Free The Wedding Machine by Beth Webb Hart Page B

women by dispensing hormones in record numbers as his gals endure the big change .
    The gifts are elegantly displayed on glass shelves throughout the living and dining rooms. Complete place settings of all three of Little Hilda’s china patterns, plus her silver and crystal pieces, are arranged on an antique card table in the center of the side piazza. Below each plate is a white linen place mat that Ray bought with Willy during their trip to Ireland last April.
    The food is presented on the finest compilation of their silver trays and bowls. It’s as delicate as the floral arrangements and includes Kitty B.’s petits fours and lemon squares as well as Sis’s shrimp salad and cucumber sandwiches and Ray’s cheese straws, praline pecans, and fruit kabobs dipped in white and dark chocolate.
    The tea stations at both ends of the dining room table are comprised of pots, creams, sugars as well as cups and saucers from the Mottahedeh china that they each received for their wedding presents, and the punch station has crystal cups that Ray bought at an estate auction in Walterboro. Kitty B.’s Mottahedeh pattern is “Duke of Gloucester,” Ray’s is “Blue Canton,” and Hilda’s is “Tobacco Leaf,” on account of her mama’s Virginia plantation ancestry.
    Sis handles the mint julep and iced tea station, where the enormous collection of silver mint julep glasses and goblets that she inherited from her father’s mother is set up on the antique sideboard along with lemons and fresh mint and delicate linen napkins with her grandmother’s monogram.
    â€œDon’t you love how the silver goblets fog up when they’re filled with ice?” Kitty B. asks no one in particular. She tugs at her skirt, glances toward the front door, and sees that Miss C. is back in business less than twenty-four hours after the wreck.
    â€œCousin Willy and Justin superglued Miss C.’s arm on sometime in the wee hours,” Sis says.
    Kitty B. walks over to the foyer to examine the statue closely. The sleeves on her pink dress cover the crack. A mini pomander of pale green hydrangea, a smaller version of the one made for the bride, dangles from Miss C.’s concrete wrist by a white satin ribbon.
    â€œMartha Stewart doesn’t have a thing on us!” Kitty B. says.
    Ray winks at Kitty B. and beams with pride, despite the strain on her gash, as she hands Kitty B. a corsage that includes a rose, a piece of a hydrangea, and three sprigs of lavender sweet pea.
    She hands her a stick pin. “Put it on.”
    â€œMe?” Kitty B. says.
    â€œOf course,” Ray says, pointing to Sis, who is pinning hers on in the hall mirror.
    â€œOne for every hostess.”
    â€œMama would be so proud,” Kitty B. says, and in her mind’s eye she sees Roberta nudging God on the elbow and pointing down at the gals. “Now how’s that for southern hospitality, Lord?”
    When the doorbell rings, Kitty B. opens it to find the petite and beautiful Little Hilda standing in its center in a strapless pale pink and white seersucker dress. She’s wearing the elegant strand of pearls they helped Hilda pick out at Croghan’s in Charleston for her debutante ball four short years ago. Little Hilda is so lovely and delicate that she takes Kitty B.’s breath away.
    â€œHi, Miss Kitty B.,” Little Hilda says as Kitty B. stares into her face, unable to utter a word.
    â€œDon’t you look lovely,” Ray interjects, sliding the pomander of pale green hydrangea onto Little Hilda’s minute wrist.
    â€œThank y’all so much,” she says, looking to each of the gals. “Especially you, Miss Ray, for hosting this and for putting everything together.” Then she tucks a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and blushes. “Mama’s running late.”
    Sis swats the air, “That’s okay, honey. We know your mama very well, and we