Handel’s Water Music was playing delicately on Ursula’s boom box and Natalie and Iona were glancing furtively at their watches as Mrs. Christiansen sat between old Nell and Onetta on the sofa and ever so gently turned the pages of her 1950 wedding album. “And that’s Albert,” Marvyl said. “He was our best man.”
Old Nell asked, “Was he the one we used to call Bill?”
And Mrs. Christiansen said, “No. You’re thinking of William. William’s the one we called Bill.”
“And who was he in the wedding?”
Mrs. Christiansen patiently said, “The husband.”
Iona whispered to Natalie, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a poop, but seeing you and . . . Well, he’s such a beautiful person, and it’s made me realize how stupid and cautious I’ve been since I got back to Seldom. Worrying about what people would say. If you have a dream, you oughta go for it. Even if it seems you’re reaching too high.”
Natalie seemed inclined to concur, but then Mrs. Christiansen interrupted to say, “Why don’t we abridge the evening with a game of charades.”
Dick checked his watch as he hurried out of the highway patrol headquarters ahead of Owen, Pierre, Carlo, Orville, and the Reverend Picarazzi, who’d bailed them out. Owen’s mouth had been freed of its burden by the Emergency Medical Team and his right arm was slung over his tuxedoed bon ami’s shoulders as he gleefully negotiated their deal.
With shame and worry, Pierre said, “But you are not understanding, Owen! ‘Smith et Fils’ is a great name, handed down for generations—my father, my big-father . . .”
“Okay, how about a compromise then? ‘Smith et Fils’ on the front and the Husker scores on the back.”
Thinking of his meeting with Iona, Pierre said, “I have not the time for this.”
Owen slapped his defeated back. “Wealth, Pierre! Champagne evenings! Caviar nights! Pay channels on your TV set!”
Owen, Orville, and Carlo got into the Reverend’s old Volkswagen van and, too late, Carlo noticed who was missing. “Where’s Dick and Pierre?” he shouted.
“In Dick’s truck,” Dante Picarazzi said. “What’s the panic?”
Carlo whined, “I need to be there for her.”
“Who?” Owen asked.
Carlo merely slumped down in his seat, thinking desperately of his Iona: goddess, nymph, perfect, divine, and rare.
The Reverend turned the key in the Volkswagen’s ignition, but it just made a tut-tutting sound. He tried again, but no change. “Owen, we have a problem.”
“And me without a crowbar,” Owen said.
The Reverend considered the crew of patches in his van and said, “I just can’t shake the feeling that Charles Darwin had no idea what he was talking about.”
A half a mile ahead of them, Dick was floorboarding his truck down a country road towards Seldom. He gave his passenger a stony glare. “Iona’s a helluva gal,” he said.
“I agree.”
“A fella’d be a damn fool not to fall in love with her if she took a shine to him.”
“How is it that Owen puts it? We are on the same page?”
“Well then,” Dick said, and just stared ahead for a minute.
“What is happening at a shower?” Pierre finally asked.
Dick read his overly interested face and said, “I’ll just let you live with your fantasy.”
Natalie was in Mrs. Christiansen’s rooming house, sitting on her bed in a pink silk georgette slipdress with shirring detail. She stared in perplexity at the many gifts she’d been given: hair products, a box of truffles, a stack of Tupperware bowls, six steak knives, a wine decanter in the shape of a mallard, a pink quilted scrapbook, The Joy of Cooking, and three strands of Onetta’s hard-to-find barbed wire pounded onto a board. Were she in France, she thought, she’d have guessed she was getting married.
Iona was in her own room, turning in front of the dresser mirror to see the fit on her stonewashed jeans and wondering if a sequined black plunge-front bra would seem too wanton even to a European. She changed into a white silk camisole while humming Rodgers and Hart’s “Isn’t It Romantic?” The house was quiet, except for some discreet sounds from downstairs as Mrs. Christiansen stacked things in the dishwasher. Iona heard a car door slam and hurried to the window. She parted the curtain.
At Owen’s gas station, Dick swerved his truck into a gas lane and Pierre got out. The hullabaloo inside Owen’s bungalow was still as loud as a Manchester United football game, and Pierre was heading toward the hue and cry when he saw the Ram’s engine was still running. He asked, “Are you not rejoining the party?”
“I’m a little tired,” Dick said.
Pierre smiled as he saw his way to Iona simplified. He looked at his Piaget watch but wasn’t sure if he’d set it right. “What hour have you now?”
“After midnight.”
“Well, goodbye then,” Pierre hurriedly said, shook the cattleman’s hand in a French farewell, and slammed the Ram’s door. Watching Dick head north toward his ranch, away from Natalie, Pierre raked back his lion’s mane of hair, straightened his black bow tie, and then walked kitty-corner to Mrs. Christiansen’s house.
Natalie strolled by Mrs. Christiansen’s tomato plants, one hand lightly flitting over the leaves, the night of the yard soft as silk to her skin. Cicadas were shrill in the trees. She inhaled the hay-scented air like nourishment. Envied the silence that only she disturbed. Worked out in her mind the question, Who do you love?