Page 40 of A Week To Wed
Lincoln
“Are you sure I have to do this?”
Two weeks ago, I logged off the internet as a fully ordained pastor who can legally perform weddings. And today. I got the certificate in the mail. It doesn’t seem right.
Or at all necessary for what I’m about to do.
Maisy, Zeke, Serena, Jonas, and Charity are all here, standing in a semi-circle in the barn, waiting for the bride and groom to arrive. Doc Bennett is here, too, because, of course, a busy vet would take time out of his day to join in something bizarre. The man does enjoy being in the know.
Maisy has decorated the Wilkins’ barn with festive white lights, flowers, and plates of treats for dogs, horses, and humans. At least there’s food. That helps with some of my grouchiness.
“This doesn’t seem like it’s worth the paper it’s printed on,” I say, examining this certificate. Maisy fusses over my suit and brushes away some lint.
“Of course, it’s real. And Jake wanted a real ordained cowboy for this, and you don’t want to disappoint your neighbor, do you?”
When you start getting to know people around Darling Creek, people ask you to volunteer for things. Insane things.
I’m still not over all the anxiety my wedding to Maisy caused us. But this is a whole other level of nuts. Leave it to Jake and Ryland, the consummate bachelors, to decide to do something like this.
“I cannot control other people’s reactions to my choices,” I say. Maisy clucks at me and smoothes my hair down. She doesn’t like it when I use quotes from the self-help books she has us reading together to argue my own case when I don’t want to do something. But she’s never annoyed for long. It’s all part of that communication thing we’re working on. Maisy is a great communicator. Me, not so much. Communication has proven to be a crucial part of marriage and an ongoing work in progress.
June and Barnabas have visited once since our baby boy Zack was born last year. I’m learning they are a lot like my dad was. It’s their way or the highway, so they like to demand that we visit them in Dallas rather than travel to see us. Even though they don’t have a ranch to run. We’re working on accepting them for who they are, as well. We all have very different ideas about family obligations and many strong opinions. But as long as we keep the lines of communication open, that’s what matters.
Finally, the bride and groom arrive. Jake riding atop his new mare, Indigo, and Ryland astride the stallion, Reese, short for Reese’s Cup.
“I just don’t see why horses have to have a wedding ceremony,” I say.
“Because it’s cute!” Serena, Maisy, and Charity say in unison. Zack, who’s one year old now, evidently thinks we’re about to start something exciting, and he squeals in Maisy’s arms.
I think I black out during the actual “ceremony of marriage” between Reese and Indigo.
I get through it as quickly as possible and feel like a dummy while we all stand around expectantly, waiting to see if the horses kiss.
“Can we eat now?” I finally ask.
Zeke and Jake guide the two “married” horses out to the pasture for privacy. Hopefully, all this will have been worth it for them, and Indigo will provide a good foal for the Wilkins Ranch in about eleven months.
The official wedding photographer Maisy has hired doesn’t seem at all fazed and shoots candids as we enjoy our food, punch, and cake.
Later, we say goodbye to our friends, and even I admit it was nice to get out and see people.
“You did a wonderful job, babe,” Maisy says, nesting herself under my arm as we make our way with Zach back to the truck.
“Thanks, I think.”
She laughs. “I know you think it’s weird, but it was good practice for me. I had fun planning it, and with the photos, it’ll add something fun and sweet to my portfolio.”
I pause and adjust little Zach in my arms. “What portfolio? What are you not telling me, Maisy Milliken-Hall?”
I like that I can still make my bride blush when I use my bossy voice. Gets me all riled up.
She looks at me in shock for a second. Then, sheepishly, opens up her bag. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you this until I was sure I could make a go of it, but….”
Maisy opens her oversized handbag and pulls out a sleek, black three-ring binder. Am I pissing myself? Not yet.
“Babe? What’s that?”
“I’m thinking about becoming a wedding coordinator,” she breathes. I can tell it took a lot for her to come out and say that. She winces, waiting for my response.
