Mama Gets Hitched (26 page)

With Mama’s bare feet
in his lap, Sal tenderly probed the big toe on her right foot.

“I don’t care what that paramedic said, Sally. I think it’s broken!”

“You just jammed it when you stomped on Alice’s foot, Rosie. It’ll feel better in a few days.”

An ambulance crew had come for C’ndee. After they established her wound wasn’t as serious as we feared, Mama sought medical advice for her aching toe. I admired the paramedic’s restraint in not telling Mama what she could do with her toe as he loaded C’ndee into the back of the vehicle.

A surprising number of guests stayed after the excitement was over. Chairs and tables were straightened; broken glass swept up; ruined food thrown in the trash. The DJ retook the stage. Linda-Ann slow-danced past us on the dance floor, entangled with Rabe.

“I guess Mr. Animal Rights is history,” I said. “I saw the two of them screaming at each other outside in the parking lot just before Alice shot C’ndee.”

Marty said, “Linda-Ann broke if off. She told me in the Ladies she suspected Trevor put that dead hog’s head on Alice’s porch. She said between that and those awful pig costumes, she couldn’t love a man like him.”

Something about that wild pig on the porch had been bothering me. Finally, I had it: “Does anyone else remember Alice saying she grew up on a hog farm?” I asked. “I wouldn’t put it past her to have butchered that poor creature herself.”

“Makes sense.” Maddie nodded. “Based on how she killed Ronnie, she knows her way around a knife.”

Images of that bloody scene in the kitchen pushed their way into my mind. I wondered if I’d ever stop reliving the morning I discovered Ronnie’s body.

“Hey, Mama,” I said. “Did any of those bottles of wine survive the mess in here? I could use a little glass of something alcoholic.”

She slapped her forehead. “Sal and I missed our good luck toast. We can’t start married life without it!”

She motioned to the DJ to bring her the microphone. She limped to the stage to speak to her guests.

“Well, y’all, this isn’t exactly how I planned things. But I am grateful we survived. Let’s scare up whatever glasses weren’t broken, and bring in some booze from the bar. My groom and I are going to have us that toast!”

The DJ cranked up the perfect song, “We Are Family.”

“I wouldn’t turn down a piece of prime rib, either,” Mama added. “I haven’t eaten a bite.”

Raising her voice over the music, she struck a Scarlett pose: “
As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again
!”

_____

It was late. The toast had been made. The wedding was almost over. Mama and Sal were about to take off. But there was still one thing to do before they left.

Mama stood on the stage, her back to the hall, her bridal bouquet raised high over her head. The remaining guests counted down.
One. Two. Three.

Toss!

She gave a mighty heave. The flowers soared above the heads of the short girls in the front row. They floated past the divorcees and Mama’s widowed bingo buddies in the middle. And, as if guided by invisible wires or my mama’s brain waves, they plopped smack into the reluctant grasp of a tall single gal hiding behind everyone else.

Mama spun, and then squealed with joy when she saw who caught the bouquet. Me.

“See, Mace? I told you the Lord was going to smile down on my wedding today.”

About the Author

Like Mace Bauer’s, Deborah Sharp’s family roots were set in Florida long before Disney and
Miami Vice
came to define the state. She does some writing at a getaway overlooking the Kissimmee River in the wilds north of Okeechobee, and some at Starbucks in Fort Lauderdale. As a Florida native and a longtime reporter for
USA Today
, she knows every burg and back road, including some not found on maps. Here’s what she has to say about Himmarshee:

Home to cowboys and church suppers, Himmarshee is hot and swarming with mosquitoes. A throwback to the ways of long-ago southern Florida, it bears some resemblance to the present-day ranching town of Okeechobee. The best thing about Mace and Mama’s hometown: it will always be threatened, but never spoiled, by suburban sprawl.