“But I work hard, and I’m healthy and strong,” Tug continues. “A catch for any woman. But, see, I don’t want any woman. I want you, Miss Mary. To be my wife. You’re the nicest, handsomest, uppittiest woman I ever knew, and it’d make me the happiest man in the world if you said yes.”
And then, Tug shocks us all by clearing his throat again and letting loose a long string of Chinese. No one gapes more than Mary.
Tug grins. “Been practicing that for months, with the help of some of my friends here. You’ll always be smarter than me, and I’m sure I bungled that a fair piece, but . . . maybe you can teach me true?”
Silence reigns in the tavern.
I lean toward Jefferson and whisper, “He’s never proposed like that before. He must really love her.”
Jefferson whispers back, “Mary is the only thing he’s been talking about for the last two months.”
Finally Mary unclenches her hands, lifts her chin, and says, “Mr. Tuggle, I would be honored to become your wife.”
Tears brim over in Tug’s eyes, and suddenly all the Buckeyes are whooping and hollering like it’s the Fourth of July.
“Two weddings in Glory this year!” I say, delighted.
“Three,” says a voice at my ear. It’s the Major, slipping onto the bench beside Jeff and me. “Becky said yes,” he explains. “But we prefer to keep things quiet for now. We’ll wait until her husband has been gone from us a whole year, God rest his soul.”
Jefferson claps him on the back, as I reach out to take his hand. “That’s wonderful news, Major,” I tell him.
From her place at the stove, Becky bangs a pair of tongs against a kettle, creating enough racket that everyone falls silent again.
She announces, “In honor of the upcoming nuptials of my dearest friends, everyone gets free seconds today!”
And once again, the miners cheer wildly. I get to my feet. “Becky is going to need my help,” I say to Jefferson.
“And mine,” Jefferson says. “Just put me to work.”
The next afternoon, Becky helps me don my ridiculous spun-sugar wedding gown. We’re getting ready inside her brand-new house—well, old house, I suppose—which has a porch, two rooms, a loft, and three windows. Her honeymoon cottage, shipped all the way from Tennessee.
We stand before a long floor mirror in a silver frame, and I can hardly believe such a fragile, frivolous thing made it to California unscathed.
“You sure you don’t mind?” I ask Becky as she cinches my waist so tight I can hardly breathe.
“Of course not. This is the nicest house in all of Glory. You and Jefferson should enjoy it as newlyweds for at least a week.” She works the ribbons in back, forming a perfect bow. “I’ll take the house back soon enough, don’t you worry. But Wally and Wilhelm and the Buckeyes worked so hard putting this place together; I reckon the whole town will want to see it put to good use right away.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It seems as though Mama is looking back at me—those same golden-brown eyes, the same golden-brown hair, that strong, stubborn chin. My hand goes toward my throat, reaching for a locket that’s no longer there. I don’t imagine that I’ll ever get used to its absence.
Olive steps forward with a bouquet of wildflowers—mustard, poppies, blue lupine, and purple paintbrush. “I made this for you,” she says shyly.
“Olive, this is beautiful. The best wedding bouquet I’ve ever seen.”
The girl’s cheeks blush rosy. “I made a littler one for Minnie, too,” she says.
“Minnie?” I give Becky a questioning look.
Becky frowns at her oldest, but it’s empty of true vexation. “I was going to wait until after the wedding to tell you,” she says. “I’ve named my daughter.”
I can hardly believe it. After all this time. “Becky, that’s wonderful. Minnie, is it?”
“Minerva.”
“From the California seal.”
“Exactly. I wanted a strong name for her.”
“Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom,” Olive informs me solemnly. “I’m the big sister, so I have to teach her to be wise.”
“I can’t think of a better teacher.”
The dinner bell rings, even though no meal is being served right now.
“It’s time!” Becky says. “You look lovely. Ready to go?”
“I’ve kept that boy waiting long enough.” I just hope I don’t drown in lace before I can get myself properly hitched.
Becky leads me from the house, Olive following behind. Mary meets me at the door, dressed in a pretty gown of soft yellow. We are the four women of Glory, and we make a brightly colored but careful procession toward the Worst Tavern.
All the people I love in the world are already seated—Jim Boisclair, who has opened up a new general store right here in Glory, the Major with his future stepdaughter in his arms, Hampton, even Wilhelm and the Buckeyes. The college men have returned: Henry and Tom for a visit, but Jasper is here to stay. Tom waits at the front beneath the awning. He is licensed to perform wedding ceremonies now, and I’ll have no one else. Henry gazes up at him adoringly from the first row.
Beside Tom stands Jefferson, and my heart tumbles a little. His straight black hair is fresh from a wash, his skin bronzed from working outside so much, his eyes bright with anticipation. I hate to admit it, but Becky and Henry were right. Plum is the perfect color for him, and I etch this moment in my mind, so that later I’ll be able to pull it from my memory and treasure it.
Nailed to the wall behind Tom is our town charter, neatly framed. At Jeff’s feet sit Nugget and Coney. I can safely say I’ve never attended a wedding with dogs before, but everything is different in California.
As I reach the front, Jefferson whispers, “You’re right. You look like a pastry.”
I grin up at him, wondering if any moment could be more golden than this one.
“I mean, you look really pretty, Lee. The prettiest girl in the land.” He would know. He’s seen a whole continent.
Tom begins. “Dearly beloved . . .”
It’s going to be a quick ceremony, because Jefferson and I aren’t fancy people. It’s not the wedding that’s important to us, it’s the marriage. It’s working together for the rest of our lives. It’s knowing someone so deeply that facing the unknown together isn’t dark and dangerous, but instead beautiful and bright.
I place my hand in Jefferson’s, mouthing the words I hardly ever say, even though I feel them with my whole heart, for him, for my friends, for my home.
Author’s Note
The descriptions of San Francisco owe much to the careful attention of journalist Bayard Taylor and his book Eldorado, originally published in 1850. Taylor traveled from New York to California in 1849 to report for the New York Tribune. I relied on the annotated edition, Eldorado: Adventures in the Path of Empire, published in 2000 by Santa Clara University and Heydey Books.