Joan Johnston - Outcast

Ben kept his gaze focused on Waverly, because he didn’t like what he saw when he glanced at his father, who was sitting near the center of the opposite side of the table. It was annoying to watch his father glancing surreptitiously at his mother.

Ben wondered how his stepmother, who was positioned near the head of the table beside Ham, could sit there and ignore his father’s disrespectful behavior.

Ben heard laughter at Rhett’s end of the table and watched as his mother shot her youngest son an admonishing look. Rhett’s grin was unrepentant. He picked up his champagne glass and drank deep as he stared into the eyes of the blushing bridesmaid to his right.

Ben heard Waverly loudly clear his throat. His friend scraped his chair back as he stood, champagne glass in hand. It seemed the groom was about to offer a toast to his bride.

The first words out of Waverly’s mouth made it clear Ben was wrong.

“Mr.—Senator—and Mrs. Hamilton, I love your daughter,” Waverly began. “My goal in life is to make Julia happy. Without using her money.” He flushed deeply and added, “I mean, with the money I earn. I mean, I intend to be the one to support my wife.”

“Why, you … “ Ham spluttered.

“Honey,” Julia said to Waverly, “we can talk about this later.”

“Insolent puppy!” Ham snarled.

“Let the man have his say,” Ben’s father interjected.

“No one dictates to me in my own home,” Ham said ominously.

“Waverly has a right to speak,” Ben’s father insisted.

“He has no rights in this house!” Ham said heatedly. “Not where my daughter is concerned. I will be the one—”

Waverly interrupted, “Sir, I only want to make it clear—”

Ham whirled on the groom and said, “If you know what’s good for you, young man, you will keep your mouth shut.”

“I will not,” Waverly said, his face pale.

Ben was surprised at Waverly’s stubbornness. At his courage in the face of a very powerful—and unhappy—future father-in-law. He felt the knot growing in his stomach. He watched carefully, alarmed because his father looked agitated enough at Ham for the two of them to come to blows. Ben began figuring the quickest way to get between them if that happened.

Julia had insisted on being seated next to her future husband, and now Ben realized she must have anticipated some sort of confrontation during dinner. She reached out and laid a hand on Waverly’s arm, attempting to tug him back into his seat.

It didn’t work.

“Julia and I don’t need your money,” Waverly said to Ham, his brown eyes earnest. “We plan to live a simple, happy, loving, long life together.”

Ham’s lips became a rigid hyphen.

Ben’s glance slid to his mother. Abigail Coates Benedict Hamilton delicately dabbed at the sides of her pink-painted mouth with her napkin. With exquisite grace, she raised her eyes from the antique lace tablecloth and met Waverly’s troubled gaze.

“I know you love Julia,” she said in a calm, quiet voice. “And that you will do your best to make her happy.”

Ben held his breath. Do your best? The insinuation was there that Waverly’s best wouldn’t be nearly good enough.

“What does that mean?” Ben’s father demanded.

Ben nearly groaned aloud. Why couldn’t his father leave well enough alone?

“Just what I said,” his mother replied, her voice even.

“It sounded like you were denigrating the boy.”

“The boy?” his mother said, lifting an eyebrow.

Ben watched his father scowl as he corrected, “The young man.”

“That certainly was not my intention,” his mother said, her voice showing agitation for the first time.

Julia rose abruptly from her chair and stood beside Waverly. She stared with dismay at her mother and said, “Wave will make me happy, Mother.” She gazed imploringly at her father and said, “I love him, Daddy.”

The bridesmaids and two younger groomsmen lowered their glances nervously. Hands gripped napkins in laps.

Ben felt the muscles tighten in his neck and shoulders, felt his legs tense for action.

“I know you love Waverly, dear,” his mother said to Julia. “But—”

“But what, Abby?” his father interrupted. “He’s not good enough? Your daughter deserves better?”

“What the hell is your problem?” Ham demanded.

“Honey,” his father’s second wife implored. “Maybe—”

“Stay out of this, Patsy!” his father snapped.

Ben watched his stepmother’s hazel eyes flash. Watched her lips press flat. In his experience, Patsy Taggart Benedict gave as good as she got. She shot a look toward the end of the table, but she held her tongue.

Ben followed Patsy’s glance to his mother and saw that her eyes had narrowed. Saw her mouth begin to purse. And felt his stomach roll. His mother had a very long fuse, but the explosions when she blew were dangerous and devastating.

Ben was seven—his younger brother Darling had just died in an accident—when his parents began to fight on a regular basis. He would grab five-year-old Carter and head for the nearest closet, where they would hide until the yelling had stopped.

It had almost always started like this. With a question. And an unsatisfactory answer.

In an effort to avert the calamity he foresaw, Ben rose with his champagne glass in hand and said, “To Julia and Waverly. May they live happily ever after.”

His father was quick to join him. “To Julia and Waverly,” he echoed as he stood.

He was followed, Ben was surprised to note, by Paige, who rose and said, “To Julia and Waverly.”

Chairs scraped on hardwood as the bridesmaids and groomsmen quickly got to their feet. Ben watched tears brim in Julia’s beautiful blue eyes as she glanced toward her obdurate father.

Those glistening tears broke the senator’s will, and he stood, holding his glass out as he said, “To Julia.” And then, reluctantly, “And Waverly.”

His mother was last to rise. Her gaze was focused on her daughter as she said, “To the bride and groom. May they live a fairy-tale life … happily ever after.”

There were cries of “Here! Here!” as everyone drank.

Waverly swallowed the last of the champagne in his glass and allowed Julia to give him a loving kiss and shove him back into his seat.

The knot remained tight in Ben’s stomach until the archbishop arrived, shortly after the pecan pie was served. Everyone happily abandoned the dining-room table for the gazebo on the back lawn, where the wedding would be held. Even though most of the women were wrapped in fur, it was bitterly cold outside, and the rehearsal was brief. Everyone was happy to get back inside.

The bridesmaids meandered upstairs, where they would spend the night talking with the bride. The groomsmen got into their cars and headed to the bachelor party being held at the Benedicts’ estate, The Seasons, a mere five miles, as the crow flies, from Hamilton Farm.

The senator and Ben’s mother were walking the archbishop out to the foyer when Ben’s father stopped him and said, “How about a quick nightcap, son?”

“Dad, I’m hosting the bachelor party.”

“I want to talk with you about what happened today in D.C.”

“Can we catch up at the party? I need to say good-bye to Patsy, but then I really should be going.”

“Patsy’s in the parlor. Come on, I’ll pour you a drink.”

Ben realized his father wasn’t going to take no for an answer and nodded his acquiescence. Patsy gave his father a worried look and a kiss on the cheek. “Be careful driving home tonight, Foster,” she said.

“I will,” his father said. “You be careful driving back, too, honey.”