Chapter 31
Taz
The horse is not helping.
"You're supposed to look supportive," I tell her. "Encouraging. Instead you're just standing there judging me."
Willow flicks her tail and continues staring like I've lost my mind.
"I, Tazio Williams, take you, Molly Edward—" I try again.
"The horse still isn't buying it," a voice says from the doorway.
I turn. Eli is leaning against the barn door, grinning like this is the funniest thing he's seen all week. Which, knowing Eli's life, it probably is.
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask.
"Long enough." He pushes off the door and walks over, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You nervous?"
"I got married the first time at twenty-eight," I tell him. "I was terrified then. Why would I be nervous now?"
"Because this time you know what it means?" Eli asks.
Damn. He's not wrong.
"I just want to get it right," I say.
"Then say what you mean," Eli tells me. "Molly isn't out there grading your delivery."
"You've never watched her correct a honey label," I tell him.
Eli scratches Willow behind the ear. "All right. Spell her name correctly and remember to breathe. Those are my professional notes."
The barn smells like hay and leather and the horses I've been neglecting since Clem was born. I should be up at the farmhouse helping set up chairs, or down in the meadow making sure the arch didn't fall over, or anywhere except here talking to livestock.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Six-forty-five," Eli says. "Ceremony's at seven-thirty. Pink Moment's at eight."
"I should go," I say.
"You should. But first—" Eli pulls a flask from his pocket. "Just a little. For the nerves you definitely don't have."
I take it. Bourbon, good stuff, the kind Eli keeps for special occasions. It burns going down.
"Thanks," I tell him.
"That's what family's for." He takes the flask back. "Also, your mom's been crying since noon. Just so you're prepared."
"She cried when we got engaged," I say. "Both times."
"She's going to cry at the ceremony too," Eli says. "And probably the reception. And when Clem throws her petals. Basically, bring tissues."
I check my reflection in the chrome of a tack hook: tie straight, hair mostly cooperating, nothing obviously wrong. I look like a man about to get married for the second time to the same woman, which is exactly what I am.
"Eli," I say.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"Thank you. For being here. For—" I clear my throat. "For all of it."
"Wouldn't miss it." His voice is softer now, no joke in it. "You're my friend. Molly's my friend. This is the best day I've had all year."
"Better than the tour?" I ask.
"I didn't cry on tour," he says.
We walk back to the house together, and Eli's right: my mother is crying before I even reach the porch. She's in a pale yellow dress with a blue brooch pinned to her collar, and her hands are already shaking as she reaches for my tie.
"I left it loose in case you wanted a turn," I tell her.
"Smart boy." She fixes it, steps back, frowns, and fixes it again. She cries both times. Her fingers linger. "Your father hated this part. Said a tie was a halter with ambitions."
"He'd have taken it off before the photographs," I say.
"I'd have put it back on." She looks up at me, smiling through tears. "He would have loved today, Taz. Seeing you here with your family."
I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.
She pats my tie once more, and then she's hugging me, tight and fierce and nothing like the proper society woman she pretends to be at charity events.
"I'm proud of you," she whispers. "So proud."
"Thanks, Mom," I tell her.
"Now go," she says, giving me a little push. "The meadow's ready. Everyone's waiting."
The meadow sits between the farmhouse and Juniper Hill, exactly where Molly wanted it.
The arch I built stands at the far end: ranch oak, sanded smooth, wrapped with sweet peas and white roses that Az spent two days arranging.
Chairs line the aisle, filled with people I've known my whole life: Rita from the feed store, the church ladies who used to bring casseroles after my father died, Rudy in a suit that's at least two sizes too small and looks like it might be from the eighties.
Rita catches my eye from the second row and gives me one grudging nod. Rudy lifts two fingers off his knee. One of the church ladies, the one who crossed Ojai Avenue to avoid me in August, pats the empty seat beside her like she's saving it for my father.
I take my place under the arch. The minister, old Pastor Hayes, who married my parents forty years ago, gives me a nod.
"Nervous?" he asks quietly.
"Terrified," I tell him.
"Good," Hayes says. "Means you're taking it seriously."
The music starts, an acoustic track Eli recorded for us, just guitar and his voice, gentle enough that it doesn't drown out the sounds of the valley: birds, wind, the distant hum of Molly's bees.
My mother comes down the aisle first, guiding Clem by one hand.
My daughter is wearing a bee tutu, her mother's idea, and she's got a basket of petals clutched in her chubby fists.
She's eleven months old and doesn't understand what's happening, but she knows this is important because everyone is watching her.
"Ba!" she announces, and throws a handful of petals at Rita's face.
The crowd laughs. My mother laughs. I laugh, and some of the tension bleeds out of my shoulders.
Maggie lifts her onto her hip, and Clem throws more petals at the church ladies, who coo like she's done a magnificent thing. She throws one more handful directly onto the ground in front of her, then decides she's done and reaches for me.
"Come here, monster," I say, taking her from my mother. She grabs my tie immediately, the tie Mom just fixed, and tries to eat it.
And then Molly appears at the end of the aisle.
She's wearing cream. Simple, no train, nothing like the dress she wore eight years ago. Her hair is down, the way I like it, and she's carrying wildflowers from her grandmother's field.
I forget every line on the paper in my pocket.
She walks alone. No one giving her away, because she's not being given; she's coming to me by her own choice, on her own land, exactly the way she wanted.
I try to remember how to breathe.
Clem makes a delighted sound when she sees her mother and reaches out with both hands. Molly laughs, takes her, settles her on one hip like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi," I say.
"You look good," she tells me.
"You look—" My voice breaks. I clear my throat. "You're here."
"Where else would I be?" she asks.
Pastor Hayes starts speaking, the usual words about gathered here today and the renewal of commitment, but I'm barely listening. I'm watching Molly's face. The way she smiles at Clem. The way she glances at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"The couple has written their own vows," Hayes says. "Tazio?"
I reach for the paper in my pocket. Version eight, the one I finally settled on at three this morning. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unfold it.
"Molly," I start. "Eight years ago—"
And then I hear it.
A hum. Low at first, barely audible over the wind. But it's growing, getting louder and closer.
Molly's head turns toward the arch. "Oh."
The swarm hits the oak beam like a wave.
Bees. Thousands of them, pouring onto the arch in a living brown cloud, clustering around the sweet peas, settling into a pulsing mass exactly where the roses were a moment ago.
Someone screams. One of the church ladies, I think. The whole crowd erupts into chaos: people jumping from chairs, knocking them over, diving under tables that aren't really meant for hiding.
"Nobody move!" Molly shouts.
They don't listen. Rita is already halfway to the parking area. Rudy is trying to climb a tree. Two of the church ladies have disappeared entirely under the refreshment table.
"Stay calm," Molly says, but she's laughing. She can't help it. She's standing at the altar with our daughter on her hip and a swarm of bees three feet from her head, and she's laughing.
"Mama," Clem says, pointing at the swarm.
"I know, baby," Molly tells her. "They're just looking for a home."
I hand her my vow paper without thinking. "Hold this."
"Taz—" she starts.
"I've got it," I tell her.
I move toward the arch. The bees are clustered now, settled, vibrating gently against the wood. They're not aggressive; swarming bees rarely are, but they're definitely not leaving on their own.
"Someone get me a Sagebloom crate!" I shout.
Footsteps. Az running toward the garden shed, returning a minute later with an empty box.
"Are you insane?" she hisses.
"Probably," I say.
I take the crate. Walk slowly toward the swarm. They're warm against the air, buzzing in that particular way that means they're calm, just confused.
"Hey," I say quietly. "Wrong place for a house."
I reach up. Scoop them off the arch in one smooth motion, the way Molly taught me years ago, bare-handed and confident, showing no fear.
They don't sting.
The cluster comes free in my hands, heavy and alive and humming against my palms, and I carry them to the crate like I've been doing this my whole life. I set them inside the ventilated box, close it, and carry it to the edge of the meadow.
One bee stays. She's on my lapel, wandering across the fabric like she's inspecting my outfit choices.
"Stay there," I tell her. "You can be my witness."
I walk back to the altar. To Molly, who's staring at me with a look I can't quite name.
"Don't put that on a Sagebloom brochure," Molly says. "People will expect swarm removal with every ceremony."
"I'll refer them to my wife," I say. "I'm booked."
She looks at my hands, then into my face. "You remembered what I taught you."
"Eleven years with you, Mol," I tell her. "You'd hope a little would stick."
Her laugh comes out wet. She reaches for my hand, careful of the bee still examining my lapel, and for a second we forget the audience.
Rita edges back toward her chair. "Is it safe?"
"The box is away from the seats," Molly says. "Let any stragglers pass. Please don't swat at them."