'Til Grits Do Us Part (51 page)

Becky started pinning up my hair. “Anyway, I'm real proud of all of ya who did show up,” she said diplomatically. “Trinity saved the day, and y'all look mighty fine.”

She curtsied, and Trinity curtsied back: both with hair up.

Sandals. Clad in pink flowered cotton yukata robes with tiny white and lavender details, delicately crossed at the chest. Bright red obi sashes tied around the waist—all courtesy of Faye Sprouse's sewing skills and Kyoko's friend Mrs. Oyama.

Becky giggled. “We do look kinda like them
geishas
, though.”

“Geisha?” Kyoko harrumphed. “Not unless you want Trinity to paint your face white and hang stuff in your hair.”

I was just glad the yukata covered Kyoko's tattoos.

“You wanted an Asian wedding,” grinned Trinity, clicking the compact shut. “And you got it.”

She looked every inch a model: her curly hair tastefully pulled back with a flower. Long, slim, brown arms gracefully reached for her makeup kit through long, flowing sleeves.

Meg West—sporting a tie-dyed tunic over fraying linen bell-bottoms—was a riot taking photos. Teetering sideways on folding chairs. Lying on the floor, belly up, legs pitched like an awkward yoga position. Climbing up scaffolding in a nearby construction site as we hurried to the church.

Church. Sanctuary. Wedding
. My lipstick felt dry, and I checked the mirror. “Chopstick favors done?” I asked, jitters forming in my stomach.

“Check.”

My chiggers itched, and I scratched at my leg until Becky smacked me.

“All the lanterns hung?”

“Thank me later.” Kyoko blew on her nails.

“How about the reception hall? Does it look nice?”

“Done. Beulah's hangin' the last a them lanterns, and the tables look real pretty.”

My hands fluttered to my forehead. “Did we get enough
panko
bread crumbs to finish the
tempura
, or…”

“Ro!” Kyoko snapped her fingers. “Relax! Everything's fine.”

“I still need something for people to throw when we go out of the church,” I murmured, barely hearing her.

“Your half sister?” Kyoko glared.

“Panko?” I bit back a giggle.

“Cain't be rice,” said Becky ominously, “on account a the birds.”

“Actually, Adam says the whole rice thing is just an urban myth—like cow tipping. Birds eat rice from fields all the time. It's a grain.” I shrugged. “Figures. He knows all about the birds.”

“And the bees?” Kyoko nudged me. “After all, he did extend your honeymoon to about two weeks. Thanks to whoever put all that money in your account.” She put up her hands. “And it wasn't me. So quit asking.”

“I been nosin' around, too, tryin' to find out, but I ain't found out nothin'. Wasn't Jerry or Stella or anybody we know. I talked to the bank teller myself, and none of 'em match the description.” Becky cocked an eyebrow. “Anyhow. I'm still worried about them birds. They ain't gonna explode er nothin' if we throw rice?”

“Nope. But I'm not using rice because it stings. So says Faye.”

Kyoko's face hardened in disappointment, probably at the lack of bird explosions or opportunities to sting people. “Well, what else is there?”

“Birdseed?” Trinity suggested. “Bubbles?”

“Grits!” Kyoko cried. “We can all throw grits!”

We all fell silent, in various stages of shock or revulsion. Or so I thought. Until Becky spoke up, her voice tentative. “Well, ya know, it would look kinda like snow.”

“It really does.” Trinity nodded. “My little brother and I used to make snowstorms in our bowls with the dry stuff. Hey, do you know you can get fifty-pound bags now?”

“Where?” asked Becky.

“Costco.”

“No kiddin'.” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Quaker?”

“Of course. They're really good. Grandma makes the best grits casserole you've ever tasted with them. In fact—”

“Hey!” Kyoko waved a hand violently in front of their faces, scowling. “The grits things was a joke, okay?” she barked. “I've got the throwing stuff covered.”

“No shuriken.” I raised my eyebrows in warning.

“Ha. You're lucky this time.” Kyoko dug in a corner and unearthed a big basket piled high with rose petals in various yukata shades—pinks, whites, lavenders, and heavy on the reds. “Courtesy of your mom. And some of Stella's peonies to fill in.”

“Mom's roses?” I fingered the petals, picturing my beautiful, simple bouquet: A fat white ball of Kobe roses, all edged with perfect pale pink. Tied with a red ribbon.

“The same. Just don't look at your rose bushes when you get home. They're kind of bare.”

By the time Faye fluffed the veil just under my fashionably messy updo—à la Tokyo, a red flower stuck on one side—I heard the piano music change.

“Well, doll,” said Faye, tears in her eyes and amethyst earrings I'd given her last year sparkling. “It's show time.”

The nursery stood empty. Becky, Kyoko, and Trinity huddled at the double sanctuary doors, giggling with Rick and Todd Carter and Tim in tuxedos. Everyone fragrant and nervous.

“You're walking down the aisle just before Beulah,” I said, clutching Faye's arm. “Adopted mothers of the bride. And then you'll sit with the family.”

I took the perfumed bouquet of roses, cut, to remind me why I was on this earth:
“As long as you both shall live.”

I heard Meg's camera clicking somewhere nearby, but I didn't see a thing. Didn't feel a thing.

“Ready, hot stuff?” Faye wiped her eyes and smiled, holding the door open while Meg adjusted my obi and snapped more pictures.

I took a deep, shaky breath. “Ready, Faye,” I smiled back. “Like Becky says, Git 'er done!”

The doors opened. Aisle scattered with petals. A forest of potted dogwood trees and young maples from Adam's woods clustered at the front of the church and around the arch, all laced with white lights and little glowing Japanese lanterns. Fresh with leaves. Alive. Radiant. Pots of indigo grape hyacinths, dizzingly honey-sweet in their heady perfume, formed a blue-purple sea of spiked bells that wound through the trees.

Courtesy of Rask Florist, I heard. Something like five hundred grape hyacinth bulbs.

The cross in stained glass glowed overhead, faint sunlight shining through in colored slants. And I spotted Adam's smile in the distance, past the rows of faces.

I felt a wave of panic come over me, thinking of Kyoko's cracks about trailer parks and pork rinds. My beloved Japan, thousands of miles away, and nothing but a country house in a redneck neighborhood waiting for me in Staunton.

Except one thing.

I steadied my eyes on Adam. The scar on his forehead was healing, stitches taken out. He looked crisp and clean in a tuxedo, more stylish than I'd ever seen him—and at the same time wonderfully familiar. So simple I could almost have overlooked him.

And yet by some miracle I hadn't.

“Do not be afraid!”
I heard the verses whisper through my mind as I forced my feet ahead.
“I bring you good news that will cause great joy…”
My nervous breath steadied. His hand in mine. The pastor's words, something about Adam loving me like Christ loved the church, who gave Himself up for her. Flickering candles. The scent of roses.

Adam and I climbed the carpeted steps together, under the arch made of fresh blooms and tangled white lights, and I felt him slip a silver ring on my finger.

His lips murmured, “I do.”

And mine, softer but just as sure. “I do.”

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Words that jolted like electricity.

Man and wife
.

Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh
.

As long as we both shall live
. “You may kiss the bride.”

For one instant I panicked, seeing the crowd, but Adam's hand steadied me. “Relax,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with love and joy. “It's me.”

And he kissed me on the cheek.

Wait.
On the cheek?!

Then he leaned closer. His lips found mine, there among the flicker of fresh leaves and glowing lanterns. A sweet breath of indigo grape hyacinth whispering around us as he drew me closer.

I couldn't believe how beautiful everything was. How people packed the sanctuary. The lanterns. The dainty little dishes of mochi and Japanese sweets Kyoko displayed on a side table. Stella's show-stopping cherry blossom cake, topped with Mom's pink rose petals.

Nor could I believe the surprise sushi platter Jerry created for the occasion, and probably a good-bye gift before The Green Tree folded: crayfish and venison sushi (cooked, of course).
Temaki
(hand rolls) with country ham, sweet potato, Vidalia onion, and okra. Hot sushi rolls breaded with cornbread. String beans instead of
edamame
steamed soybeans. And a dark brown dipping sauce I was pretty sure he'd spiked with Jack Daniel's.

It was beyond ingenious: it was southern-fried sushi.

I laughed until my stitches hurt, and Adam finally made me leave the tray with Meg, who alternately snapped pictures and wiped her eyes from mirth.

“Hey, who did this?”

I looked up from the platter at Wayne Grabowsky, one of my former reporter cohorts at the
New York Post
—now turned editor. The shirt collar under his black Italian suit hung lazily open.

“Wayne?” I sucked in a gasp of astonishment. “You came? To my wedding?”

“Sure we did.” Gina Watkins, my old sidekick back at the
Post
, grinned over his shoulder in a devastating pale blue silk Versace. “We got your invitation, and I talked him into it. We're doing a story in Alexandria anyway. It's not that far.”

“Gina.” I shook my head, the years flashing past me like bullet trains. “I haven't seen you in what, seven years? Eight?”

“About that, yeah. Wayne and I are both at the
Times
now. Wayne does entertainment—mainly food—and I'm stuck with the society pages. It's not so bad.” Her collagen-enhanced cheekbones grinned back, framed by pearl dangle earrings.

“Wait a second. Food? You do restaurant reviews?” My head swiveled to Wayne.

“I do. And hey, you know what? We had the most amazing lunch today. A little hole-in-the-wall place downtown.” Wayne tapped a finger on his chin, his eyes gleaming. “Gorgeous blue-cheese fig tapas, and the best spicy peanut noodles I've ever had—with sweet potato, turkey, and serrano chilies. Good ethics, too—organic and heavy on local produce. Southern fusion, no?” He closed his eyes. “I could swear I tasted a hint of maple in the sauce, and maybe balsamic vinegar. And for dessert: green tea panna cotta with blackberry reduction. Perfect.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah!” Gina's silvery eye shadow shimmered. “I loved that blue-cheese grits soufflé thing! I'm a vegetarian now, so farmer fare is slim pickings.” She raised a manicured hand. “The place was fabulous! The paint, the potted herbs, everything. You'd never know you were in… Where are we, again?”