The morning of the big day, they wrapped white twinkle lights around each column of the pavilion and moved the tables covered in white lace out onto the lawn lining the pavilion so the concrete floor beneath the pavilion could serve as the dance floor. They filled yellow vases with daisies for centerpieces and tied yellow balloons to every chair.
They put daisies in the church, too. Fern was the maid of honor, and Rita had let her pick her own dress in whatever shade of yellow she wished. Fern found Bailey a yellow tie to match and he escorted her down the aisle in his wheelchair. Fern carried a bouquet of the cheerful flowers, and Bailey had a daisy pinned to his black suit coat.
Becker wore black as well, a yellow rose pinned to his lapel that matched the roses in Rita's bouquet. His hair was swept back from his high cheek-boned face, reminding Fern of Ambrose and the way his hair had fallen to his shoulders like a young Adonis. Ambrose's long hair was gone now, and Ambrose was gone too.
She still thought about him more than she should. He'd been in Iraq for a year. In fact, it had been eighteen months since he first left for basic training. Marley Davis, Jesse's girlfriend, attended the wedding and she told Fern the boys had only six months left on their tour. Marley said Jesse had asked her to marry him when he got home. She seemed thrilled at the prospect. Jesse Jr. was the same age as Rita's baby, Tyler. But where Ty favored his mother, baby Jesse favored his daddy, his brown skin and kinky black hair making him a little replica of his father. He was adorable, happy and healthy, and already a handful for his young mother.
When Rita walked down the aisle and made her solemn vows to Becker Garth and he repeated them in return, both sacred and sweet, Fern felt her heart swell in hope for her friend. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe Becker loved her like he said he did. And maybe love would be enough. Maybe the promises he was making would inspire him to be a better man.
From the look on Bailey's face, he didn't hold out much hope. Bailey sat beside Fern in the front row, his wheel chair parked at the end of the long pew, his expression as wooden as the bench. After all, he and Rita were friends too, and he worried just like Fern. Bailey had been subdued since Rita's announcement. Fern knew he had feelings for Rita. But she thought he'd moved beyond them, sort of the way she'd outgrown her infatuation with Ambrose Young. And maybe that was his problem . . . because Fern really hadn't outgrown anything. But Rita was a mother now, tied to Becker in a way that was permanent and final. Still, old feelings had a way of resurfacing just when you thought they were gone forever.
“’Til death do us part,” Rita promised, her face lovely in its sincerity.
When Becker kissed her smiling lips, sealing the deal, Bailey closed his eyes, and Fern reached for his hand.
It only took about three months before Rita drifted out of sight. The occasions she was seen in public with her husband, she kept her eyes carefully averted and other times wore sunglasses even when it was raining. Fern called regularly and even stopped by Rita's duplex a few times. But her visits seemed to make Rita nervous. Once Fern swore she saw Rita pull into her garage just before Fern arrived, yet Rita didn't answer the door when she knocked.
Things improved slightly when Becker got a job where he traveled for several days at a time. Rita even called and took Fern to lunch on her birthday. They ate enchiladas at Luisa's Cocina, and Rita smiled brightly and reassured Fern that everything was just fine when Fern asked gently if she was okay. According to Rita, everything was just wonderful--perfect. But Fern didn't believe her.
Fern didn't tell Bailey about her fears for Rita. She didn't want to upset him, and what could he do? Fern saw Becker every once in a while at the store, and though he was polite and always greeted her with a smile, Fern didn't like him. And he seemed to know it. He was always perfectly groomed, every dark hair in place, his handsome face clean-shaven, his clothes crisp and stylish. But it was all packaging. And Fern was reminded of the analogy of the grease her father had shared with Elliott Young once upon a time. Fern couldn't have been more than fourteen, but the lesson had stuck.
Elliott Young looked nothing like his son. He was short, maybe 5'8 at the most. His blond hair had thinned until he'd finally shaved it off. His eyes were a soft blue, his nose a little flat, his smile always at the ready. Today he wasn't smiling, and his eyes were heavily ringed, like he hadn't slept well in a long time.
“Hi, Mr. Young,” Fern said, a question in her voice.
“Hi, Fern. Is your dad home?” Elliott didn't make a move to enter even though Fern held the screen door wide in welcome.
“Dad?” Fern called toward her dad's office. “Elliott Young is here to see you.”
“Invite him in Fern!” Joshua Taylor called from the recesses of the room.