Dear Diary, I'm In Love Read online

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in going from store to store, in discussing the list of suitable honeymoon sites and accompanying travel plans, in savoring all the details of the coming wedding.

  ***

  Hidden away in one of the rear pews in a couple of the very few seats they’d found empty, Jeannine and her companion both had to admit it was the most extravagant wedding they had ever seen. “I haven’t heard much from Marsha since the day she made the big decision, but it looks as though Daddy Thornton went all out to provide this display. And the crowd! I can’t even imagine what the reception will be like if all these people have been invited,” Jeannine whispered.

  The bride and groom were strikingly attractive. Marsha was radiant in her lacy white bridal gown and veil. Jed Otto III could easily have passed for a Vogue model, looking as though he had just stepped out of a full-page Land’s End advertisement.

  Jeannine recognized only a handful of people at the reception, which indeed went far beyond her imagination. She watched as the photographers, both amateur and professional, spent enormous amounts of film, electronic storage and videotape on the couple, on the respective parents, on all the attendants, including the ring bearer and the flower girls as well as on anyone else coming into lens range. And the traditional ceremonies of throwing the garter and the bouquet, followed by the first waltz—all provided ample photo opportunities.

  Most impressive was the food steadily being replenished by the uniformed caterers. In the midst of an enormous table—piled high with crab legs, shrimp, dozens of different cheeses, and tureen after tureen of exotica—stood a six-tiered cake crowned with a surprisingly lifelike miniature bride and groom.

  Marsha’s parents—he looking like a typical, more or less successful businessman, she like a suburban matron—radiated pride as they posed for the cameras and camcorders. A few moments’ conversation with the father of the bride revealed that he had in fact impoverished himself for the sake of the wedding and was inordinately happy at having done so.

  Jed’s parents were quite different. His mother was a small person who appeared to be overwhelmed by the occasion, while his father was a big bluff individual—bald, but with an imposing presence. He had earlier circulated through the crowd, greeting everyone and introducing himself as the father of the groom. Jeannine’s impression, as he shook her hand while looking around for more important guests, was that the cuff of his shirt was slightly frayed. The impression was fleeting, since he quickly moved on.

  It was almost an hour into the reception in the crowded hall before Jeannine could command a moment’s exclusive attention from Marsha.

  Jeannine’s compliments on Marsha’s and Jed’s appearance were genuine and fulsome. “What are the honeymoon plans?” she asked.

  “Oh, we’re putting that off. Jed is representing The Club at a big racquet tournament, and we really can’t afford for me to take all that time off from work. I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping in touch, by the way. So busy with all the plans, you know.”

  Jeannine nodded. “That’s understandable. But then I’ve been busy with plans, too.”

  “Really? What?”

  At that moment a man with two drinks in his hands approached. Marsha, some surprise in her voice, exclaimed, “Frederick!” Then added, “I’m so glad you were able to attend.”

  Frederick smiled and handed Jeannine one of the glasses. “Beautiful wedding. Did Jeannine tell you about us? We’re getting married, too. Quiet affair. Only Jeannine’s family. Then it’s a world tour for our honeymoon. We’ll be gone at least two months. I talked Jeannine into quitting her job, so we can extend the trip if we want to, maybe six months or so.” He paused and held up his glass. “Hey! I should thank you. If it weren’t for you, I would never have met Jeannine. She’s the most wonderful woman in the world. I don’t know how I could have been so lucky as to find her.”

  Marsha turned to look sharply at Jeannine… who was smiling.

  ____________________

  BOX LUNCH RAFFLE

  The war was still the main topic of conversation in town, even though the armistice had been signed, the Kaiser had abdicated, President Wilson had negotiated the peace, and the doughboys had returned from France months ago. But, as he walked through the fair grounds, Zeb's mind was not occupied with thoughts of the war.

  He arrived early to find the best spot along the lee side of the poplar windbreak. He began to clean off the flower-strewn bench but thought better of it, deciding instead that the white dogwood petals were just right. All things considered, the day promised to be perfect. The sun had come up into a sky sprinkled with cottony puffs of clouds, the wind was just a whisper, the newly cut rye grass that had made way for the tents and displays filled the air with a sweet, fresh fragrance.

  Zeb had looked forward to this day for almost a year, and had carefully saved his money for the occasion. Every cent he'd earned working on Simpson's farm had gone into a bank account. What with the bank's one-percent interest and the five dollars Grandpa Jenks had given him for every birthday since he'd been a baby, the total amounted to exactly two-hundred-seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents.

  Zeb swore he would wager every cent of it today if need be, in spite of wanting to have as much left over as possible to help with college. Though he had received a scholarship to the state university, he would still have to scrimp and save. And then there was medical school that he was aiming for. But all that was in the distant future. Today was Spring Fair Day in Bardstown, the day when winning the raffle would mean that he would finally have a chance to sit down with Hester Markham and maybe even hold hands with her.

  It was hard to remember when he had first become aware of Hester. It must have been around his sophomore year in high school, the year when war was declared and the first young men left. Whatever he thought then, the two years that followed found him thoroughly captivated and intimidated by the slender, tall, blonde Hester. It had taken a supreme effort on his part to concentrate on studies when he actually ended up in the same class and only two seats behind her. She grew more beautiful with every passing day—and more remote.

  He was filled with fantasies. Of writing to her while away at college. Of coming home weekends to be with her. The thought of winter sleigh rides during Christmas break was almost more than he could bear, though. He played that scene over and over again in his mind. Serious, somber, lovely Hester occupied more and more of his thoughts.

  And, while he watched her blossoming into womanhood, he too had been changing. Slow to grow until his junior year, he suddenly shot up to near six-feet. He realized that the girls considered him a desirable boyfriend and possibly a worthwhile marital catch. Bardstown was still a rural community, and farming remained the occupation of most of the males in the area. Even though the new spur line connecting to the Baltimore & Ohio was bringing businesses to the community, few of the fifty or so Bardstown High School graduates thought beyond farming or went on to college each year. Fewer still were aiming as high as medical school. That ambition set Zeb apart and did much to enhance his matrimonial value.

  Hester was not one of his admirers, however. And, though Zeb was certainly not shy around girls, the coolly detached Hester seemed unapproachable. Rumors were that Lem Soares, the son of one of Bardstown's two attorneys, was in hot pursuit of Hester but, as far as Zeb could see, Hester showed no indication of showering favors on Lem, either.

  While there were dozens of opportunities for Zeb to meet Hester, he feared rejection so much that he didn't try. But Spring Fair promised to provide Zeb with the perfect opportunity for an introduction, one where rejection by Hester would not only be uncivil, but unthinkable.

  Spring Fair was the happening of the year in Bardstown. A carnival atmosphere prevailed but, for Zeb, the Box Lunch Raffle was the major event. The origins of the raffle were lost in the past. Essentially, it had consisted of the young, unmarried women baking something, displaying their products on a table and having the young, sing
le men bid on the food. The proceeds went to charity, the food went to the successful bidder, and the creator had the privilege of being the bidder's companion for the rest of the afternoon.

  The inherent problems with the left-over food and left-out young ladies soon brought about a change. Cakes became the preferred item, with the baker's name hidden in an envelope under the cake. This attempt at anonymous matching produced amusement in the audience and rapid and successful attempts at avoiding that anonymity. The frosted initials of favored suitors on some of the cakes finally led to the new measures of the Box Lunch Raffle.

  Under these rules, the efforts at maintaining the anonymity of the producers were mostly abandoned. Instead of cakes, box lunches for two became the subject of the auction, and the high school girls who supplied them were left free to submit the food in a plain box or in one with the fanciest of ribbons and decorations. The girl was then free to whisper the identifying features to one or more males, or could simply take her chances by not revealing hers to anyone.

  Zeb's fantasies didn't stretch far enough to include a Hester stopping him in the hall and telling him which box lunch was hers, but he had a foolproof scheme for winning the raffle's top prize in the making. Chet Wilkerson was the county's prime auctioneer and the inevitable choice to conduct the raffle. Word had sifted down to Zeb that Chet was amenable to certain forms of persuasion, and Chet's wife was the one who collected the box lunches from their creators.

  Five dollars changed hands, with the guarantee that the first box to go on the block would be Hester's. Zeb tried to figure out how many forks full of hay he'd had to pitch into old man Simpson's hay wagon to earn that five dollars.

  ***

  It had been an eventful morning at the fair. Doctor Wilbur arrived in his new car—what Henry Ford called a “Model T”—and the fairgoers, especially the children, flocked around it. Melvin George speculated on how much it must have cost, perhaps five hundred dollars or more, and his wife said it wasn't surprising that Doctor Wilbur could afford it, given that he charged a dollar for house calls.

  The greased pig contest drew encouragement and howls of laughter from the spectators, and the event was marred only by the young Martinson boy breaking a finger, which Doctor Wilbur dressed up with a splint and bandage that was the envy of Roger's friends.

  By noon, however, many in the crowd had become bored with the speakers, prize games and other entertainment, and excitement mounted now that the time for the raffle approached. From his platform above and behind the row of boxes lined up on the table, Chet began his spiel while holding the first prize high for all to admire. It was truly a lovely arrangement; one Zeb appreciated, convinced as he was immediately that it was the most attractive. He felt immense pleasure, mixed with pride, at seeing so much creativity, so much loving care expressed by someone he virtually worshipped.

  The auctioneer was more impressed with the size than the appearance of the entry—one of the largest up for auction. “The young fellow who gets this lunch won't go hungry. I can guarantee you that. Now, what am I bid for this beautiful prize? I'm sure the little lady who put it together is even more beautiful. C'mon, now, don't be bashful. Who's going to be the first to bid?”

  A voice hollered, “One dollar.” Zeb curbed his impatience and didn't raise his hand until Chet called for three dollars. Someone off to his right then immediately bid four. Zeb hand-signaled five, and several in the crowd cheered.

  Behind him, Zeb heard a male voice saying, “Dern young fools. They're betting on a pig in a poke.” Zeb grinned to himself, and didn't hesitate to go on to seven dollars, a bid which brought whistles of disbelief from the onlookers. Zeb was almost disappointed when the bidding stopped there. He somehow felt that this wasn't a sufficiently painful sacrifice for the reward he was receiving.

  Chet's voice rang out. “Sold! To the tall and handsome young man in the front row.” Ears burning, Zeb moved forward, accepted the box and, following protocol, carefully removed the envelope from among the decorations and handed it to the auctioneer.

  Chet made the opening of it a ritual, paused dramatically, and then announced, “The lucky lady is. . .” Zeb's mouth became pucker dry. “Miss Mary Anne Lacey.”

  It couldn't be! It just couldn't be! Five dollars plus seven dollars of precious college money wasted. How could he possibly have gotten the wrong box? Had Chet's wife made a mistake? The auction resumed, but Zeb was immobilized.

  And who was Mary Anne Lacey? Dimly, Zeb pictured a short, freckle-faced, redheaded, noisy young girl—someone he'd seen at school but could barely place. A hand on his arm brought the picture home.

  “Hi, Zeb. I'm real pleased that you picked me.”

  Somehow they managed to work their way out of the crowd, with Mary Anne leading and Zeb carrying the fateful lunch under his arm. He had really been in no condition to take any initiative. On the very bench under the flowering dogwood he had scouted that morning, they sat with the box lunch opened between them. He knew he wouldn't even be able to swallow, but he had to make a pretense. All he could think of were his now hopeless fantasies of letters from college, of sleigh rides in the winter.

  Though Zeb was in no condition to appreciate it, Mary Anne's appearance was spectacular. Her long red hair was gracefully draped over one shoulder, making a striking contrast to the pastel green blouse and the forest green cotton skirt she was wearing.

  Her first words were, “There's some hot coffee here.” She removed the cloth wrappings around the already insulated coffee flask as she said, “I know you like yours black, and I put in a lot.” She smiled, and Zeb reacted automatically. But Lem Soares's sudden emergence from the crowd, guiding Hester with his hand on her arm to a nearby bench, wiped Zeb's own smile away along with the fleeting notion that Mary Anne had a nice smile. All Zeb could think of was that Lem had somehow had the fool luck to bid on and win the box lunch that Zeb had so desperately wanted.

  Rising anger left him only half aware that Mary Anne was offering him coffee. But the smell broke through and reminded him that he'd left home without breakfast, so anxious had he been to find Chet and make the necessary arrangements. He took the cup and sipped at the steaming liquid. The taste tempted him to try the potato salad, but he couldn't take his eyes off the couple sitting at the neighboring bench.

  Mary Anne was saying something, but it only slowly penetrated. “I've been wanting to meet you for years. Ever since I started high school. But I never had the courage to talk to you.” It took only one bite for it to sink in that the potato salad was delicious. Lem seemed to be doing all the talking over there.

  Perhaps it was the fried chicken. Or maybe it was the fact that Hester seemed so unemotional, so placid, so unperturbed, while Mary Anne sparkled. In any event, the chicken was the best Zeb had ever tasted. His attention shifted to his companion.

  Mary Anne held out dessert for him. His absolute favorite. White cake with a chocolate frosting. A glance at the other bench indicated that conversation had ceased. Lem seemed bored, Hester her usual cold and unemotional self.

  “Did you make this?” Zeb asked Mary Anne.

  She nodded.

  It took no effort for him to say, “It's very good. It's my favorite. This is the best I've ever tasted.”

  “I knew it was your favorite. That's why I made it.”

  Zeb was puzzled. “But how could you be sure I was going to bid on your box lunch? Or that I'd bid high enough to get it?”

  Mary Anne smiled a bit anxiously. “I guess you didn't know it, but Chet Wilkerson's my uncle.”

  The light dawned. Zeb watched Hester and Lem walk stiffly away, back toward the crowd that was dispersing through the fair grounds. He turned to look at Mary Anne, who was now silent and looking anxious. Zeb decided it was a very lovely face. He also decided that there would still be letters to write when away at college, and he was once more looking forward to sleigh rides during Christmas vacation.

  Even so, he wondered how much Lem had paid Chet. />
  ____________________

  NEVER TOO LATE

  Emmy Ralston had walked through her front gate far more times than she could remember over the course of her fifty-nine years. What was different this time was her sudden realization that it was actually a rather ugly building. A fresh coat of paint couldn't hide the Sears pre-packaged look of it—a rectangular two-story box, narrow eaves, a half-porch running along the front. Even the old, long-empty barn in the background had character her home lacked.

  She sighed, at least partly in relief, knowing that the worst was over now. The sympathetic mourners had left casseroles now stacked in the recently purchased Norge refrigerator, the yard was empty of their cars, the mourning cloth had been removed from the porch's overhang. She went inside, laid the keys to the Model A on the credenza, adjusted one of the flower arrangements she had salvaged from the funeral home.

  There had been one consoling feature to her mother's long battle with illness. Her death had come as no surprise. In her own way, Emmy had been well prepared for it. Passing the hall mirror, she saw and pushed back a few strands of hair which had strayed from their proper place in the bun she habitually wore.

  Familiar sounds drifted in from outside. Milk delivery. A glance out the window revealed the Clements Dairy wagon, its horse patiently waiting to move on to the next stop. She detoured to the kitchen to pick up a carrot before going outside.

  Jed Corliss broke into a smile, holding out today's quart, as Emmy slipped out through the gate. She had known Jed for years… but, then, Boroughton was small enough for everyone to know everyone. Jed had been in the “senior” half of the two-room school house when she had first enrolled. He had graduated that same year, and gone off to work on the railroad. An accident had left him with a limp, a small pension, but enough mobility to handle a milk-run—something he’d been doing now for almost ten years.