A Groom wirh a View

lodge in miniature with the same well-weathered wooden clapboards, small windows, and a roof that had seen better days. Jane tapped on the door, waited a moment, then knocked more loudly. There was still no answer.
    “Maybe he saw us coming,“ Shelley said.
    “Do you suppose we could slip some sort of homing device on him?“ Jane suggested as they started back to the lodge. “Or maybe put one of those invisible dog fences around the house and a collar on him?”
    Shelley’s reply was blotted out by a sudden, horrifying flash of lightning and a deafening blast of thunder.
    They scurried like frightened rabbits and before they got safely inside, they were soaked with rain. By the time they’d changed clothes, there were a few shafts of sunshine and the rain was just a drizzle. Typical spring weather in the Midwest. Jane gazed out the tiny window of her little monk’s cell room and could see the next lightning-flickering bank of black clouds coming in.
    “It’s going to be nasty,“ she called to Shelley, who was fluffing up her hair in the bathroom they shared.
    “Good,“ Shelley answered. “It’ll be fun. A big fire in that monster fireplace, the smell of kerosene lamps, Mr. Willis making cocoa in the kitchen, toasting marshmallows—“
    “—singing camp songs?“ Jane added. “Get a grip, Shelley. And keep in mind that if we lose power, Mrs. Crossthwait’s sewing machine won’t work and we’ll have to pitch in and hand-sew in the dark.”

Five

    Mr. Willis prepared a superb “country“ dinner a thick, rich beef stew with baby carrots, meat so tender it fell apart, and a broth so perfectly spiced it would have been delicious all by itself. There was also cornbread that Jane would swear for the rest of her life was the best she’d ever tasted. After baking it, Mr. Willis had cut squares, sliced them in half, slathered them with an herbed butter, and lightly broiled them. Mr. Willis wasn’t afraid of cholesterol, it seemed.
    Larkspur appeared for dinner in fresh clothes. Shelley and Jane exchanged knowing looks. He had come prepared to stay; the storm just gave him an acceptable excuse.
    The aunties, Iva and Marguerite, had donned comfy jogging outfits that someone had ornamented with bits of lace. Iva’s was a maroon that clashed horribly with her wig. Marguerite’s was a powder blue that set off her pale eyes. Iva expressed a few lingering doubts about Jane having the privilege of planning the wedding, which Eden thoroughly squashed again. As Jane introduced Shelley to the aunts, she caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye. Uncle Joe had turned up. The smell of dinner must have drawn him out of his lair.
    He greeted Eden with rough affection. “It’s that damned girl again! Can’t stay away from here, can you?“
    “Hello, you darling old geezer,“ Eden said, giving him a hug. She took charge of introducing him to the other bridesmaids, Kitty and Layla. He hardly glanced at Kitty, who looked especially clunky in baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt, but he gazed as if mesmerized at Layla.
    “Quit staring,“ Eden told him bluntly. “And say hello to Iva and Marguerite.”
    He nodded curtly. They barely looked up from their cornbread and stew to acknowledge his presence. Their disapproval of him couldn’t be more obvious.
    Mrs. Crossthwait was the last to arrive. She carefully avoided meeting Jane’s questioning gaze.
    “Are you making progress, Mrs. Crossthwait?“ Jane asked.
    “No, I’ve been taking a nap all afternoon,“ she snapped sarcastically. The “aura“ of the place—or more likely Jane’s nagging—was getting on her nerves. “Of course I’m making progress. You don’t think I want these girls to wear dresses that aren’t the best I can do, do you?“ She smiled at Iva and Marguerite, her contemporaries, for approval. The aunts merely looked confused.
    Jane sighed and let it go. She’d check after dinner on just how far along the seamstress was when the cranky old dear didn’t have an audience for her complaints. The last thing she needed was three little old ladies talking her to bits.
    Mrs. Crossthwait didn’t approve of dinner. “It’s too salty and I can tell you’ve used real butter,“ she accused.
    “But of course I have,“ Mr. Willis said, drawing himself up to his full five feet four.
    “Shouldn’t a young man like you be more concerned with the health of the people he’s feeding?“
    “I wasn’t aware I was going to be