Caviar and Lemon Drops

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

By Jean Oram

Women’s fiction ~ 97,000 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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CHAPTER ONE
(April)

IN THE NOT TOO DISTANT FUTURE
Beth

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

“Mom,” warned Beth’s sister, Cynthia.

“It’s true,” her mother said.

“You promised.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Beth said. “I’m doing this.” She kept her back turned, the scent of her bouquet overtaking her as she pulled in a slow, restricted breath.

“Don’t be so fatalistic.” Her mother gave Beth’s back a light tap. “And cut it out. I can’t do up these impossible buttons when you horse around with deep breathing.”

Beth focused on the faded wallpaper, willing the church’s tiny upstairs dressing room to fill with enough oxygen to prevent her from passing out.

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

Cynthia strode over, still half-dressed. “Yeah, your Nash sure can sure pick a gown.”

“With a little help.” 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.

“Your wig looks very real.”

Cynthia turned away, a frown slicing through her good humor. “Don’t look at me with fearful doe eyes. I’m not contagious.”

“Seeing as we have share genes, it may as well be.”

“Girls, enough! Beth, you are not a genetically predisposed time bomb. Cynthia, quit prancing around in that poor excuse for a robe and go put on your dress.”

“Fine. If you need me–for anything–” Cynthia shot their mom a warning look, “I’ll be down the hall.” She turned from the doorway and waggled a finger. “And don’t mess with her head. This is a good thing.”

“Cynthia, enough!”

Beth paced the cramped room, holding up a hand to ward off the you-can-talk-to-me looks her mother kept shooting her. Wall. Pivot. Pace to the next wall. Pivot. Repeat.

A ruckus of male voices drifted up from the churchyard and Beth pivoted away from the cross-stitch that preached: “For the wife does not rule over her own body, but the husband does….”

Seriously. Who thought that Bible quote would be comforting for today’s bride?

She gave her arms a shake as she made her way across the bride’s waiting room. Another cross-stitch smacked her: “No servant can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other (Luke 16:13).” Her eyes flicked to the neighboring cross-stitch: “Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day (Matthew 6:34).”

“Jesus Christ. Doesn’t the Bible have anything a little more upbeat?”

Her mother gave her a disapproving look. “Beth. This is a place of God. Show some respect.”

Beth resumed pacing. Her mother, a well-known chatterbox and family counselor, opened her mouth as if to speak, then appeared to change her mind. Beth had expected her to be brimming with sentimental moment-makers that would cause them both to tear up, and for her to crumple into her mother’s arms like an unstarched shirt. Possibly, her mother couldn’t decide which telephone commercial to emulate. Either that or her mother was more nervous than she’d realized.

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.

Her mother let out a heavy sigh.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” she asked without turning from the window.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You seem 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-pitched 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. “You’re going to have kids and live happily ever after.”

Hubbub rose from outside. Beth stopped worrying her diamond bracelet and looked out the window. Only a few guests hurriedly picking their way across the street’s boggy slush.

She 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 skirt and shouldered past her mother.

“It’s not time yet! He can’t see you! It’s bad luck!”

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, Oz, wasn’t drunk. He ducked, dodging the punch, throwing Nash off balance. Nash’s shoes lost traction on the icy steps and his body twisted as he arched through the air. His mouth stretched 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. 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. Please contact Jean for any copying or distribution of this material.