Galilee. Clive Barker

they went back to New York the following morning, Rachel held Mitchell’s hand the whole way. She’d never felt the kind of love she felt for him that day in her life; nothing even close to it.

      ii

      On the Friday evening, with the whole place—house, garden, orchard, grounds—overrun with people (lantern-hangers, sign-posters, bandstand-erectors, table-carriers, chair-counters, glass-polishers; and on, and on) Barbara Rylander came to find her husband, who was standing at the front gate watching the trucks come and go, and having sworn him to secrecy, said she’d just been out in the orchard, taking a break from the commotion, and she’d seen Mr. George standing there beneath the trees, watching the goings-on. He was smiling, she said.

      “You’re a silly old woman,” Eric told his wife. “But I love you very much.” And he gave her a great big kiss right there in front of all these strangers, which was completely out of character.

      

      The day dawned, and it was spectacular. The sun was warm, but not hot. The breeze was constant, but never too strong. The air smelt of summer still, but with just enough poignancy to suggest the coming fall.

      As for the bride: she outdid the day. She’d felt nauseous in the morning; but once she started to get dressed her nerves disappeared. She had a short relapse when Sherrie came in to see her daughter and promptly burst into happy tears, which threatened to get Rachel started. But Loretta wasn’t having any of that. She firmly sent Sherrie away to get a brandy, then she sat with Rachel and talked to her. Simple, sensible talk.

      “I couldn’t lie to you,” Loretta said solemnly. “I think you know me well enough by now to know that.”

      “Yes I do.”

      “So believe me when I tell you: everything’s fine; nothing’s going to go wrong; and you look…you look like a million dollars.” She laughed, and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “I envy you. I really do. Your whole life ahead of you. I know that’s a terrible cliché. But when you get to be old you see how true it is. You’ve got one life. One chance to be you. To have some joy. To have some love. When it’s over, it’s over.” She stared intently at Rachel as she spoke, as though there was some deeper significance in this than the words alone could express. “Now, let’s get you to the church,” Loretta said brightly. “There’s a lot of people waiting to see how beautiful you look.”

      

      Loretta’s promise held. The service was performed in the little church in Caleb’s Creek, with all its doors flung wide so that those members of the congregation who weren’t able to be seated—fully half of them—could either stand along the walls or just outside, to hear the short ceremony. When it was over the whole assembly did as wedding parties had done in Caleb’s Creek since the town’s founding: they walked, with the bride and groom hand in hand at the head of the crowd, down Main Street, petals strewn underfoot “to sweeten their way” (as local tradition had it), the street lined on either side with local people and visitors, all smiling and cheering as the procession made its triumphant way through the town. The whole affair was wonderfully informal. At one point a child—one of the Creek kids, no more than four—slipped her mother’s hand and ran to look at the bride and groom. Mitchell scooped the child up and carried her for a dozen yards or so, much to the delight of all the onlookers, and to the joy of the child herself, who only began to complain when her mother came to fetch her, and Mitchell handed her back.

      Needless to say there were plenty of photographers on hand to record the incident, and it was invariably an image that editors chose when they were putting together their pieces on the wedding. Nor was its symbolism lost on the scribblers who wrote up the event. The anonymous girlchild from the crowd, lifted up into the strong safe arms of Mitchell Geary: it could have been Rachel.

       VII

      i

      Once the pressures of preparation and the great solemnity of the service were over, the event became a party. The last of the formalities—the speeches and the toasts—were kept mercifully short, and then the fun began. The air remained warm, the breeze just strong enough to rock the lanterns in the trees; the sky turned golden as the sun sank away.

      “Perfection, Loretta,” Deborah said, when the two women chanced to be sitting alone for a moment.

      “Thank you,” Loretta said. “It just takes a little organization, really.”

      “Well it’s wonderful,” Deborah replied. “I only wish George were here to see it.”

      “Would he have liked her?”

      “Rachel? Oh yes. He would have loved Rachel.”

      “Unpretentious,” Loretta observed. She was watching Rachel even as she spoke: arm in arm with her beloved, laughing at something one of Mitchell’s old Harvard chums had said. “An ordinary girl.”

      “I don’t think she’s ordinary at all,” Deborah said. “I think she’s very strong.”

      “She’ll need to be,” Loretta said.

      “Mitchell adores her.”

      “I’m sure he does. At least for now.”

      Deborah’s lips tightened. “Must we, Loretta…?”

      “Tell the truth? Not if you don’t want to.”

      “We’ve had our happiness,” Deborah said. “Now it’s their turn.” She started to get up from the table.

      “Wait—” Loretta said. She reached out and lightly caught hold of Deborah’s wrist. “I don’t want us to argue.”

      “I never argue,” Deborah said.

      “No. You walk away, which is even worse. It’s time we were friends, don’t you think? I mean…there’s things we’re going to have to start planning for.”

      Deborah slipped her arm out of Loretta’s grasp. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her tone making it perfectly clear that she did not wish the conversation to continue.

      Loretta changed the subject. “Sit down a moment. Did I tell you about the astrologer?”

      “No…” Deborah said, “Garrison mentioned you’d found someone you liked.”

      “He’s wonderful. His name’s Martin Yzerman; he lives out in Brooklyn Heights.”

      “Does Cadmus know you go to one of these people?”

      “You should go to Yzerman yourself, Deborah.”

      “Why would I want to do that?”

      “Advice like that’s very useful if you’re trying to make long-term plans.”

      “But I don’t,” she said. “I gave up trying. Things change too quickly.”

      “He could help you see the changes coming.”

      “I doubt it.”

      “Believe me.”

      “Could he have predicted what happened to George?” Deborah said sharply.

      Loretta let a moment of silence fall between them before she said: “No question.”

      Deborah shook her head. “That’s not the way things are,” she said. “We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Nobody does.” She rose from her chair. This time Loretta didn’t try to stop her. “I’m astonished that a smart woman like you would put faith in that kind of thing. Really I am. It’s nonsense, Loretta. It’s just a way to make you feel as though you’re in control of things.” She looked down at Loretta almost pityingly. “But