1: Caviar and Lemon Drops

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(Former working title: There’s No Place Like Home)

By Jean Oram

Women’s fiction ~ 93,000 words

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All Beth wants to do is get married, have her two kids, and live happily ever after in the backwoods town of Elvis. She figures she has it in the bag—until her fiancé drives off a bridge.

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Part 1:

IN THE NOT TOO DISTANT FUTURE
(April)

Beth

“A year ago, Beth, I expected to be putting you in a wedding gown for another man.” Her mother drew another pearl button through its tight hole, further diminishing her daughter’s ability to breathe.

“Mom,” warned Beth’s sister, Cynthia.

“It’s true,” her mother said.

“You promised.”

“Quit it. I’m doing this,” Beth said quietly. She kept her back turned, the scent of her bouquet invading her nostrils as she pulled in a long, restricted breath.

“Cut it out.” Her mother gave Beth’s back a light tap. “I can’t do up these impossible buttons when you horse around.”
Beth focused on the faded wallpaper, willing the church’s tiny upstairs dressing room to fill with enough oxygen to keep her from hyperventilating.

Her mom squeezed the last button through its hole and spun Beth around, beaming, hand to her chest. “You look beautiful.”

Cynthia strode over, still half-dressed. “Your Nash sure can sure pick a wedding dress.”

Beth patted her slick chignon with trembling fingers. “I look okay?”

“Like a princess.” Cynthia tossed her wavy hair, leaving it tousled, sexy, and perfect in a way that made Beth think of champagne and movie stars.

“Cynthia,” their mother said, “didn’t Beth ask you to put on your dress?”

“If you need me—for anything—” she shot their mom a warning look, “I’ll be down the hall.” She turned from the doorway and waggled a finger. “Don’t mess with her head.”

“Cynthia, enough!”

Beth took a slow breath to calm herself, and paced the cramped room, ignoring the ruckus of male voices drifting up from the churchyard. She pivoted on her heel and drifted to the faded cross-stitch on the south-facing wall. How many generations of brides had nervously awaited their future from this room?

Her mother, well-known chatterbox and family counselor, was silent. Beth had expected her to brim with a sentimental moment-maker that would cause them both to tear up and her to crumple into her mother’s arms like an unstarched shirt. Maybe her mother couldn’t decide which telephone commercial to emulate.

Beth swished to the window seat to spy on arriving guests. She cleared a circle on the foggy window and looked for the rowdy groomsmen who, in all likelihood, were trying to get in some pigskin time before their adult wedding duties commenced. Unable to see the cause of the earlier commotion, Beth plunked down in the seat, her dress billowing up around her like a sea of whipped cream. She had been hoping for spring flowers and sunshine for her wedding day, but last night Mother Nature presented her with a surprise layer of snow that wrapped the trees and lawn like a sparkling wedding gift.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You look nervous. You’re not nervous, are you?” Beth teased half-heartedly.

Her mother ceased marching back and forth in front of the room’s exit and let out an abrupt, high laugh. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. You’re the one getting married, not me.”

She came over and adjusted Beth’s necklace, frown lines creasing her cheeks.

Hubbub rose below. Beth stopped worrying her diamond tennis bracelet and peered out the window. Only a few guests hurriedly picking their way across the street’s growing river of boggy slush.

Beth tried to suck in a deep breath. If she could breathe properly, everything would feel better. Everything would feel right.

Below, she caught a flash of black tuxedo and shouts filtered up through the snow laden trees. She stood, nose pressed to the damp window and gasped.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Her mother leaned against her in an attempt to see.

Beth gathered the folds of her dress and shouldered past her mother.

“It’s not time! The bridesmaids haven’t come and gotten you. You can’t go! He can’t see you!”

Beth wrenched on the heavy door and took the stairs as fast as she could, restricted by her heels and fluttering tulle. She reached the front doors of the church in time to witness her fiancé, Nash, throw a punch at her ex-fiancé.

But for once, her ex wasn’t drunk. Oz ducked, dodging the punch, throwing Nash off balance. Nash’s shoes lost their traction on the icy steps. His body twisted as he arched through the air, his mouth stretching into a perfect, comical looking O.

In slow motion he landed head first, his body grinding into the sidewalk like a broken bird falling from the sky.

A scream broke the silence.

Who was screaming? She should be the one screaming. It was her day. Her drama. Her fiancé.

It was her. She was screaming.

And she couldn’t stop.

Her voice cracked and the sound died out. The gathering crowd stepped back as she pushed towards the unconscious heap. Gingerly she touched Nash’s face, looking up at a colorless Oz being herded back by a dark wall of groomsmen.

“Nash! Nash!” She pulled at his shoulders and gained no response. She tentatively touched the back of his head and withdrew blood-covered fingers.

There wasn’t enough oxygen. She couldn’t breathe.

Everything went black.

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Copyright Jean Oram 2008. Please contact Jean for any copying or distribution of this material.