The Wedding Machine

The Wedding Machine by Beth Webb Hart Page A

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Authors: Beth Webb Hart
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slightest suggestion of physical affection. Not to mention his plea for them to “go see someone.” I mean, really. How horrifying would that be?
    The truth is that she never would have had Hilda in the first place if he hadn’t caught her in a weak moment with one too many glasses of champagne one New Year’s Eve.
    She was more than terrified of being a parent. Her mother had done a horrendous job, and she had no model to follow and no desire to bring an innocent life into this world where the nights are long and painful.
    Sure, she wanted to relax like the rest of their pack and just get on with life, like Kitty B. and Ray, their own bellies swelling with watermelons alongside hers that year. But relaxing never seemed to happen for Hilda. She had the dearest, easiest husband imaginable, but she never could let go and enjoy him—not during sex, not during talks late at night on the back piazza, not during walks along the seawall—she just couldn’t.
    Of course, she’s glad she had Little Hilda. She loves her more than anything, and she’s sorry that she’s caused her distress over these last few years. She knows Little Hilda worries about her. Ray and Kitty B. and Sis tell her that Little Hilda calls one of them each week to check on her. When Angus left, Little Hilda wrote her several times, telling her that she loved her and that she wished Hilda would come stay with her a while in Washington, but Hilda couldn’t do that either. She couldn’t walk out of her house, not even into her yard, so how could she get on an airplane and fly through the air to an unfamiliar city?

    Hilda squeezes her daughter tight. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.”
    â€œTen minutes, okay? I don’t want you to go alone, and we really shouldn’t keep Father Campbell and the wedding party waiting.”
    Hilda makes up her face quickly and puts on this ivory silk suit she’d bought over the phone from Neiman Marcus. Thank goodness for the sizeable inheritance her father left her.
    The jacket is perfectly tailored with three-quarter sleeves and a thin, flat bow belt, and the skirt is straight with the most delicate flounced hem encircling her knees. She puts on her twisted strands of small seeded pearls as a perfect final touch and slips on the open-toe bronze heels that she and Sis picked out at Bob Ellis Shoes last weekend.
    As Hilda walks down her elegantly curved staircase, her daughter and her future husband smile up at her.
    â€œYou did it!” Little Hilda says, and she claps her hands lightly together.
    â€œWow, Mrs. Prescott.” Giuseppe grins, and even Hilda has to admit he’s a knockout. He’s got dark hair, olive skin, and bright pools of blue eyes with a dark blue ring encircling them. It’s easy to see why Little Hilda crossed the hall on Capitol Hill to get a better look at him, despite his alien status as a Yankee, a first-generation immigrant, and most foreign of all, a liberal.
    Well, he’s sure embraced her despite their differences, and it’s charming to see him decked out in full southern summer attire: a seersucker suit and a red bow tie printed with the South Carolina state flag.
    Giuseppe narrows his eyes and reaches out to embrace his future mother-in-law, and she moves with precision to return his affection so as not to upset her hair or smear her champagne-colored lipstick.
    â€œYou look beautiful,” he says while Little Hilda beams behind them, as if all is well, as if her wedding weekend will run smoothly after all.

    Angus greets Hilda at the church door with a measured smile.
    â€œYou look nice,” he says, then he puts his hand out as if his ex-wife is a wedding guest and he is honored to meet her. Hilda stares at the familiar pads of his fingers for a moment, then walks past him toward the altar, where Capers and Ray gesture for the wedding party to gather around for their instructions. Sis turns

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