Potter Springs (5 page)

Mark opened the case and found a Martin guitar inside. The caramel wood gleamed, promising a sound deeper and richer than
any he had ever played. He’d wanted a Martin for years, never believing he’d have the money to pay for one. Speechless, he
tripped over his thanks.

“We’re only sorry you won’t be playing it for us much longer,” one man said. “But we know-wherever he takes you-the Lord’ll
use it to his glory.”

Then James had a wedding conflict. It just so happened he’d be performing a ceremony on the other side of town, at the exact
time of Mark and Amanda’s scheduled nuptials. A happy coincidence, and one that freed James from any whiff of a scandal.

“Sorry, buddy,” James told him. “Been set for months, you know.” He lifted his palms, a busy servant of the Lord overwhelmed
by the flock’s incessant needs. “Can’t make last minute changes. You need me to make a call, find someone else for you?”

Can’t make last-minute changes. Except about your entire future. Buddy.

“I’ll manage, thanks.” Mark heard the message loud and clear. He ended up asking his childhood pastor to perform the ceremony,
much to the thrill of his mother. Marianne had voiced severe doubts about the Thompson family minister, and thankfully, Katy
hadn’t argued. She let her future son-in-law handle the “religious concerns,” as long as she could plan everything else.

He hadn’t laid eyes on Fred Wilburne, from Lubbock’s Calvary Baptist, in close to ten years. He chose not to inform Fred of
the early pregnancy, not willing to risk the loss of another official this late in the game.

He checked his watch.

“It’s gonna be fine.” Fred clapped a hand, heavy as an iron bookend, on Mark’s shoulder. A long, dark robe covered the preacher’s
robust frame. His jowls flushed in protest of the heat. “Just fine.”

“I know,” Mark said. The only bright spot in this day, other than the scalding morning sun, would be the woman who’d walk
down the aisle in a few minutes. He didn’t want to wait any longer. He needed to be near her, to let her smile ground him
and give him hope, even while all around him, inside him, chaos threatened.

“Let’s get started,” he said to Fred. “I’m ready.”

“
ANYBODY NEKKID IN
there?” Ben Thompson’s deep voice barreled through the old oak door.

“Just a minute, Daddy.” Sweat tickled like devil fingers inside Amanda’s wedding dress. She pulled a fragile handkerchief
from her bodice, patted her face and chest, then stuffed it back into obscurity.

Standing in front of an oval mirror, she surveyed herself one last time. Something old. Check. The antique gown, handed down
from Mother’s side. Something new. Pure silk heels, pinching her swollen feet in a death grip. Something borrowed. Her friend’s
veil, a diaphanous fluff atop her head. Something blue. Her eyes, rimmed with red to match her nose.

She thought she’d be over the crying by now, but seeing herself as a bride tipped the emotional scale.
Inner glow,
she reminded herself.
You’re a bride. You’re pregnant. One way or another, you should be radiant at this moment.

Sighing, she viewed her reflection sideways in the beveled glass. She straightened her back and smoothed the taut fabric.
Not too bad.

A quick rap sounded. Mother.

Katy Thompson pushed inside. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks, Mom. I needed a minute alone.”

Her mother walked softly on thick red carpet and adjusted the tiny metal clasps in the back of the dress. “You look lovely.”
Her eyes met Amanda’s in the mirror, and her own filled with moisture.

“Ohhhh.” Amanda waved her hands fast in front of her face. “Stop, or you’ll get me started.”

“Hush. I’m the mother of the bride. I can if I want to.” She squeezed the lace at Amanda’s shoulders.

Ben Thompson thundered again from the hallway. “It’s time, baby doll.”

“Okay, Daddy. Come on in.”

He rambled through, a bear stuffed in penguin clothes. His watermelon belly strained against the expensive cloth.

“All right. I’m ready.” Amanda grabbed the bouquet she’d tossed on the baroque couch. A few stems of the mixed floral were
bent out of shape.

She Mona Lisa’d her mouth and hung onto her father’s arm, thankful for its familiar strength. The same arm that fished her
out of the lake when she fell water-skiing. The one that kept her upright when she learned to ride a bike. He held her steady
as they left the bridal room and waited in the wings.

Amanda lifted her bouquet to her nose. Fresh roses and stargazer lilies filled her senses.

At the end of the aisle stood her groom, substantial and real. More than his height or size, Mark’s very essence sparked with
bound energy, his shine unswallowed by the sanctuary’s shadowy interior.

The aisle yawned between them, and her heart ached. Unbelieving that in just a few moments he would be entirely hers. That
he wanted her, loved her, this wondrous holy man with the most tender soul she’d ever known.

He slid a hand through his hair and leaned over to whisper something to Fred. Amanda looked around, waiting for the cue.

Her minister lurked in the choir loft, having assured Presbyterian members of his presence at the ceremony to “guard the sacraments.”

As if the Baptists would make off with the communion silver.

The organ started up a bombastic tune and, with a jump, Amanda realized it was her turn to walk.

Her daddy held her hand on his arm, patting it absently. “Let’s do this,” he murmured.

With a conjoined and muted rumble, the guests stood. Amanda and her father passed big lavender hats and blue-gray perms. An
aunt in the second row shushed Amanda’s cousin, a wiggly nine-year-old stuffed in pink ruffles. Dark suits highlighted peacock
wives beside them.

Everyone stared, smiling.

At the altar, Mark took her hand from her father and gently squeezed her fingers. “You look,” he whispered through her veil,
“beautiful.”

Before she could reply in kind, a West Texas drawl cut the thick air like a John Deere backhoe.

“Dearly beloved,” bellowed Fred, “we are gathered here today…” No need for a microphone for Pastor Wilburne. His squinty eyes
darted over the attendees, perhaps summing them up as future converts.

Fred waxed eloquent, loud and long through the traditional ceremony. Lots of preaching, prayers and hymns. Finally it was
over. “You may now kiss your bride.”

Mark leaned over and placed a kiss on her lips, cool as velvet lemonade.

“I present to you”—Pastor Wilburne paused for drama—“Mr. and Mrs. Mark Reynolds!” With a gentle nudge, he urged them to face
the applauding congregation.

“As many of you know”—the preacher held up both hands, palms out—“Mark and Amanda have answered God’s call in their lives.”
His voice swelled with pride. “Mark, after serving here in Houston as an associate pastor, now looks ahead to a new place
in the Lord’s army, wherever that may be.”

The crowd clapped appropriately.

“Please add them to your prayer lists.” He sniffed. “These fine young people.” His voice breaking, he nearly shouted.
“Devoted
to following the Lord in ministry!”

Amanda flinched at the inflection and darted a look to Mark. His face was unreadable, but his eyes twinkled at her. They had
a secret, together, and the knowledge tethered them with indivisible truth. They marched down the aisle, anointed by the cheers
of the saints.

Outside the double doors, they stood alone.

“We did it.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “We’re married.”

Judging from Mark’s expression, he didn’t know either. Yet he pulled her close, squishing the bouquet even further. “You’re
mine,” he murmured as the flowers fell forgotten to the floor.

“No, you’re mine.” She pressed herself full against him, hugging him tight. Behind them hung a life-size painting, Jesus calming
the storm. The Savior’s arms appeared muscular and strong, even as the disciples crouched terrified in the boat. She shut
her eyes to the swirls of red and blue, losing herself in the freedom of loving her husband.

“Harrumph”
A tiny rat-faced man interrupted them with authority in spite of his size. Burton Lewis, the photographer, hired by Katy
Thompson because he “does everybody who’s anybody’s wedding, darling.”

“Picture time!” he sang, with all the enthusiasm of a Hollywood performer. “All right, you two. Over here.” Outside in the
garden area, he arranged them in front of a large stone fountain, where a naked baby with a fruit basket sprayed water into
a shallow pool.

Grin, click, relax. Adjust. Grin, click, relax.

Burton arranged the wilted bouquet. Moisture, caught in a shiny mustache, clung to his upper lip. He struck the pose he wanted
her to mimic. “Like
this”
His arms gracefully arched to an invisible groom.

A wave of body odor broke from Burton’s brown suit and washed over her like a poisonous gas. She pinched her face away.

“Are you all right?” Mark whispered in her ear, rubbing her back.

“I’m okay.” She bit out, clenching her teeth together.

The little photographer took his time, tsking over the broken flowers. “How about you hold it up here?” He placed her hand
on Mark’s shoulder. In doing so, he lifted his own arm, emitting an odor reminiscent of the monkey cages at the zoo.

Amanda reared her head back to the point of rudeness, blinked her eyes and pressed down hard with her toes. Hoping the pain
from the killer slingbacks would stop the nausea.

“Do we need to go inside for a minute?” Mark tugged her waist. “Come on. Take a break?”

“Hmm-mmm.” She shook her head, grinning like an ape for monkey man.

“No, no, not like that.” The photographer grasped both sides of her face, the camera dangling around his neck on a wide band.
“This
way.” He tilted her chin and smiled at her posability. “Wonderful.”

Whunderfuul.
His breath hit her dead on.

He must have had lox with his bagel.

The thought defeated her. She broke position. She shoved Burton away with all her might and hurtled toward the stone fountain.
Gripping its side, in body-shuddering heaves, she threw up.

Click.

While still bent at the waist, she dug between her breasts for the handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her mouth. A delicate
lady. A blushing bride. A perfect pastor’s wife.

Bracing herself on the fountain’s edge, she raised her head and pivoted on one excruciating heel. The first person she saw
was Mark’s mother. Her brand-new mother-in-law.

The Queen of the Baptists.

Dressed in yellow chiffon, with a rosebud corsage, she stared at Amanda. The woman’s bird mouth formed a perfect O. Then she
looked at her son.

Amanda followed the gaze. She saw what Marianne saw—Mark’s reddening neck, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Shooting forward with Olympian speed, Marianne made it to Mark’s side in nanoseconds. “Did you
know
about this?” Her voice floated over the onslaught of bridesmaids rushing to Amanda’s aid.

Mark’s reply was lost in the clattering of heels on ancient paths.

Just as someone thrust a glass of ice water in her shaking hand, Amanda heard the follow-up question. A low-voiced inquiry
carried by an unlikely Houston breeze.

“Is it yours?”

M
ark refreshed his mother’s coffee. It poured out like melted sludge, powdery grains stuck to the side of the Styrofoam cup.
Marianne gripped it without drinking. “I just can’t believe it.”

In the church’s parlor, he waited with his mother and new mother-in-law while the bridesmaids tended to Amanda in the bridal
room.

Ben Thompson, after declaring a need for fresh air, had followed his old Aggie alumni buddies in a cloud of commiseration
to the church back lot. Mark thought he saw the flash of a silver flask from behind a suit jacket, and wished he’d gone with
them.

Better that than entertaining the ladies.

“How could you do this to me?” Legs akimbo in a mauve Queen Anne chair, Marianne looked more frazzled than Mark had ever seen
her.

“Excuse me?”

“Embarrass me like this. In case you missed it, your bride vomited in the fountain.
Morning sickness.”
She whispered these words in the same tone one might say
herpes.
“What must our friends be thinking? And Pastor Fred?”

“Not much, I suppose.” Katy crossed her arms and stared out the window.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Marianne shot back.

“Only that he doesn’t strike me as overly insightful.” Not bothering to turn her head, Katy remained riveted, gazing at the
gardens full of gossiping guests. “A boisterous fellow, but not too bright.”

“I’ll have you know, Fred Wilburne is one of the finest men to walk this earth. Why, when Mark was a boy, he-”

“Mom.” Mark sank into the plaid couch across from her. “Fred’s character really isn’t at issue here.”

“That’s right.” Marianne’s bright eyes locked on Mark. “Yours is. Care to explain?”