Page 143 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
Extravagant personalities starred in Celene’s second wedding this year, and she hadnoresponsibilities this time around. The biggest relief.
June and Zinnia’s ceremony on their green acres—if Celene could estimate—didn’t cost as much as Elise and Ajay’s Lovefest Spectacular, though what they didn’t splurge on stagewear and the hotel accommodations were made up in the grand scale of it all. Guided rows of cars were parked on the grass and their street for a mile. Crossing guards had been hired to usher incoming traffic, regularly swapping out to enter the reception, sweaty and given front-of-the-line privileges for refreshments and buffet-style meals. An out-of-towner passing by would assume a superstar couple rented the space.
Considering how Yielding’s own Gertrude Christiansen of Gertrude’s Home Improvement officiated the wedding, the superstar bit wasn’t too inaccurate. Intrigued, Celene had used her phone to zoom in on the diminutive fauxhawked woman a bit older than Luce, in all her glory. The mythology matched her presence, as Gertrude treated her readout of the vows with sharp wit, rife with inflections to keep the audience laughing.Then the audience cried once June spoke vows on insecurities she’d overcome, on not being ready for commitment until she’d accepted her imperfections.
That’d signaled a moment when Celene admired Skye, adoring her soft, dainty features and several hair strands’ love affair with the breeze. Celene knew the faraway look in those wide eyes—Skye had drifted somewhere else. Another dimension, perhaps. Or on the sketches for her latest commission requests—three of them, made by staff members fromChromatique Flair. That number would skyrocket once the spread hit the shelves and online store, but the Florentines and Celene deferred to Skye for her career path. Take one commission, take a few yearly, take them all—up to her.
Celene appraised Skye’s pendants, then her face, her own pulse thrumming over the murmurings of the crowd reacting to Zinnia’s vows. Skye’s meaningful smile, the idle blinks didn’t hint at work or the abstract. An intimately recognizable look—Skye was definitely daydreaming about Celene.
So, resorting to the once unthinkable, Celene did some daydreaming of her own. To a vision of her and Skye six months in the future, even a year or twenty. More intertwined by a household, by community, by norms. Establishing a comfortable pattern of downtime, sipping infused tea in the reading nook or the hammock. Loosely tangled legs getting the occasional tap from either of them, just a reminder of their presence. Grounding them in time. Making up for years of living as strangers.
The crackle of resounding applause struck through these thoughts. Bringing Celene not only from the unfamiliar fog of spacing out, but to Skye, blinking free of her waking dream, too. They were the only two not clapping. Quickly, they stood to correct that, their laughter blending into the cheers.
On the other side of Skye, Luce caught Celene’s eye with an amused brow lift. Her homemade rose quartz brooch glowed from the bright weather, an addition she’d called Celene and her granddaughter over for yesterday, as if it’d been a life-or-death decision.
Celene didn’t foresee this sort of wholesome proximity from her family, and that honestly didn’t suit the Vales. What she’d honor more were their increasing respect, the agreements not to stop by unannounced, nor to expect more than what she had to give. It’d come with time. Hopefully.
“You’re zoning out more than I am today.” Skye bumped Celene with her shoulder, smooth and bare in her pale pink midi dress, stylishly floral and ideal for the coral-and-green scheme throughout the reception tent. They were the only two remaining at their table.
At this afternoon hour, the live band covered a setlist of unoffensive modern classics. Come a couple of hours from now, it’d be replaced by a DJ, and the real dancing would begin. Celene searched her watch for the time, sighing. “I’m usually more on edge before a flight, but...”
“Uh huh.” With a knowing smirk, Skye scraped chopped peach from her dessert plate, leaving only crumbs. “Luce told me you were staring at me during the vow exchange.”
Jesus, Celene couldn’t escape family chatter no matter the location. “Because I was.”
Speaking of chatter, Celene pivoted. “I saw Mrs. Locke at the grocery store the other day and went out of my way to say hi. She stormed off.”
“Did she get sweaty?”
“Yes, big time.”
So, they laughed. Even a mean retired teacher claimed a tiny part in their story.
“Chance meetings in the produce aisle. You’re becoming a Yielder,” Skye commented. Her face shifted through two or three expressions, ending on contemplative. “Zini joked about inviting Mrs. Locke to the wedding to be messy, but I’m glad she didn’t.”
“We don’t need that energy,” Celene replied, sipping her ice water. Smirking, she added, “Can’t wait for her to leave her husband for a Grammar Goldie.”
Outside the large tent draped with fabric and peonies, most guests sat at dozens of benches, taking advantage of the mild weather. What a convenience to have a landscaping crew on the brides’ side, which Gertrude herself plugged after the big kiss.
Zola, the youngest of Cosmo’s children and Skye’s only niece, stopped mid-sprint to their table. She inhaled the rest of her lemonade in an impressively breathless gulp, wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, then jetted off, wisps of her curly hair bouncing from her headband. With that propulsion off sugar alone, she’d get along well with Fiona and Isolde. Maybe they could meet this year.
Skye smiled after Zola, saying, “Everything feels right, you know? Months ago, I’d been stuck. Not unhappy—just unable to see who I wanted to be.”
Unnerved at how aligned they’d been, intended to cross paths, Celene watched Skye rifle through the massive glass vase of wildflowers in the center of their table. As touching as it’d been to have a place card at the Florentine table, this fucking decoration blocked two people at a time. As they’d spoken over their food earlier, everyone took turns shifting it from their view. Celene touched petals in the centerpiece, murmuring, “Aimless. I’d been there, too.”
“And how do you feel now?”
No demanding bridesmaids.
No active family drama.
No ex-fiancées present.
No “sister” blared in her ear.
Celene crossed her legs beneath her chiffon dress confidently. No cloud of cords, no slit.
“Better,” Celene replied, a little breathlessly, in her glass. Then, taking in Skye’s sudden shyness, she said, “Good. Like myself.”
