Free The Wedding Machine by Beth Webb Hart Page A

nothing but boxers and a black T-shirt that reads, “W” and in small letters below it, “IMPEACH THE PRESIDENT.” Kitty B. wonders what in the world that means.
    Priscilla’s hair has these kind of thick, knotted ropes that remind Kitty B. of oversized cocoons or the tubular hornets’ nests on the back of her house. Ray says they are dreadlocks, and she hates them to death.
    â€œHi, Priscilla,” Sis says with her arms outstretched, and Kitty B. follows behind her to give her best friend’s daughter a hug.
    Priscilla smells like incense and body odor, like the hippie ladies that sell their crudely sewn dolls in the outdoor market in Charleston. When Kitty B. and Priscilla’s necks lock, Kitty B. squeezes her tight, and she can feel her sharp little shoulder blades jutting out between her fingers like angel wings. Then Kitty B. wells up with her usual child-sickness, relieved that it is happening now before the bride arrives.
    Sis pats Kitty B.’s back and Ray hands her a Kleenex. They know what this is about, and Kitty B. is thankful that they don’t pay her much attention.
    â€œPris, have you showered yet?” Ray says.
    Priscilla sniffs under her thin arms and crinkles her nose.
    Ray presses at the black around her eye and winces. “The Hildas will be here in less than thirty minutes and the guests in less than an hour, honey.”
    Priscilla tugs at the back of her dreadlocks. She raises one eyebrow and says, “Tell me there’s a halfway decent coffeehouse in Jasper by now.”
    â€œCoffee!” Ray’s long, thin hands curl into two bony fists behind her back. “I’ve got coffee in the pot! Now grab a cup and get ready ! You’re the maid of honor, for heaven’s sake!”
    Priscilla wipes her nose on her T-shirt, and Kitty B. notices that she has some kind of small, silver hoop earring through her belly button. Ouch! You’d have to hog-tie me to get that close to my belly with a needle .
    Priscilla walks over toward the coffeepot, which she lifts up and sniffs before pouring the contents out into the sink.
    â€œWell, let’s get to work, ladies.” Ray turns back to the gals. “Sis, you put the final touches on the tea service, and Kitty B., can you pour the ginger ale in the fruit punch and stack the crystal cups around it?”
    Priscilla scratches a blemish on her chin as she stares into the refrigerator, and Ray heads toward her and leans in close. Kitty B. can’t make out what Ray says to her, but in a few moments, the young woman walks slowly up the stairs toward her room.
    Ray points to the portrait in her dining room of Priscilla at five, in a pale peach smocked Easter dress carrying a bundle of daffodils from the backyard for the flowering of the cross at All Saints Episcopal Church. Kitty B. notices the dimples around the knuckles of the child’s soft, round hands as Ray says, “Where did that sweet girl disappear to?”

    Ray has outdone herself for the Tea and See. The floral centerpiece is so sweet and airy with the English garden roses and the pale green hydrangea, and there are similar arrangements in silver bowls and teapots and mint julep glasses in every little open space throughout the whole downstairs. The fireplaces are stuffed with fresh-cut magnolia limbs, and a large white bloom punctuates the center of each.
    â€œLook at all the gifts!” Kitty B. says, clapping her hands together. Little Hilda has received some gorgeous things. Probably on account of the fact that her father has been the doctor to everyone in the whole town for decades now. Angus has delivered every baby of Little Hilda’s generation and beyond and set a countless number of child-sized broken arms for which he always writes a prescription for “ice cream on demand.” He’s helped each one of their parents through the aging and dying process. And now he’s rescuing all the middle-aged