“I really mean it, Mom,” Molly interrupted. “I don't know if I want-”
The motherly words of comfort broke in. “A case of the butterflies is typical. Marriage can seem so final when you're young. Now that Bart's back, you two will have your usual fun times together and, mark my words, the butterflies will disappear. He's just been gone so much this summer, the whole wedding doesn't seem real to you.”
“It's not only that. I don't know if I care about him enough.” There, she'd said it, or at least part of it; the part where she didn't have to mention Carey Fersten.
“Nonsense. You two have been chums since grade school. Bart's like a son to us and very handsome, too, I might add.”
Her mother was saying all the things that didn't matter to Molly, talking about Bart as if marriage were based on a list of positive assets. Taking a deep breath, her heart tripping inside her chest, Molly said, “What would you say if I told you I didn't want to get married?”
She watched the blood drain from her mother's face, saw the nervous flutter of her hands spread the seating charts in disarray. “I don't know what to say,” her mother answered after what seemed a very long time. “What do you want me to say?” she asked, bewildered and pale.
“Say it would be all right,” Molly said in a small, frightened whisper.
She always recalled with affection her mother's endearing attempt at understanding. Her face frightfully white, she replied, “Of course, dear, it would be-” she swallowed, and the last word came out more faintly than normal “-fine.”
But Molly could see it wouldn't be fine at all, and the whole crushing weight pressed on her shoulders.
“Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart,” her mother urged. “If it's any consolation, these last-minute jitters happen to everyone.”
Could she tell her mother she was thinking about throwing over Bart, who really was fun to be with and-yes, handsome and a chum, too-because she'd met a young man who made her tingle just thinking of him? Because this young man had hands that could slide over her body like silk and take her over the edge with a practiced skill that was pure heaven? Of course she couldn't. There'd be talk about lust versus love, and how similar backgrounds were the real basis of enduring marriages. There'd be the questions: “Why haven't we met him, dear? If he was serious, why hasn't he come to the house to meet your family?” And then, when they heard who it was, there'd be alarm because Carey Fersten was too wild, too strange, too rich to fit into this small, northern community.
The doorbell rang and for a moment Mrs. Darian looked distracted, her mind filled with disastrous visions of complete chaos. What to do with a thousand-dollar wedding dress. How to return the hundreds of presents. What would the caterers want for reneging on the contract on this short notice? And the band and hall rented for the dance. And the minister! Good God! And the Ladies' Auxiliary who'd been making yards and yards of satin streamers and bows to decorate the flower-decked sanctuary, altar, and pews. And the flowers ordered specially from Oregon where the weather was still cool enough this time of year to allow splendid roses. The doorbell pealed loudly, and this time she heard it. “I'll get it,” she said, and wearily rose from her chair.
Returning a moment later, she carried in a large bouquet of yellow daisies. “They're from Bart.” Her mother's voice was tentative, her expression uncertain. Placing them on the table, Molly saw the card pinned to the bouquet: To my sunshine girl. Love and kisses, Bart.
Molly felt terrible.
“What should I do, Mom?”
Her mother slowly shook her head and she suddenly looked older than she had ten minutes ago. “Whatever you think is right. No-” she quickly interposed “-I don't mean that. Just do what makes you happy. Daddy and I only want you to be happy. Don't worry about the rest.”
Molly looked at the yellow daisies and the hastily scrawled note. There was an energy and cheerfulness about Bart that was captivating and potent. If you stood in his wake, he'd carry you along. She may not love him the way she loved Carey, but what guarantee did she have that their intense passion would last? She'd known Bart all her life. Carey had entered her world like a blazing meteor, as exotic as a far-off star-and just as unpredictable.
“I'll take you away,” he'd said. And that was all he really meant.
“It would be a terrible bother to send back all the presents,” Molly said with a small smile. “Right? And if Liz can't sing at my wedding, she'll throw a fit. Besides, neither you nor I would have the courage to tell Pastor Helms it's off when his daughter is a flower girl. It's gypsy fate, Mom, and the butterflies are better already.”
A faint blush of color reentered her mother's face. “Bart is sweet,” she said hesitantly.
“And handsome,” Molly added with a smile. “What should I wear to the Coopers' tonight?”
Her mother let out a breath. “Are you sure, dear?” she ventured.
But Molly had seen the expression of relief. “I'm sure, Mom,” she lied with a pleasant smile, while a poignant sadness inundated her soul.
The feeling of sadness and things left unsaid had stayed with her over the years. Not that it mattered. She'd married Bart two weeks later, and Carey had gone out to school at USC the next month. Except for occasional newspaper and magazine articles with photos depicting America's finest young director, Carey Fersten had disappeared from Molly's life.
The snippets of information available from newsprint revealed very little of the man, although the bare bones of his life in the ensuing years were known to her and millions of other people. He won the Cannes Film Festival Prize at age twenty-five with his first major work. She read of his sudden defection from Hollywood a year later to make more esoteric films; his numerous liaisons with well-known beauties all over the world, his marriage to a young German countess-cum-actress, his divorce two years later. And now. Here on the Range. Here in this town, making the immigrant movie he'd talked about years ago.
How could his name still stun her after all this time? So many years had passed, so much had happened: her marriage; the birth of her daughter; the business; the divorce; so many edges had blurred, memories tarnished.
But not his.
That image in the moonlight was as fresh and pure as a rose under lucite. And as disturbing as it had been that night in August.
With heroic effort, Molly shook away the shattering remembrance, forcing her face into a polite social smile. Share as she had with these friends of her youth, she had never completely shared Carey with them. He'd been too special, too different, and perhaps she'd known her feelings were too intense to share. “So the world-renowned director is back in this little burgh,” she said in a neutral tone. “He's going to find it dull as dishwater after his travels.”
“Want to see him again, Molly? Hmmm?” Marge teased. “There was something between you two that spring and summer, even though you wouldn't admit it. Now that you're divorced, why not look him up?”
“No thanks,” she said in a deliberately cool voice. “Too much competition from all those glamorous beauties.” She shrugged, but was annoyed to feel her face flushing. “Every paparazzo photo shows at least one groupy clinging to his arm, and usually there's more. He's probably never heard a woman say ‘no'.” Every one of those pictures she'd seen over the years was cinema veritй, sharp in her mind: the one taken when he and some duke's wife were slipping out of the back door of an exclusive hotel in London early one morning; the full array of shots taken with telephoto lenses on the Greek island where everyone was bathing au naturel; those in St. Moritz with a deposed monarch's youngest daughter smiling up at him; and the nightclub scenes with starlets entertaining one of the handsomest men in the world. “At my age, with an eight-year-old daughter in tow,” Molly reminded them, her face set now to disclose no emotion, “I don't stand a chance against all that fair pulchritude surrounding him. I'll settle for the memories and leave the flash-and-dazzle Carey Fersten for the jet set.”