Chapter 16
Rydell was not in his chair. One of his hired watchers slouched in it, half-asleep, and Peter wondered if the gossip columnist really had no notion of what they’d planned—or if he was already in the church, clutching his pen.
Mrs. Martinelli, who’d been surprised but willing to come to a seemingly random church dinner when he’d showed up unannounced an hour earlier, tsked under her breath. “Does he make people sit there all night?”
“At least until eleven,” he said. “That’s as late as I’ve bothered to look.”
He helped her snag the last empty seat in the sanctuary—no sign of Rydell—and then poked his head into the fellowship hall and every other nook and cranny of the building. Rydell wasn’t there, either. Yet.
Back in the sanctuary, he leaned against a wall, one eye on the doors, and sang the opening song by rote. When Rabbi Katz finished speaking and Pastor Hattington stepped forward for his turn, Peter was so distracted that he missed the beginning of the homily.
Then he heard “appalled” and refocused.
“Yes,” Pastor Hattington said, shaking his head.
“Absolutely appalled. And so are Pastor Sarr and Rabbi Katz. I will tell you what has so appalled us, but first, let me share the words of Paul in his second letter to the church at Corinth. ‘For I am afraid that when I come I may not find you as I want you to be.’ He wrote, ‘I fear that there may be discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, slander, gossip, arrogance and disorder.’”
He paused, glancing at the town—and it did appear to be everyone in town. Peter held his breath. Was this going to be a general appeal against gossip, as he had assumed when Mrs. Hattington mentioned the topic, or …
“Do you see the problem now?” Pastor Hattington said.
“Do you feel it in your bones? For what Paul feared was happening in Corinth is happening even now in Ellicott Mills! Discord aplenty. Slander, gossip and disorder. We whisper about our omnimancer, who has freely given us help and never asked anything of us in return. We whisper about a woman we have known her whole life, or our whole lives, as if she is not the person who raised a sister, worked honorably for our mayor, and assisted the omnimancer as he assisted us.”
Peter suppressed a groan. This was like a teacher exhorting a class to stop bothering the smallest kid. It would only make things worse.
“Let Paul find us as he wants us to be!” Pastor Hattington’s normally tremulous voice rang out. “Stand up if Peter Blackwell or Beatrix Harper has helped you—stand up, stand up!”
The Clarks jumped to their feet. Others followed until finally—Peter struggling to swallow over the lump in his throat—there was no one left sitting except for Mr. Levin in his wheelchair and Mrs. Price.
“I would stand if I could!” Mr. Levin craned his neck to look back at Peter. “The arthritis in my hands is so much better thanks to your brews!”
It was at this point, lips pursed, that Mrs. Price got to her feet.
Pastor Hattington beamed at the three congregations. “I am delighted to see it, dearly beloved, because Omnimancer Blackwell and Miss Harper think so highly of you that they have invited all of you to their wedding.”
This announcement set off such a buzz of whispers among the still-standing townspeople that Pastor Hattington had to raise his voice to add, “May I have all of your solemn promises that you will not discuss the details of this wedding with anyone not currently here?”
The chorus of yeses that rang back was deafening.
“When is it?” Mrs. Croft asked.
“Now,” Pastor Hattington said, to gasps. “Omnimancer?”
Peter strode up the aisle, heart thudding in his ears. Daniel Clark followed, clapping him on the back and grinning at him. It should have been Martinelli standing there, but neither that sobering thought nor the attendant guilt was enough to keep him from smiling back at Clark and meaning it.
Lydia, the lone bridesmaid, walked up the aisle to “Blessed Be the Ties That Bind.” Then Mrs. Hattington segued perfectly into the opening chords of the music that had rung out for countless brides, and which to him, in this moment, sounded entirely new and wonderful.
Beatrix slipped off her coat as she stood, and he gaped at her as she processed toward him on Rosemarie’s arm—not in her red dress, as he’d expected, but in flowing ivory, a bouquet of pale purple flowers in her hands.
The emotion in his chest seemed to be reflected on her face.
His hand trembled as he held it out to her.
“I do,” he said, and it felt every bit as magical as a spell.
“I do,” she said, and that felt even more potent.
He kissed her in front of everyone, the act transformed by their words—by this ritual—from scandalous to acceptable in the eyes of the town.
And if that was slightly absurd, he still recognized the power of what they had just done.
This was no vow backed by a magical force that would steamroll inclinations to the contrary.
It was a promise they were freely making, both of them knowing they would have to choose to uphold it, day after day.
“Brothers and sisters,” said Pastor Hattington, “may I present, on this splendid first day of spring, Omnimancer and Mrs. Blackwell!”
Beatrix—Beatrix Blackwell—leaned into him as they came back up the aisle together. “It never once occurred to me what day this was,” she whispered.
He laughed—it seemed either ironic or fitting that Persephone, having dragged Hades out of hell, would marry him on this day of all days.
And then he couldn’t seem to stop laughing: When Mrs. Martinelli, looking delighted, told him he’d brought her under “outrageously false pretenses.” When people kept assuring him that they had not been reading that awful Rydell.
When Valerie Reed rushed in with her cake-decorating supplies to add a bride and groom in icing on the plain white cake, which like the rest of the food had been ordered by the church to disguise who was paying for it and for what purpose.
He felt overwhelmingly light, as if he might float into the air at any moment.
When Daniel Clark struck up a jig on a battered but in-tune violin, Peter danced alongside Beatrix without feeling the least bit self-conscious because nearly everyone else was dancing, too—the children, the new mothers with babies in their arms, Senator Gray, Mr. Levin executing turns in his wheelchair, even Mrs. Price after Mrs. Hattington insisted.
“Well,” the widow said when the music stopped and they ended up face-to-face. “Well. I suppose you think I owe you an apology.” Before he could come up with anything to say to this, she added stiffly, “And I suppose I do.”
He blinked at her. The hall had gone very quiet.
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Price said. “There you are. Goodnight.”
She turned and click-clacked away.
What could he do after that but laugh—once she was safely out of earshot, of course.
Beatrix laughed, too, a merry sound that he hoped he would hear every day of their lives together—not just her ironic laugh, as much as he liked that, and definitely not only her bitter laugh, which she’d had far too much occasion to use.
“There’s no topping that,” she murmured, leaning in. “Shall we call it a night?”
Yes. Then it hit him: Mrs. Martinelli. He needed to take her home first—all the way to Virginia. He sighed. But when he found her, sitting with Rosemarie, Lydia and the Clarks, she had a surprise for him.
“Miss Harper and Miss Dane have very kindly invited me to stay the night,” she said, baby Will soundly asleep on her lap. “Off you go, Omnimancer, Mrs. Blackwell! Don’t rush over tomorrow.”
He was perfectly willing to accept this fortunate turn of events.
They had to get to Pastor Hattington for the customary sendoff, but people kept stopping them on their way through the crowd.
Mrs. Richards wished them great joy and said how fondly she remembered her own newlywed days, but that time was long ago, of course, as her joints continually reminded her, and oh, could he make something to help with those aches when he had time?
Miss Hennessey said she’d just received word that she passed the exam for nursing school with high marks, “and thank you very much, Omnimancer, for encouraging me!” Mr. Delarose, who once berated Beatrix for not bumping his non-emergency brewing request to the front of the line, said he hoped Peter would feel comfortable accepting a dinner invitation, “now that you’re safe from all the feminine scheming, har har! ”
They’d finally gotten within reach of Pastor Hattington when Dale Kirkland stepped between them.
“Wanted to tell you a funny story,” the farmer said, a wry smile on his face.
“Could we possibly hear it tomorrow?” Peter asked a bit desperately. “It’s getting late, you see …”
Kirkland’s smile went even more wry. “Pastor,” he said, tapping Hattington on the shoulder, “say goodnight to these two and send them off right quick, will you?”
A minute later, as the assembled clapped and cheered, Peter and Beatrix stepped onto Main Street—as dark and empty as the church was light and full.
Even Rydell’s watcher had abandoned his post. They had counted on someone being there to tell, unfortunately, because the public did need to know they were married lest stories about Beatrix “seen entering Omnimancer Blackwell’s house at night and exiting the next morning” end up in print.
“Of course,” Peter grumbled, “the one time we want someone to be sitting there …”
Beatrix rummaged in her purse and handed him a scrap of paper with Rydell’s number on it. “Best use the pay phone.”
The columnist wasn’t at the other end of the line, but his answering service picked up.
“Mr. Rydell’s phone!” a woman chirped. “Give me the dirt and I’ll get it to him!”
He wondered if anyone had literally given Rydell dirt. Down the back of his shirt, for instance. “This is Peter Blackwell. I’ve got—”