Free I Take You by Eliza Kennedy Page A

dear?”
    “Whatever you need me to do, Mattie, I’m here. Lay it on me. Let’s do it. Let’s
plan
this wedding, okay?”
    “Okay!” she warbles happily, and hops out of the car. We walk into the restaurant’s open-air courtyard, total besties. I realize I’m starving, and the owner is kind enough to give me a plate of fruit and a delicious Bloody Mary. We pore over the menu for the rehearsal dinner, and with the assistance of a second Bloody Mary, I make a number of critical bridal decisions (chicken
and
fish, bitches!). After a third, valedictory Bloody Mary, I follow Mattie back to the car.
    “Key West has changed so much since you grew up here,” she tells me as she steers us back toward Duval Street. “We’re very cosmopolitan now. That’s an interesting shop over there.” She points at a cheerful yellow cottage. “It opened in November. They make … oh, what do you call it?” She snaps her fingers. “God bless it! Why can’t I remember? Comes from a cow.”
    “Milk?”
    “No,” she says. “Harder.”
    “Ice cream?”
    “No, it’s not sweet.”
    “Cheese?”
    “
Cheese!
” she cries. “They make their own cheese.”
    “You forgot the word for cheese?”
    “My memory is terrible these days,” she laments.
    “Do you maybe need to, I don’t know, get that checked out?”
    “Doctors can’t do anything for me, dear. It’s the Change.”
    “The Change?” I repeat. “That sounds very dire.”
    “Menopause. It’s relentless. The hot flashes. The metabolic shifts. The forgetfulness.” Her hand flutters to her forehead and flutters away again. “My mind is … oh, what do you call it? The thing with holes.”
    “A sieve?”
    “Yes! A sieve.”
    I laugh. “You forgot the word that you wanted to use to describe how forgetful you are. That’s funny.”
    She just looks at me.
    “You’re right,” I say. “It’s not funny.”
    Duval Street looks a lot less seedy in the morning light. The bars are shuttered. Tourists wander around sipping smoothies and Cuban coffee. The sidewalks are damp and clean.
    “Do you see that church over there?” Mattie says, pointing at a white clapboard chapel.
    “I have an idea! Let’s have Bloody Marys at the rehearsal dinner!”
    Mattie cocks her head. “Isn’t that more of a morning beverage, dear?”
    “Maybe we could do a breakfast-for-dinner theme,” I suggest. “With pancakes!”
    “No,” she says. “Now, as I was saying. There’s a new pastor at that church. People adore her. I thought you might be interested in having her officiate on Saturday.”
    Mattie launches into a story about the pastor while I watch a family of tourists buy palmetto hats from a ragged hippie. Teddy and I wove hats one spring break, when we were eleven or twelve. Our hats were terrible, but we were so cute. We made a killing. Then we blew all our earnings on ice cream and firecrackers.
    “Lily?” Mattie says.
    I turn. She’s waiting for me to say something. “Sorry. Don’t we already have a pastor?”
    “Yes,” Mattie says reluctantly. “Leonard Garment.”
    “Right. Will talked to him on the phone. He really likes him.” Actually, I think Will just wants our marriage certificate to be signed by someone named Reverend Garment. But he made the decision—I can’t overrule him.
    “The last thing I want to do is second-guess your choices,” Mattie says. “But I think Len would be a serious mistake.”
    “Why?”
    Mattie slams on the brakes just in time to avoid crushing a small electric car puttering ahead of us. “I see your wedding as an elegant, storybook kind of affair,” she replies. “Quite formal and traditional.”
    I have to laugh. “You’ve got me pegged, sister.”
    “Len is so … countercultural.” Mattie frowns. “He’s very irreverent. I think he’ll send the wrong message.”
    I gaze out the window while she keeps talking. We’re on Margaret Street now. Marriage certificates. Officiants. It all sounds so very …