Chapter 33
On a damp Saturday afternoon, Dorinda Donovan became Dorinda St. Clair. She’d been dating Joel for a year when he took her to an upscale steakhouse, treated her to a bottle of Shiraz, and dropped to his knee. Of course she said yes. What else could a woman say?
The church was tiny, run-down in its own charmed way. The guest list was even tinier, the slightest cough drawing every eye in the chapel. But Dorinda and Joel were wrapped up in the future rolling out before them, their joyous specters trotting down it.
The kiss, when Joel was allowed it, wouldn’t have been appropriate for church on any other occasion, but today was a special day.
One that would never come again. His father hadn’t been so discerning: four marriages and four divorces later, he overdosed in his car.
Joel always told people it wasn’t the drugs but the heartbreak that did it. The drugs only followed after all.
So, before Pastor Greene, Joel not only vowed to be with Dorinda forever but vowed to outrun the sadness that tripped up his father. He’d get married and stay married. He’d be happy.
The reception was in the basement. White tablecloths smoothed over round folding tables, roses bunched at the centers.
The church had over-ordered, so there was enough food to feed three times the number of guests.
Lobster mac and cheese, crab cakes, salmon croquettes.
Dorinda and Joel always said they were joined together by two things: their common sense and their love of seafood.
Their first dance was to “A House Is Not a Home.” Dorinda, drunk-silly on wine, twirled away in her cream dress.
Just as the helpers were cleaning up, a tropical storm blew through the city. The lights flickered out in the basement, the music cut off mid-song. Most of the guests had gone home by then, taking a plate of food with them, but the rest would spoil.
Dorinda and Joel snuck up to the balcony, watching the rain strike the window.
Dorinda let her head fall on Joel’s broad shoulder.
They looked like two brown dolls on top of a cake.
He sang her favorite songs. Thanks to years in the church choir as a boy, his voice wasn’t half-bad.
He never talked about his childhood, so she assumed it wasn’t good.
She held this small glimpse of a young Joel in a robe on Sundays close to her chest. That night, they curled up together, making out like teenagers in the pews until the storm passed, as storms do.