A perfect day in May—perfect day for golf, Austin thought with a twinge of resentment as he pulled on a polo shirt and slacks. The foursome with AJ postponed, as it turned out, the Welbornes would be of town. Soooo, he was going to a family picnic, surprise reception; he intended to be one of them, get to know them better. Lita’s flight from California by way of O’Hare would be late, he figured, glancing at his watch. The family hatched a second plot: Ivy would call to let them know when it was time for them to come on down.

Jenny spent the morning whipping up a salad they would take along. He liked to watch her move around the kitchen: organized, efficient, no wasted motion. Scorched that night at Evermore, her good judgment, and his powers of persuasion healed wounds.

“I hope Mom’s flight will be on time,” she commented coming into the bedroom. “I’m so anxious for the two of you to meet.” From the closet, she took sandals—the ones they bought in Sarasota—and a jumpsuit in a shade of blue-green setting off the color of her eyes.

He leaned against the door frame pushing into a pair of loafers. “Nice day for a picnic. No rain in the forecast. But, you know that,” a comment on her weather predicting skills. He’d kept up the pretense; she didn’t have a clue.

“It is a beautiful day,” she agreed, smiling warmly with those incredible eyes. Barefoot, lithe, her tawny hair fell loose around her face.

Man, she was ... “Beautiful! Yeah.” There’d been no mistake. They belonged together, and that’s the way they’d stay. And today would be a celebration of their being together.

Neither one of them could know two hundred people would show up.

The yellow and white stripped tent the family rented could have tipped her off. They came around the corner of the house heading for the backyard when the tent came into view. She slowed her step, stopped. He halted just behind her. From behind the lilacs, garden sheds, from porches all around locals showed themselves. Rolled out on the back porch, Boyce Hamlin gave the signal. “SSSSUR PRISE!!!” the crowd yelled.

The sound made a hell-of-a-blow, nearly bowling her over. He held her up. Right away, she knew she’d been had, but she straightened her spine, recovered. From then on it was chaos: big-bosomed ladies hugged him. “Be Happy,” they gushed. Men, all sizes and shapes, pumped his hand, thumped his shoulder, black and blue. “Congratulations!! Ya got a fine one.” Kids milled around, set grins on freckled faces. He wondered if his own expression looked that dumb.

She knew everyone by name, introduced them all. He had no reason to remember names. All those family friends were there for her, he figured, relieved to look into the faces of her family: the Hamlins, Milanos, Tracys; Joe Cary and the blue-haired secretary from Corkran’s office. He recognized the Donnellys—congressman and wife flying in from Washington just for this occasion. Glad-handing with the locals couldn’t hurt his chances in the next election. In River Bend, a Democratic stronghold, Donnelly was among friends.

A group set apart from the locals, the Deer clan from the reservation. Jenny introduced them along with Aunt Winona and her husband, Ben Windstar, the Cherokee from Oklahoma; this pair, hard to miss. Ben, the build of a wrestler, wore western duds and boots, a Stetson with a feather in a beaded band. Winona Windstar, a striking woman, wore a pair of doe-skin boots much like ones that Jenny wore, a beaded skirt and vest; black eyes, dark skin, her white mane braided turban-style. “The Great One smiled on their union,” she said, or something to that effect. “A good sign.” Jenny translated: the weather turning sunny after days of rain boded well for their marriage.

When Aunt Winona spoke, the clan women inclined their heads—an almost imperceptible sign of agreement: the Jenny nod. He held back; she became the center of their circle. Dressed much as the locals, they came in all shapes and shades and mostly kept to themselves. What spooked him was an other-worldly strangeness exuding from the clan. Every bit as unsettling, the look of admiration the clan showered on his young bride. He turned away. Not soon enough to spare his mind an image that would haunt him.

No fences to restrict the flow of human traffic, the neighbors organized activities and games: Badminton, bocce, horseshoes. Lonely, without her by his side, from a distance he tried to keep tabs on his bride. No other female wore that blue-green shade. From time to time, he’d see her, engulfed, a sea of unknown faces. She didn’t need a rescue, so he sauntered toward the far end of the tent where Rob and Rich were drawing tall ones from a keg.

“Austin,” Rob called out. “Have a cold one, on us.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” An eight-ounce plastic cup placed in his hand, he took a long, cool swallow. “Ahhhh, I needed that.”

They laughed. It helped to be around some guys he knew. He tipped his glass towards Rich. He’d heard the Tracys might not make it to a trumped-up family gathering. “Jenny was hoping to see Robin.” She said they had to talk.

Rob held his arms outstretched. “Would we miss all this?” He laughed, explaining that the family had to keep the secret from the guests of honor.

“Yeah. Ha, ha. Surprise!” Austin scoffed, admitting he’d been tipped-off. “But, I didn’t tell Jenny,” and I wasn’t expecting,” he held his arms outstretched, “all this.”

That’s the way it went: small talk, good-natured ribbing, cold beer, snacks and games. He’d circulate, come together with his bride, only to be parted when someone called her name. The Corkrans came by. Cork handed him an envelope with a generous check inside, They milled around a while; made apologies and left.

At loose ends, he followed the sound of steel on steel to where a group of guys were pitching horseshoes. They invited him to join the competition. He’d last pitched horseshoes on the farm at Burdette family gatherings. Rusty from a ten-year layoff—a few bad pitches later—his good eye returned.

Intent upon the game, he almost didn’t notice Dennis Donnelly standing off to one side. On sight, Donnelly raised the hair on the back of his neck. Had Dennis cast a longing look at Jenny, he hadn’t caught him at it yet. All day, he’d avoided Donnelly. The sun hot, beads of sweat raised on his upper lip. He wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve, stepped up and tossed a ringer.

While Austin waited his turn, Dennis came towards him with a hand extended. “Congratulations,” he said, gripping Austin’s hand in a manner that set his teeth on edge.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He tried to pull his hand back.

Dennis held tight. Eagle-eye contact with Austin, he muttered, “You’ll be good to her, or you’ll answer to me.”

A threat, Austin bristled. Whoa!! Lighten up man; not the time or place for a grudge match. “RRRRight,” he growled, grinding his teeth. Restraining the urge to punch Donnelly’s lights out, he landed a thump to his shoulder. “Enjoy the party.” Forcefully, he pulled his hand away, turned his back.

Casting a long shadow on the place where Austin stood, Donnelly walked away.

Alerted by three beeps of a horn, a car pulled up in the driveway. “Lita! ... Lita! ... She’s here,” Lita’s plane was late—bad weather in Chicago. From the comments he’d heard, Lita Cary had become a local icon: River Bend’s own version of home-town girl makes good. The games on hold, Austin stood to one side of the tent watching the arrival unfold. Charlie and Gina stepped from the front of Charlie’s sedan. Dripping self-confidence, a woman stepped from the back, striding into the yard. “Hi everyone,” she called out, a broad wave encompassing the crowd. “Where’s my daughter?”

From the back porch where he’d seen her talking with Boyce, Jenny made her way through the crowd. On a garden path they met, embracing. The crowd applauded. “Lita! Lita! Welcome home!” She waved. Her hand smoothed Jenny’s hair, whispering private words. Jenny turned, scanning the crowd, led her mom to where he stood.

He took in steady, hazel eyes, dark hair, salted with silver hung loose touching her shoulders, a stylish, gathered skirt, tailored blouse, shoe boots, a necklace of turquoise and hammered silver; casual, west-coast look. Lita Cary was nobody’s fool.

“Austin. We meet at last.” She extended her hand, firm, but chilly to his touch. They exchanged a few mundane comments before she drifted off to greet her parents. More curvy than Jenny, they moved much alike. Lita had a presence Jenny had yet to attain.

Man! A guy meets his mother-in-law with half the town looking on deserves a cool one. He headed for the keg, where Charlie had relieved Rob.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Gotta see an ID, young man!” His tone officious though amused, he broke into a side-ways grim.

Had he called Austin: boy, Austin would have decked him. Charlie didn’t like him, and he knew it.

“I’ll vouch for the groom here,” Rob interjected. “He’s legal.”

They laughed. Charlie drew off a foaming draft, handing it to Austin.

“Thank you, sir.” He tipped the container first to Charlie then to Rob. All day, the older men had tested his mettle. Goes with the territory, he figured. Jenny grew up with these people; they loved her; he was the unknown.

Charlie Hamlin had the look of a cop, even out of uniform. In their misspent youth he and John had tooled through town—yeah, they were speeding. John could almost always talk his way out of a ticket. Not with by-the-book Charlie. In those days, Charlie rode a Hog on duty, and they learned to cool it when they’d hit city limits. Even drawing off eight ouncers one after another, the image of a cop stuck.

Rob moved on to join a group at bocce. Austin found a spot where he could watch. That’s where the girl he’d kept one eye on found him. “They want us to open our gifts.” Her eyes moved to the table overflowing with boxes.

This was Jenny’s day; he’d go along, though he hated all the fuss “Gifts! ... Okay.” He put his hand in hers, followed.

The gift that drew the most attention had been wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with yarn: The Clan Quilt, a Sampler, “a work of art.” Women flocked around, examining stitching and patterns. Ivy pointed out pieces in the quilt she’d donated to the project. Scraps of blue from things she’d made for Austin’s mother. The women of the clan sat calmly in a circle, impervious to praise.

The Feast of Nations came from the houses all around: ethnic dishes—Italian, Greek, Ukrainian, American as ham and baked beans. He liked a dish a Mrs. Kanakaris called, Tunisian Chicken. The recipe was in the book the ladies put together—a special gift for Jenny. Blinded by the flashing of a hundred cameras, they cut into a six-tiered structure, fed each other bites.

Okay. He’d been a good sport, took part in all the traditions. Time to take his bride and steal away—their island—where they could be alone.

The crowd drifted off into the neighborhood, but it wasn’t over yet.

Clean up a scramble before a clammy twilight set in. A line formed for the ground-floor bathroom Charlie had installed for Boyce and Ivy when he’d come to live with them. Austin helped Rich and Charlie fold chairs and tables for storage in the garage. The smell of coffee brewing drew him to the Hamlins’ kitchen where an urn sat on the counter. That’s where he met Lita drawing off a mug. She handed him the first, drew off another, observing, “Quite a day.”

“Thanks,” he agreed, accepting the steaming mug. “Great party! Glad you could be here.”

“So am I.” Hazel eyes connected with his.

He felt a stir he always felt when Jenny looked into his eyes—and then the guilts. He was attracted to this woman in a way that was disturbing.

They stepped out on the porch. Lita for a smoke; Austin to keep Jenny in his sights. She and Robin, blankets wrapped around, sat together on a bench in the corner of the yard—girl talk. A dozen noisy kids roasted marshmallows in a bonfire nearby.

From the pocket of her skirt, Lita took a lighter and a crumpled pack, flipping one his way. He made a gesture meaning—no thanks. She lit her cigarette, took a drag, exhaling a thready, blue-gray stream. They relaxed, supported by the posts and railing “You’re not a smoker.”

“Reformed,” he answered, dryly. Smokers resent a quitter crowing. Anyway the nicotine going to his head affected his resolve.

“Ahhhh.” Lita nodded, her manner of agreement not the same as Jenny’s. “My daughter doesn’t have my bad habits,” she confided. “Sara raised her. She has Sara’s ways.”

Lita did have influence with Jenny. How strong it was, he didn’t know.

They watched a group of kids race through the yard with smoldering sticks held high like lighted touches. “That brings back memories.” He chuckled, recalling Fourth of July on the farm.

Again, Lita nodded agreement. “Where did those years go?”

When the sticks had lost their glow, the kids returned to the fire. Protesting crickets filled the pause. He swallowed the last chug from his mug.

She drew an edgy breath, before posing a question. “How are things at Welborne Industries these days?”

“Booming,” he replied, relieved to have his work the subject of discussion. The whole energy sector was booming, he related. “Welborne takes a good share of the market, foreign and domestic.”

“Pa has always said, ‘this towns’ prosperity depends on Welborne Industries,” Lita related. “He’s so right.”

The Hamlins called Boyce, Pa; Ivy was, Ma. That afternoon, he’d seen Lita and Boyce focused on each other. He sensed an unusual connection, mutual respect.

She continued drawing him out. “Jenny tells me you travel a great deal.”

“More than I’d like.” It was tough, he thought, being on the road now that he had Jenny.

Their eyes connected. She seemed to read his thoughts. She took a drag, looked out across the yard. “Do you use computers in your work?”

He told her that Welborne had recently installed a mainframe. “Not much help to us yet. Too much down time.”

She said computer technology had brought about some major innovations in the field of navigation.

“You’re in R and D?” he ventured.

She was. Her company competing in a global market. She told her “war story.” He could match her story with one of his own. They’d found a common thread—common to men. Strange, trading work stories with a woman. Lita’s job was cutting edge. “Is your company Japanese owned?” It seemed the Japanese had bought the States.

She drew back, contempt in her tone. “I wouldn’t work for the Japanese,” she said, flicking her cigarette into the wet grass, where it sputtered, sending up a plume of smoke, flaming out.

He’d pushed a button; she reacted strongly. From now on, he’d have his guard up.

“Our company headquarters is in the UK,” Lita related, abruptly, changing the subject. “When I was growing up, had anyone suggested my daughter would marry Marjorie Austin’s son,” she laughed, not Jenny’s laugh, more cynical, “I would have called them crazy.”

His turn to react strongly. “Why is that?”

“Our families come from different worlds,” her come back, without a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose that matters anymore.” A shake of her head, she went on. “The two of you are from a different generation.”

Different worlds. In River Bend, he was on the outside looking in.

She studied him, firelight caught in her dark, sultry eyes. “You’ve made my daughter happy. She loves you very much.”

“She makes me happy,” he admitted, revealing more than he intended. “I love her ... more than I can say.”

“Time is so precious. Cherish each other.”

Her fingers pressed his forearm. Blood surged into his groin. Too flustered to speak, he said nothing in response. These were not the feelings a man should have for his wife’s mother.