“I got my tuxedo,” Hooch tells me while Jessie Mae watches him with that bemused yet beady eye of hers. “I look pretty darn dashing, if I do say so myself.”
“I’m sure you do, Hooch.” I glance at Jessie Mae. “And everything’s ready on your end?”
“I think so.” Jessie Mae seems like the kind of person who would be fearsomely organized. “My three sisters are bridesmaids, and the reception is in the church hall. We’re doing a hog roast, and everyone’s bringing pies. There’ll be a bluegrass band from church.”
“Sounds amazing,” I tell her sincerely.
“And no booze,” she adds severely, with a stern look for Hooch, who has been known to be partial to his hip flask. “Lemonade and iced teaonly.”
“Aw, Jessie, honey…” Hooch begins with his trademark hangdog expression.
“I mean it, Henry,” Jessie Mae says.
I jolt in surprise at the use of his given name. I’ve only ever thought of him as Hooch, but clearly, things are changing around here.
“I know you do, sweetie pie,” Hooch says, and, contrite, he kisses her cheek. Jessie Mae smiles in satisfaction.
I smother a laugh. I think they’ll work well as a couple. Hooch seems to be happy to have his wife in charge.
At the end of the month, when everything is growing in rampant bounty and the days are long and hot, Ben drives up in his dad’s truck with the bed full of baby stuff.
“Special delivery,” he announces, and starts to unload it onto our front porch. There is alotof stuff—a crib as well as a bassinet, an electric swing, a bouncy chair, a highchair, three garbage bags full of clothes and cloth diapers, a plastic bin full of board books and another one of soft toys.
“Your mom kept all this?” I exclaim. “She told me she gave away a lot.”
“She did,” Ben confirms, “but with seven kids… shehada lot of baby stuff. She said she was keeping all this for the grandkids, but…” He shrugs. “I think it’s going to be awhile before that happens.”
“Is it?” I ask, looking at him closely, my tone laden with meaning. I would love to know when he’s thinking of popping the question… or if he’s gotten cold feet.
Ben blushes and looks down at said feet. “Yeah, I mean… even if we—if I—got married soon, I don’t think kids would be on the cards for a while. You know, we—I—have things to do first.” His face is beet red by this point, and he hurries back to the truck. “Enjoy!” he calls as he jumps in.
I have to smother a laugh. It was clearly excruciatingly embarrassing to talk about procreation with his prospective mother-in-law. Not that I particularly want to draw out that conversation, either, but I’m still no closer to knowing when Ben is going to propose. At least it seems like awhenand not anif, which makes me feel a little anxious but not nearly as much as it once did.
“Goodness,” my dad remarks as he comes out onto the porch to survey all my baby loot. “Looks like you won’t need to buy much.”
“I know, right?” I straighten, resting one hand on my ever-burgeoning bump. I’m thirty weeks now, and I feel it. Everything aches, and I’mhuge. Trying to weed the garden with this big belly has become exceedingly difficult. I have Braxton Hicks contractions every time I pull something out of the ground and have to breathe deeply before I go again.
“Not too much longer,” my dad says with a sympathetic smile, as if he or any man knows what it feels like to waddle around without being able to see your feet. “Shall I help you bring this in?”
“Sure.” As we’re carrying the stuff in, I decide to broach the subject of Jolene, something we haven’t really talked about much, even though my dad sees her at least once or twice a week.
“So, Dad,” I say as casually as I can as I bring the bouncy seat inside. “I was thinking of inviting Jolene over for dinner.”
“What?” My dad, normally so easygoing and affable, looks shocked. “Why would you do that?”
“So we could all get to know her better?” I suggest, smiling, although his reaction has thrown me for a loop. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I don’t know, Abby.” My dad shakes his head. “Jolene is…” He doesn’t finish that sentence, and I really have no idea how he might have. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says with surprising firmness.
I put down the bouncy seat, frowning. “Really? Why not?”
“It’s just…” He runs a hand through his thinning gray hair, looking old all of a sudden. Of course, he always looks old—he’s seventy-six—but right now, I feel his age, and I think he does, too.
“Dad… I won’t invite Jolene to dinner if you don’t want me to,” I tell him. “I just thought since she’s part of your life, and we’re part of your life… you’d want us to know each other.”
He smiles tiredly at me. “Thanks, Abby, for understanding,” he says, which is really no answer at all.
Chapter seventeen
