Epilogue 2
2 1/2 years later
Hurricane
Islip my finger under the collar of the tuxedo dress shirt, trying to loosen it around my neck.
I didn”t get dressed up for my own wedding, God only knows how I got talked into this.
Looking out at the woman in the front row of folding chairs lined up in front of the stage, the bright smiles from Junie and the two-year-old baby girl in her lap remind me.
I”d do anything for the woman with the chocolate curls and the sea green eyes.
Including wearing a damn tuxedo and standing up at my brother”s wedding.
The preacher says he can kiss the bride, the crowd breaks into applause, and the newlyweds get introduced to their guests. All I want to do is get back off this stage. I might be stuck in the monkey suit for the rest of the day, but at least I”ll have Junie whispering in my ear about all the things she plans to do to me later because she thinks I look good in the suit.
She”s been filling my head with filthy ideas since I got dressed this morning.
Sunny”s almost two now and we”re ready for another one. I”m planning on putting baby number three in June-bug”s belly before the night is over.
By the time the happy couple has made it off the stage and through the onslaught of bubbles and birdseed that was approved for throwing, no one”s paying attention to the rest of the wedding party as I follow Rapid Jones and Raine down the steps, unsnapping the infernal bow tie and loosening my shirt collar as I go.
Apparently, my girl approves. Before June”s even hands the baby off, she stands on her toes to kiss the space at the base of my neck where the collar is open.
”I swear, Cane, if you roll your sleeves up, you won”t be present to make your toast.”
I can take a hint.
I”m also more than happy to slip the coat off.
We had a bear of a winter, but the late May weather is already bringing warm days out here on the south face of the mountains.
Dropping the cuff links into my pocket, I make a show of rolling up the sleeves on the formal dress shirt, loving the way Junie”s eyes rake over my bared forearms.
”You are a bad man, Hurricane Hart,” she whispers as she takes my arm and leads me back to the big room where the reception is being held.
”Rapid”s the best man, Bug, no one”s going to miss me if I”m not there.”
Of course-- that”s not exactly true, and when it”s time to raise my glass in honor of my oldest brother and his new wife, Junie and I are fully clothed again seated in our assigned places at the reception.
Rapid”s toast has everyone laughing, then he gets everyone sniffling. When he”s done, he raises his glass and the hall fills with applause.
When I stand up, the big room is dead silent.
One of the caterers has topped off my champagne flute with the special batch of ginger ale that Ginger and Current Jones brewed just for the event.
The couple has made it clear that anyone who wants to take advantage of the no-host bar at the lodge is welcome to, but there”s not alcohol being served at the event.
Looking around, I haven”t seen any of the guests opting to go that route. Even gran and her friends appear to be sober as judges. Which can be even more dangerous than if they were passing around their flasks of whiskey from Howard”s still that he thinks no one knows about.
Speaking of Howard Smalls, the man cleans up better than I”d have thought, dressed in a suit that looks like it was tailored to him, his long gray beard trimmed and groomed with his hand over gran”s as they sit with Don and Vera Jones and Mom.
Their eyes follow me as I rise to my feet.
The speech I”ve practiced gets lodged in my throat. I clear it out a couple of times before I try to talk. My voice feels tight, like that damn bow tie was still strangling me or something.
Junie reaches up and slips her hand in mine.
If someone had told me that I”d be here today, married to the love of my life; that we”d have a couple of kids-- currently raising hell with the rest of Moonshine Ridge”s next generation in a separate room somewhere in this lodge, courtesy of Terra Hawkins” daycare staff; and that I”d be getting choked up about giving a toast to my fuck-up older brother on his wedding day...I”d have punched them.
Three years ago, that would have sounded like the cruelest fucking joke anyone had ever told.
”Hayle,” I cough to clear my throat again, ”I can”t believe I”m standing here today, in front of God and half the Ridge, admitting this but...I”m damn proud of you, brother. You”ve done good, and I”m glad you”re back.”
It”s a far cry from the polished speech Junie helped me write. The one I”d practiced for two weeks. The one I thought I”d be able to get through easily, skirting the details, and avoiding the emotional shit.
But these were the only words I could remember when it was time to speak.
They”re the things I really wanted to tell my brother.