“Do we want to tell Boone about Isaac’s involvement?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know. I can’t think.”
“It would clear your mother’s name.”
“But at what cost? I think my mother knew the shooter was him, know it was Isaac. I think she’s been trying to protect him. If my brother goes to jail for this, she would never forgive me.”
“What if Isaac—”
“I don’t want to talk about Isaac,” she said suddenly. “He’s . . . living his life. And that doesn’t include me or us.” She affixed one of those smiles to her face that didn’t reach her eyes. “How about you? Do you regret how we got married?”
I twisted my lips as I glanced at the blanket on her lap. “No. And yes.”
“Really?” She seemed surprised, and maybe a little disappointed.
“Jenn. Your instincts were sound.” I’d given the matter a good deal of thought while Jenn rested.
“What instincts?”
“You wanted a wedding that involved our families. And I don’t regret marrying you, obviously. But I think maybe we should do a do-over—”
“A do-over?”
“—yearly.”
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows jumped high on her forehead. “Excuse me? What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.” I braced my feet apart, preparing to pontificate. “Our love, our wedding, it can’t be contained by a single day of celebration.”
“That’s why folks have an engagement party, wedding shower, rehearsal dinner, and a wedding day. And anniversaries, Cletus.”
I waved away her statements as they were irrelevant to us. That typical course did not suit me. “No. No, that won’t do. We need yearly wedding days. Yearly vows. Yearly ceremonies and receptions. You convinced me.”
“I convinced you?”
“Do you think my family’s joy for our marriage can be contained to a single day? It might be the singular most important day in their lives, especially if we serve my sausage! And we want to limit it to just one day? That’s not fair to anyone. That’s selfish. Don’t you see? We should spread it out. Spread the love so it doesn’t overpower people.”
Jenn crossed her arms, her lips pressed together like she was working hard not to laugh. “You want never-ending weddings. That’s what you want?”
I nodded. “To you? Yes.”
“Says the man who wanted no wedding.”
“Ah, but you see—” I wagged a finger, crossing to where she rested, setting my coffee down on the table. Bending at the waist, I cupped her cheek and carefully brushed a kiss against her lips. “I’m saying, you were right.” I leaned back a few inches.
“I was right.” Her eyes, now warm, moved between mine. “About the wedding?”
“About the wedding, and so many other things.” With care, I pushed strands of her soft, unwashed hair away from her temple. The doctors said I’d have to help her wash it. I couldn’t wait. “But in this case, about the wedding, yes. You were right. And furthermore, if I had my way, every day would be our wedding day.”
Jenn smiled, her gaze sweet and dreamy. “Every day?” she asked, like the thought delighted her.
“Yes. Every day we’d wake up, George would come to the house, and he’d marry us in the morning. Every day, I want you to know that I would marry you, that I love and adore you no less but always more than the day before.”
She covered my hand on her cheek, her eyes filling with emotion. “Oh, Cletus. That’s so . . .” She never finished the thought. Instead, her attention dropped to my lips and her chin lifted by the barest fraction of an inch.
She wanted a kiss. I gave it to her and immediately wrestled restlessness, wanting to give her so much more. More kisses and presents and sausage and vacations and laughter and joy. I wanted to give her the best part of me, the best part of the world, the best of our future, right now, this very minute.
And again, as I often had to do when faced with this restlessness, I reminded myself that we had time.
But whatever it was, whenever and whatever she needed or wanted or craved, I would always and forever make sure it was hers. Just as I would be hers, always and forever.
Epilogue
*Jenn*
“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Three months after I’d been discharged from physical therapy, six months after all my casts and braces had been removed, twelve months after the accident, and over two years after I’d shown up on the Winston’s doorstep, threatening a bearded, frightfully clever, sinister man with blackmail if he didn’t help me find a husband, I married Cletus for a second time.
“Are you nervous?” Ashley fiddled with my veil, locking eyes with me in the mirror.
“I little,” I admitted, looking at myself. It was the dress I’d chosen while shopping with my momma. I’d lost some inches and gained some muscle since we’d picked it out, so I had to have it taken in, but I still loved how I looked in it just the same.
It resembled the dress Grace Kelly had worn to her wedding in the 1950s, except the lacy, long-sleeve portion could be removed, revealing a strapless bodice beneath. I loved everything about it from the big puffy skirt to the dainty lace details to the row of silk buttons.
“You look like a princess,” Ashley whispered, somehow both giddy and reverent. She’d agreed to be my matron of honor (again), and I was so grateful. “I’m so glad y’all decided to do this.”
As I studied myself in the mirror—the veil, the tiara, the little silk gloves ending at the wrist—I agreed, but maybe not for the reasons Ashley thought.
George wouldn’t be officiating. He was already booked for an event in Nashville and didn’t want to fly all the way to Washington State for a short, ten-minute ceremony. But the Winstons had come. Billy, Jethro, Ben, and a pregnant Sienna; Drew, Ashley, and baby Bethany; Beau and Shelly; Duane and Jess; and, of course, Roscoe.
They all made the time to fly up and meet us in Seattle. We all cruised to a big old Victorian on low-bank waterfront, facing westward, on one of the San Juan Islands. We then spent a week fishing, clamming, visiting, and going for walks on the pebble beach.
That was why I agreed with Ashley. Here we were, surrounded by folks who loved us (and no folks who didn’t), having a splendid time. After the ceremony, we’d have a clam bake and sausage roast on the beach. I’d made my vanilla cookies and lemon custard cakes for dessert. We would all dance beneath lanterns and stars, tell family stories, and drink champagne.
I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect wedding day.
A knock sounded on the door, and a moment later Billy poked his head in, his eyes closed. “Is everyone decent?”
Ashley answered for both of us, “Of course. And we’re dressed too.”
He chuckled, opening his eyes and blinking the room into focus. When his eyes came to me, they widened, and he blinked some more, like I was a sight to behold.