The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) (24 page)

A maiden in her glory,

Upon her wedding-day,

Must tell her Bees the story,

Or else they’ll fly away.

—R
UDYARD
K
IPLING,
“T
HE
B
EE
B
OY
’
S
S
ONG
”

I
NDIANA AND
O
LIVER

—
ALONG WITH THEIR FAMILIES
—

INVITE YOU TO WITNESS THEIR EXCHANGE OF VOWS AND TO ENJOY A BUZZING CELEBRATION OF LIFE AND OF LOVE.

S
ATURDAY
, O
CTOBER
18, 2014

3:00
P.M.

T
HE
G
ARDENS ON
T
HREE
W
ISHES
R
OAD

GENEROUS FOOD, DRINK, AND LAUGHTER TO FOLLOW

EPILOGUE

I
ndiana got married in her cowboy boots, though she doubted anyone noticed. Her dress had come from the same tony Austin boutique that sold Luna’s Patchwork Moon scarves. It was the yellow of whipped butter, barely yellow at all, and the softest Indian cotton she’d ever encountered, with a fitted bodice, snug cap sleeves, a scooped neckline, and a lacy handkerchief hem that reached just below her knees.

Apple’s Flowers & Gifts had been given free rein to decorate the lot on Three Wishes Road. Butters Bakery, in concert with Two Owls Café, catered the event, with next to no instructions from Indiana. All she wanted out of the day was Oliver.

Kaylie was the one who’d insisted Indiana would later regret not having a public ceremony. Kaylie and Merrilee Gatlin, though Merrilee made it clear she would’ve preferred the couple use Second Baptist Church where she and Orville attended worship.

Indiana mused with a bit of melancholia that it would’ve been nice to have her parents there, but getting back into rural China after getting out would’ve cost them a fortune emotionally, physically, and monetarily. They’d wired her cash instead.

How Kaylie managed anything with a five-month-old demanding her attention, Indiana didn’t know, though she imagined Mitch and Dolly helped as much with the food as they did with babysitting Georgia May.

Indiana had her brothers and the Gardens on Three Wishes Road and the cottage demanding her attention. And Oliver. So much time with Oliver. She didn’t care about invitations or registries, so she gladly let Merrilee—who had unexpectedly volunteered, an olive branch Indiana assumed and gladly accepted—handle those.

Neither did she care about cake flavors, but learned through Kaylie that Oliver had insisted Peggy Butters and Gail Apple use a citrus-flavored and citrus-colored theme. She couldn’t imagine how he’d known of her love for grapefruits and limes, until she thought back to that first breakfast they’d shared at Malina’s, those two cups of Earl Grey tea, her chattering on about Ruby Reds and bergamot. The fact that he’d listened. And not only listened, but paid attention. And remembered.

She’d been unaccountably nervous that morning, a dirt-digging Keller breakfasting with the silver-spooned Gatlin heir. Then he’d ordered biscuits and gravy to go with his upper-crust tea. She’d probably fallen a little bit in love with him then. But she was completely in love with him now.

Standing beneath a cloudless blue sky, and an arch festooned with ribbons of orange and yellow and green and grapefruit pink—not summer pastels but the vibrant shades of zest and ripe fruit that brought her mouth to water—her hands in Oliver’s as he held her gaze, she thought it truly possible that one could die from happiness. No part of her body was working as it should; all she knew was Oliver’s voice.

“I saw you for the first time one year ago today. I think I said ‘Excuse me’ as I walked by, but the rest of the things I wanted to say I held back. Instead, I watched you. I wondered about you. And when a few days later I looked out the window and saw you standing across the road from here, I knew my life would never be the same.”

His hands on hers tightened, and as he brought them to his lips to kiss, his expression grew more solemn, and the world around them narrowed and faded away until nothing else, no one else, remained.

“I didn’t know what I was looking for until I found you. I didn’t know I was looking for anyone at all. I didn’t know what it meant to be in love. To want more for another person than I want for myself. To feel that need so deeply I can’t separate it from the rest of who I am.

“You make me who I am because of who you are. I love you, Indiana, and with you I’ll always be my best.”

Behind her, Indiana heard Kaylie, her maid of honor, catch back a sob, and had no doubt that if she glanced to where her brothers, having both walked her down the aisle, were seated side by side in the row of chairs designated for family, their eyes would be as red as Oliver’s, and filled with the same joyous tears as her own. Even Orville Gatlin, serving as his son’s best man, was not unmoved, his head bowed, his fist to his mouth as he struggled for composure.

And then it was Indiana’s turn. She knew by heart the words she was here to recite. She’d practiced them when harvesting green beans and summer squash, when pruning away sunbaked vines and leaves gone as brown as dirt. She’d refined them when celebrating seeds taking root, when transferring starter plants to their permanent homes, when unable to resist biting into a tomato fresh from the vine.

“One year ago today, you brushed by me in a crowded room. The feel of your arm against mine lingered for hours. I wished I’d introduced myself, that I had a reason to look you up, to call you. And when a few days later I sensed you at my side, I was certain that every dream I’d ever had for my future was about to come true.”

A tear slipped past her lashes, over her cheekbone, and down to her jaw. Oliver’s hold on her fingers kept her from reaching up to wipe it away, and she brushed her lips to his knuckles before going on.

“Finding you was like having the final piece of my life’s puzzle click into place. I’d given up on that happening. Like giving up on a missing sock, or a lost earring. Or never knowing what happened to a note you wrote yourself, one guaranteed to make the rest of your days the best they could possibly be.

“I can’t imagine them being any better than this. I didn’t know being this happy was possible. But that’s because I didn’t know you, Oliver. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of knowing you like no one else.”

After that, rings were slipped onto fingers, the words
husband and wife
spoken, a kiss to put all other kisses to shame shared while loved ones cheered and whistled. Indiana could barely keep her feet on the ground as she and her husband—
her husband!
—hurried down the grassy aisle, where Oliver finally tugged her to him, and lifted her, and twirled her around and around and around . . .

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of well wishes, and congratulations, and large bills slipped into her hand, which she then slipped into Oliver’s pocket with the ones he’d been gifted. Ten seconds after accepting a peck on the cheek or a hug, she couldn’t have said for certain who had offered one, who the other. She wanted to leave, to find out the surprise of where Oliver was taking her, to know where they’d be spending their first two weeks as husband and wife.

Husband and wife. The two of them. Alone. Together.

She could not wait.

But there was dancing to be had, very little of it, sadly, with Oliver, and conversations to engage in, again sans her man. He was always there, however, catching her gaze, walking by and brushing against her, touching his fingers or his lips to her bare neck, sending shivers to coil like a spring at the base of her spine, in the pit of her belly, deep between her legs. She wanted to strip out of her clothes and crawl into bed, onto cool sheets, onto him.

She could not wait.

Husband and wife. The two of them. Alone. Together.

“Can we go?” she asked him scant moments later, having tugged him away from a circle of faceless men. Oh, she supposed she knew them all, had spoken to them all, would recognize them all given time to care, but she didn’t. Not now when only Oliver existed.

He nuzzled his cheek to hers, the ends of his hair and the shadow of his beard tickling, and whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you to say the word.”

Her chest swelled. Her stomach clenched. “I would’ve said it hours ago if I’d known.”

“Then we’ll have to work on you reading my mind.”

“I have a few other things I’d like to work on first.”

“Ah, see? You’re catching on already.” And then he kissed her, bringing his mouth hard to hers, his lips, his teeth, his tongue sliding deep, toying and playing and mating with hers, tempting hers, his hands on the swell of her bottom urging her close when she didn’t need any urging at all.

In her lifetime she could never get as close to him as she wanted to. Skin to skin, limbs entwined, impaled . . . None of it would be enough. How had she ever lived without knowing this fullness, this completeness, this sense of being more than she could ever be on her own?

True love, this love, was of poets and musicians and artists who didn’t need words.

“You ready for this?” her husband asked, and she nodded, not caring at all what he meant by
this
. She was ready for anything, for everything. She was ready for life to be an utterly brilliant adventure, perfect and blissful and wild because Oliver would make it so.

As they turned to go, she swore she saw movement in the trees at the edge of the lot, a brush of black wings, perhaps, or the feral cat who kept the place free of mice leaping from a branch into the brush. But she couldn’t be bothered with figuring it out. As much as she loved her cottage and the Gardens on Three Wishes Road and the birds and the bees and the wildlife, nothing mattered but life with the man at her side.

Laughing, giddy, her heart in her throat, her chest as tight as a balloon, she linked her arm through Oliver’s as, together, they hurried through a shower of tossed birdseed for the car. Sending them on their way was a chorus of cheerful voices, those of friends, those of family, and the soft, constant hum of her bees.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
hanks to Susan Doerr and Oscar for my Oliver’s Susan.

Thanks to Wendy Duren for the “man in training wheels,” and to the chat group for the discussion that followed. You helped me pinpoint Indiana’s fascination with Robby.

Thanks to Walt, as always, for everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2012 Robyn Arouty

A
lison Kent is the author of more than fifty published works, including her debut novel,
Call Me
, which she sold live on CBS’s
48 Hours
, in an episode called “Isn’t It Romantic?” Her novels
A Long, Hard Ride
and
Striptease
were both finalists for the
Romantic Times
Reviewer’s Choice Award, while
The Beach Alibi
was honored by the national Quill Awards and
No Limits
was elected by
Cosmopolitan
as a Red Hot Read. The author of
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance
and a veteran blogger, Alison decided long ago that if there’s a better career than writing, she doesn’t want to know about it. She lives in her native Texas with her geologist husband and a passel of pets.