Page 133 of Salty Pickle

My dream is alive.

Court’s dream is alive.

And today, we bring them together.

Dad comes in the door. “Don’t you look beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“I’ll go on ahead,” Mom says.

“See you in the backyard,” I tell her.

I pick up Julian. It might have been fun to wait until he could walk down the aisle himself, but about a month ago, Court and I felt the moment come. “Let’s get married when the irises bloom,” I told him. “That’s the first sign of spring.”

And we did. One thing neglect can never take away are the bulbs in the ground, and BeeBee’s irises came up sure as sunrise in late February with sticks of green.

We set the wedding for mid March, and as I step out onto the back porch, I know no florist could make a prettier pathway than the snow-white blooms lining her walkway, lines of chairs on either side.

Everyone stands, and Julian makes a great shout as everyone moves. Laughter titters through the group.

Dad squeezes my arm, and we begin our walk up to the front, Court’s sister Nadia singing with their Grammy off to the side. They both have lovely voices.

Court’s brothers Rhett and Axel stand on the right side of the archway my grandfather built decades ago, covered in vines just now leafing out.

April and Summer wait on the other side of the arch, having walked up the aisle ahead of me.

Then Court steps to the center to wait for me, and his shining eyes are all I can focus on. When we get to the front, he kisses Julian’s head, then I pass the baby to my father for my parents to hold.

The minister moves behind us and begins the traditional ceremony. “We come together today to join in marriage Lucy Brown and Court Armstrong.”

I hear Julian babbling as we say our vows. Court’s grip on my hand is sure and firm. When I say, “I do,” his smile is so big, it’s hard to believe he was ever salty at all.

“You may kiss the bride,” the minister says.

When his lips meet mine, there is a great cheer. I smile against Court’s mouth. “We did it,” I tell him.

“We did.”

I take his hand and am about to accept the baby from my mother when I hear an unexpected sound.

Matilda?

I turn to look through the arch at the corner of the fenced yard attached to the barn.

Matilda is climbing the wood slats, bleating through the gaps.

“You think she’s happy for us?” Court asks.

“Maybe.” I turn to take a step closer.

Matilda’s bleats grow in intensity. Then I can’t see her.

“Matilda?” I rush to the fence, grasping handfuls of the long skirt to keep it out of my way.

She’s lying on her side, panting. Her belly moves in and out. She bleats again.

“She’s in labor!” I cry, kicking off my satin pumps and climbing the low fence. “Baby girl!”

I kneel next to her. “Get some towels and water! We’re having another baby!”

Everyone scurries to help. Once we have her settled, old farmer friends of BeeBee offer to watch over her so we can cut the cake.

I look down at my dirty dress. “I guess this is about the way it’s going to be,” I tell Court. The knees of his tux are as grimy as mine.

He takes my hand. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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