Chapter Nineteen Krampusnacht
Pine Ridge, New York
“I thought you would like this. Jasper Wainwright, our local reporter, finds interesting new tidbits from across the country for our little Pine Ridge Gazette. I myself occasionally contribute as a guest columnist. Here.”
Mr. Minegold hands me a sheet of printer paper with a grainy photo.
The photo itself isn’t poor quality, it’s just that it’s marred by the subject matter—a struggling man in the ocean’s spray and the sleeting, snowing mess that’s Alaska in December.
I read the caption under the photo. The Coast Guard reports that a Mr. Barton Bremner was pulled out of the water by several of his crewmates.
He had severe injuries and hypothermia and was taken to the James McGuffin Naval Base for a medical evaluation.
My mouth pops open, and I stare harder at the photo.
Barton. Blurry, barely recognizable. His face is dwarfed by horns. Huge curling ram-style horns that block most of his profile. I can just imagine the panic he’s in. Probably screaming that he caught my demon genes somehow.
“Is it a good wedding present, my dear?” Mr. Minegold asks with twinkling eyes.
“I love it.”
“You know, even after he has those things removed, probably at great and painful expense, and most definitely with a lot of awkward explanations—you simply have to put a new slip of paper in the compact to—erhm—remind him why he should love others despite their unusual appearances.”
I fold the paper up and tuck it into the bottom of the stroller in front of me. “I do love a gift that keeps on giving.”
“Judge Burns is ready.” Alban Wymmark sticks his head through the wooden door of the courtroom into the lobby, where I’m flanked by a dozen people who have chosen to give up their Friday afternoons—and in Mr. Minegold’s case, risk a nasty burn.
Lesha couldn’t get out of work in time for the ceremony at two, but she’s on her way, and she’ll meet us for a little reception in The Pine Loft Coffee Shop.
But Sophie, Libby, Charlotte, and Tessa are here.
There are more diaper bags than bouquets, and I giggle as I picture us all walking in, pushing our strollers.
“Marines get to walk in under those sword arches. Motherhood is its own battle, right, ladies?” Sophie laughs, handing JJ off to his grandfather and putting Mary’s pacifier in her mouth. “I think we can have an honor guard of strollers.”
“I would love that,” I rasp, wiping my eyes. Charlotte and Tessa instantly take the right side, and Sophie and Libby grab the left. Alban opens the double doors, and I let out a nervous giggle as I wipe my sweating palms on the bodice of my new white lace dress, thrifted from Chloe’s shop.
These women are my friends. The other moms who are going to help me with teething and potty training, and maybe pregnancy and homework problems. I was afraid they’d never come near me again, never let me see their sweet babies.
And instead, they are here with me on Krampusnacht, so I can make the meaning something new, something for people like Laurel and me. A night to celebrate the krampuses in our community, not fear them.
Celebrate that in a very special way, in my case.
I let out a shaking breath and push Laurel’s stroller forward.
She has a bucket of soft felt flowers in her hands, but she’s not much on the flower girl part of this assignment.
She picks up the plastic bucket and gnaws on the handle. Artie laughs and wipes his eyes.
Artie. Artie is so handsome, with a perfect haircut and those wayward bangs gelled back, immaculate in his good interview shirt and a jacket borrowed from Alain Wymark, who is closer to his size.
Judge Burns is in a black robe and a big smile. “Ohhh! I didn’t know there would be so many babies at this ceremony. I’m so glad I said yes to a Friday afternoon wedding now. I usually like to close the courtroom at noon, you know.”
“We’re very grateful, your honor,” Alban says, and presses a button on his phone.
The wedding march. I’ve got Laurel, the beautiful daughter I love, in the stroller, and a bouquet of mountain laurel, holly, and poinsettia, made by the sweet lady at the garden center where we got our Christmas tree.
The music comes from a phone, the dress is second-hand and was popular in the eighties, and the flowers are plastic, the kind you use to make wreaths.
And I’m getting married to the sweetest, bravest man in the universe. I’m getting married, at all.
“The story is just beginning,” I whisper to myself, walking steadily up the aisle, eyes locked on Artie’s face as it works and flexes. He runs a hand over his jaw to try to hold in his tears, and I find myself fast-forwarding to our three-day vacation—our honeymoon at home.
“Do we have everyone and everything we need to get started?” Judge Burns asks, beaming down on us as our little family unites up front, flanked by friends.
“Absolutely everything,” Artie says, scooping Laurel up in one hand and wrapping his arm around my waist.
The Judge smiles. “Well, then, I think I’m gonna do the gussied-up version for such an adorable little family. Dearly beloved...”
I lay my head on Artie’s shoulder and feel Laurel grip my fingers tight.
Dearly beloved is right.