Free A Wedding on the Banks by Cathie Pelletier Page B

silver letters, along with the name of her betrothed, on cocktail napkins. A day the whole town of Mattagash would be hard-pressed to forget. The Reverend Ralph C. McKinnon’s only granddaughter, padding down the aisle of matrimony. But none of it was turning out the way Amy Joy had planned it all those late nights she lay in bed unable to fall asleep and listened to the Mattagash River beating itself against the river rocks, like a downpour of heavy rain. Her ancestors’ river. The one that had brought the first McKinnon settlers, in hand-hewn pirogues, up from New Brunswick in search of white pine. That had been almost a hundred and fifty years ago. And now here she was, a product of that long ago journey, of those faraway people. Here she was, about to marry. It was something, wasn’t it?
    Amy Joy had even thought about starting a notebook of memories about her aunt Marge, dead ten years now. She had known Marge well, better than most knew her. She had lived with her those last months, before Aunt Marge died of beriberi. Her job was to pay close attention to her aunt’s every whim. The truth was, and this pained Amy Joy now that she was an adult herself, she had kept a closer eye on Chester Lee Gifford, the infatuation of her teen years, than ever she did on Aunt Marge. And there was some guilt now that it had happened that way. But love and life had taken hold of Amy Joy at fourteen and shaken her so badly her brain was just now settling into place. At least Amy Joy assumed it was. According to Sicily it was looser than ever.
    â€œA Catholic ,” was all Sicily could mumble nowadays, from her bed. “Jesus, have mercy on us all. A full-blooded Catholic .”
    Amy Joy opened a can of mushroom soup and stirred it into a pan along with a can of water. She stared out the kitchen window as the occasional Mattagash car drove by, and identified the owners. Cars were as recognizable as faces. In Mattagash, there were few secrets. In Mattagash, your greatest fears were memorized like license plates.
    Amy Joy’s main problem had been getting the invitations sent off in the mail, but she had done that and they were gone. A future bride had to invite three fourths of Mattagash, except the Giffords, whether she wanted to or not. There were usually that many relatives on the list. But the remaining one fourth would show up anyway if they felt like it. It was as if the whole town believed that they owned the Mattagash gymnasium, newly acquired in 1963, and that an eternal invitation was issued to Mattagashers concerning functions given there. The gymnasium had become like a large family living room, where all were welcome. And the Giffords presented a problem, as they did at any special function in Mattagash, from chicken stew dinners to fudge sales and town meetings. Amy Joy knew that the Giffords couldn’t be bothered with the notion of a church wedding, but they would turn up at the reception to lurk in doorways and around the gift table, to push food into their mouths and, when the punch bowl had been sufficiently drained a few times and refilled, the big Giffords would end up in a brawl. This could be among themselves, with strangers, or with one or two local boys still testing their hormones. And the littlest Giffords had to be watched every second or the gifts would slowly disappear from the gift table until just the decorations were left. Little Vinal Gifford had carried off Patsy McPherson’s toaster, waffle iron, electric can opener, and popcorn popper before the best man tracked him down and retrieved the merchandise.
    Amy Joy stirred the soup. Should she marry Jean Claude Cloutier? Should she marry anyone? Amy Joy liked Jean Claude. He was a very nice boy. She knew this, despite what Sicily said about his leg length, his accent, or his religion. A person’s real worth went deeper than all of that, although few people in Mattagash realized it. But she had heard her father say such