood of concussion was lower than alcohol poisoning. But there would be nothing as awkward as the untimely death of a member of the wedding party. In an effort to protect Peyton’s happy memories of her special day, they forced Matt into their car and then into the emergency room.
Matt was pissed as hell. He knew he’d been out of line and regretted it, but he wanted to be taken home. He still lived in the apartment he’d shared with his ex-wife, Natalie, a woman he still loved, except that he hated her. It was Natalie’s fault that he’d gotten smashed at the wedding. They’d been married on the farm and he was still in a state of anger and depression over the divorce, which had come much too soon after the wedding.
The ER doctor started an IV, then left the room as a bag of fluid ran into Matt. He sobered up fast.
The doctor returned after a while.
“Wow,” Matt said. “I only see one of you!”
“Welcome back.” The doctor laughed.
“I didn’t know you could do that! One IV, instant sobriety! Instant shame!”
“Yeah, it’s magic. So, you have a headache?”
“Right here,” Matt said, pointing to the back of his head. “Am I injured?”
“Possible liver damage, but we didn’t see any blood or bumps. Let’s check the eyes.” The doctor waved a light across his pupils. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest you bumped your head on the way to passing out. So—this a problem for you?”
“Hitting my head and passing out?” he asked.
“No, drinking like a pig and falling down,” the doctor clarified. “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Ah, shit.” He rubbed his head. “I’m divorced. I got married in that same orchard a couple of years ago. It didn’t last long. The marriage, that is. It was kind of...what’s the word?”
“Painful? Embarrassing? Grievous? Lonely? Regrettable?” the doctor tried.
“Yeah, those are the words. I might’ve overdone it a little tonight.”
“So you’re not adjusting well?” he asked.
“My brothers and sisters have taken to calling me Mad Matt. Does that tell you anything?”
“You might want to consider some counseling. Before you really hurt yourself.”
“Doc, I appreciate your help, but if there’s one thing I don’t ever want to talk about it’s my ex-wife and my divorce.”
“Brother, there is life after divorce. I am living proof.”
“You?”
“Me. According to my ex-wife I keep lousy hours, I’m inattentive off the job, I don’t pitch in, I’m snarky and critical, a tightwad, insensitive, selfish, many negative things. The list is long.”
“I didn’t think anyone divorced a doctor,” Matt said,