Jill Churchill: A Groom With a View

Mrs. Crossthwait was one of those people with round, plump faces that didn't quite match her tiny little body. Her hands were big-knuckled but still agile and she appeared to be bustling even when standing perfectly still. She flung up the back door of the vehicle and started loading Jane and Shelley down with boxes and small cases of tools and materials.

“I don't like the looks of this place," Mrs. Crossthwait said.

“I'm sorry about that," Jane said. "But we've given you an excellent room to work in. Lots of light and space and a good sturdy sewing table right by a window.”

They started toward the house. "It's not that," Mrs. Crossthwait said. "It's a bad place. A bad aura. Wicked things have happened here and will happen again.”

Shelley's intolerance of auras amounted to near obsession.

“Well, it better happen pretty soon because the house is being torn down in a couple months," she said briskly. "Come along, Mrs. Crossthwait. I'm so eager to see the dresses."

“Nice enough girls they are, the bridesmaids," Mrs. Crossthwait mumbled, puffing as she tried to keep up with the younger women. "Hope nothing happens to them.”

Jane turned to roll her eyes at Shelley, missed her footing on the surprisingly slick steps, and nearly dropped a whole case of bobbins.

They got Mrs. Crossthwait settled in the upstairs room, which turned out to be something of a mistake because she climbed the stairs so slowly and awkwardly. Jane and Shelley made three trips with sewing materials in the time it took Mrs. Crossthwait to ascend the stairs. Then they went looking for Uncle Joe. He'd strung a grungy old rope between a couple trees and was just trying to make his escape when they caught up with him. "We need you to take the seamstress's sewing machine to her. It's in the Jeep in front and she's in the middle bedroom upstairs," Jane said."Sorry, miss. Bad back."

“Then you can use that dolly I saw in the attic," Jane insisted.

He muttered something that might have been an obscenity and shuffled off.

Jane and Shelley started hauling quilts outside. The laundry truck arrived just as they brought out the first four quilts. The driver of the white van hopped down and started setting white butcher-paper-wrapped parcels on the steps. "This is the Thatcher place, right?" he asked.

Jane confirmed that it was.

“Did you know these are linen sheets? We had to charge extra."

“Linen sheets?" Shelley asked. "The real things?"

“Genuine antiques," the deliveryman said.

Jane ran and got the checkbook Livvy had set up to pay for wedding expenses. As the truck pulled away, Shelley said, "Somebody has or had a lot of money. I wonder what's going to happen to the linens when the house is torn down."

“I imagine they'll get an antiques dealer in before then," Jane said.

“I wouldn't mind having some of those sheets," Shelley said, having opened one of the packages. She was greedily stroking a soft linen pillowcase.

Another vehicle was coming up the drive. This, too, was a closed white van, but was painted along the sides with a colorful garland of flowers. A willowy young man with shoulder-length blond hair, perfectly faded jeans, and a violently vivid Hawaiian shirt hopped out and strode toward Jane, his arms outstretched. "My darling Jane, I have finally arrived. Traffic was positively deadly, but I persevered for your sake." He folded her in a careful embrace.

Once Jane was released, she said, "Shelley, this is Larkspur. Larkspur, Shelley Nowack — my best friend who's helping me pull this wedding off."

“You've mentioned her. I'm charmed to meet you, Shelley. What wonderfully Pre-Raphaelite cheekbones you have, my dear.”

Shelley touched her face. "Oh. . have I really?"

“Divine. If I were a painter, I'd paint you," he proclaimed. "I must see the gardens first."

“I don't think there are any," Jane said, glancing around.

“The ghosts of gardens, I should have said," Larkspur explained. "I saw the tiniest glimpse of a bleeding heart right over there and where there's bleeding heart, there has been a garden. The old heirloom plants are so much better than some of the new varieties, don't you think? I wouldn't think anyone would mind if I just dug up a few little plants, would they?"

“I'm sure it would be fine," Jane said. "It's doomed to become a golf club this year anyway.”

He threw his hands in the air dramatically. "Horrors! Horrible old men in light blue polyester pants traipsing around acres of boring grass. Then I must rescue some of the abandoned darlings that have survived the neglect. It's a sacred duty. And maybe I'll find time to search for the secret treasure as well." He laughed merrily.

“Secret treasure?" Jane asked.

“You don't know the story?" he trilled. "Then I shall have to tell you all about it, but I must explore the gardens first and see what poor, neglected plants are here." He wandered off, making happy little exclamations to himself.

“Is he Larkspur Smith or Bob Larkspur?" Shelley said, smiling.

“I have no idea. He refuses to be called anything but Larkspur. It takes a little getting used to."

“I wonder what Pre-Raphaelite cheekbones are," Shelley mused.

“I don't know, but you've got a couple of them, it seems.”

They hung the first quilts. "We need one of those old-fashioned tennis racket-like things to knock the dust off," Shelley said.

“A carpet smacker?"

“I'm sure that's not the technical term, but I know what you mean," Shelley said. "Another arrival.”

A rather old red compact car came up the drive and a young woman got out. "Is one of you ladies Mrs. Jeffry?" she asked in a soft voice. She was lovely — with a slim body, long legs, and a mass of dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was dark-skinned. Perhaps part Indian or Spanish, Jane thought, but had startlingly blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt with the tails tied at her waist.

“I'm Jane, and you have to be Layla Shelton," Jane said.

“How could you know?" the young woman said with a smile.

“I've seen your dress. It couldn't possibly fit anyone else. It's done, except for the fringe on the shawl. Don't worry. I have Mrs. Crossthwait here under lock and key to make sure they get done in time."

“Are you sure? I felt bad when you called and I tattled that she didn't seem to be getting along very quickly."

“I'm glad you did tattle. We'll have everything done in time," Jane said, hoping she wouldn't have to eat her words. She introduced Shelley and then said, "There's supposed to be a handyman to help with your bags, but I think he's run away from home."

“I don't need help," Layla said. "But it looks like you might. You're airing those quilts?"

“We're just going in for the next batch," Jane said.

Layla came along, seemingly eager to help. "I hope you don't mind that I'm very early," she said. "I don't suppose Livvy's even here yet. But with two children to escape from, a smart woman gets while the getting is good. I'll probably miss them by this evening, but the prospect of freedom went to my head.”

They discussed Layla's children while putting the freshly cleaned linens on the first four beds. They were four-year-old twins, a boy and girl,and Jane and Shelley were amazed to learn their total birth weight was over thirteen pounds. Layla's waist nipped in and her stomach was as flat as a breadboard. Further proof that Life Isn't Fair.

“Have you known Livvy long?" Shelley asked.

“In a way. We were friends in high school, and kept in touch during college, but I hadn't heard from her in a good seven years until she called and asked me if I'd be her bridesmaid. I was surprised, but so eager to have a little vacation from my family that I accepted."