Page 4 of A Rose of Steel
“Sure,” I said. “But we’ve got to hurry.” I pulled the sheer curtain back and draped it over a nearby chair. Auntie Zanne, the groom and his best man, evidently a soldier dressed in a military uniform, were already standing under the flowered archway. The seventy-something organist, dressed in as much white as the bride, kept glancing toward the house expectantly, a plastered smile on her face, she was swaying and I hoped she’d still be upright when it was time for the Wedding March to be played. “Look. They’re all ready to go.” I nodded toward the scene outside the window, signaling for her to take a look.
“Ooooh!” she squeaked. “Okay. Okay. Okay! I’m ready.” She handed me the veil and turned her back to face the window. I came up behind her, but she could hardly stand still, her legs going back and forth like a jump rope in double Dutch, head bobbing.
“You’ll have to be still,” I said.
“Okay,” she said breathily. “I’ll try.”
“Just take deep breaths,” I said, “and keep your eye on your groom.” I put my chin over her shoulder, almost cheek-to-cheek and pointed.
But as I did, we both witnessed him do a violent body shake that made a surprised look flash across his face. Then his eyes went blank. Bumper coughed a couple of times and turned as pale as a ghost before he went down and collapsed into a heap.
“Oh Jesus!” Jorianne screamed. She hiked up her dress and ran for the door.
“Somebody call a doctor!” Marilee screeched as she ran behind her.
I guess the “letters” behind my name weren’t good enough for her.
Chapter Two
“I’m a doctor.”
A bevy of wedding guests had gathered around Bumper Hackett after he fell. Without lending help, they all stood around and gawked.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, please. I’m a doctor. Let me through.”
I thought I was the only doctor in the house. That voice told me I was not.
Who was that other doctor?
It couldn’t be...
I stopped walking and turned my ear toward his voice.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Oh, he sounded familiar. Very familiar.
I knew it wasn’t anyone from around Roble. That voice didn’t have one ounce of Southern in it.
“I can help,” he said, his voice low but strong.
He was someone I knew. Yes. Someone I knewwell.
“Someone tell me what happened,” he said.
Smoky and deep, the sound of that voice made the hair on my neck rise.
It made my heart flutter.
“Breathe,” I said.
The backyard at the funeral home was large. Wild colorful perennials grew tall in an array of colors, a bouquet of fragrance filling the air. The gazebo sat to the back of my Auntie Zanne’s white framed greenhouse. Surrounded by oceans of vibrant blooms of annuals, a rambling pebble stone walkway staggered its way down to it where it was bordered by a small pond. Auntie had borrowed a pair of swans from the Houston Zoo that swam lazily in the blue water where magnolia blossoms floated.
Auntie thought they were perfect symbols for the nuptials. Swans because they mate for life, and magnolia flowers because, so she contended, they were older than the birds and the bees.
A perfect place for a wedding.
A bad time for an emergency.
