This morning was like most others, with Lester scaring the shit out me. He must have escaped from his cage, and he’s decided my morning wood is a mighty fine place to perch to wake up Hazel, and though I’ve switched to sleeping in boxers, it hasn’t deterred him in the slightest. You think an alarm clock is bad, try bird claws on your dick. He’s also taken to mimicking Hazel’s sounds of pleasure with eerie accuracy, which is not welcome in the slightest when I come in from my workshop out back and have that split-second thought of what the fuck is she doing? and then find a mouthy bird, not my woman jilling off.
But today, despite its start, is not any other day. It’s a beautiful afternoon, the sun shining over the field behind Hazel’s house. Well, our house, I guess, since I’ve been living here almost a year. But honestly, my real home is the steel-framed workshop out back that’s the new home of Ford Fine Carpentry.
And the house will always be Hazel’s—her family’s homestead passed through generations. One day, I hope she passes it on to our children. Maybe a daughter just like her mama?
The thought brings a smile to my face. That joy only grows when I see Mom and Dad. They’re doing well since Dad retired as mayor of Cold Springs, regularly doing yoga together, and starting their own book club for just the two of them. Sometimes their choices of literature surprise me, but hey, who am I to judge?
They walk down the makeshift aisle, which is mostly a section of grass framed with flower-filled vases, to sit in the front row of the small gathering of people, which notably does not contain Uncle Jed and Aunt Chrissy. We sent invitations, to be polite, but didn’t even get an RSVP.
So be it. We still see them around town here and there, and Jed’s still the largest contractor in the area, employing the bulk of the construction crews, but rest assured, every project and permit with his name attached is given extra attention at city hall. He still hasn’t found a new site for Springdale Ranch, but I’m sure he hasn’t given up on looking.
Next to Mom and Dad are Winston, Avery, and Wren.
Winston started his own private architecture firm, saying he learned how not to do business from the worst, and he’s doing great things with it, already designing custom homes and a few commercial buildings well outside Cold Springs’ city limits. But so far, his favorite project has been a renovation of the town library. Francine Lockewood specifically asked for Winston to do the design, a kind of olive branch to our family after she took over as mayor. But there were no hard feelings between Dad and her. In fact, Dad wished her well and promised to help with anything she needed, including the annual book drive for the town’s new lending libraries, which she happily accepted.
Avery is due with their first child any day now. They’re going to name him Joe after Avery’s grandpa. And though I wouldn’t tell Avery this, we’ve got a secret pool going on what baby Joe’s first word is going to be based on Grandpa Joe’s influence. My money’s on frank and beans, though Hazel’s got a decent shot at winning with bullshit. Either way, little Joe will lay his head in the custom, one-of-a-kind crib I made especially for him. Avery cried when I presented it to her and Winston at their baby shower, and I think Mom and Dad finally understand that what I do is art. My medium is simply wood.
Wren is doing . . . whatever it is Wren does. She’s always busy, that much I know, but she keeps her life pretty close to the vest and we respect that. I suspect she’s seeing Jesse, because I swear I’ve smelled sawdust on her and she would never deign to come into my woodshop, but so far, I can’t prove it. If it’s something important to her, she’ll let us know.
Then I see Hazel. She is stunning, her white dress billowing in the slight wind and her dark hair pulled up. Her smile grows with each step as she walks toward me, her mom at her side. When they reach me, Daisy gives Hazel’s hand to me and then leans in to kiss my cheek. Loud enough for only Hazel and me to hear, Daisy says, “She’s your problem now.”
Hazel’s jaw drops in shock. “Mom!”
Daisy laughs and winks at her daughter before going to sit down.
The ceremony is beautiful and simple, just the way Hazel dreamed. Hell, this whole thing was put together with pride, some elbow grease, and Hazel’s skillful negotiation tricks.
When it’s my turn to speak vows, I speak from the heart. “You might’ve been the wrong bridesmaid, but you are . . . without a doubt . . . the right bride. And I can’t wait to spend forever at your side. I love you, Hazel.”
She smiles, though tears are threatening to spill over. “I love you, too, Wyatt. Even if you are a Ford.”
She pauses, and right on cue, Etta stage-whispers, “Fucking Ford.” Everyone laughs, even Dad.
Moments and a kiss later, Hazel Sullivan becomes my wife, Hazel Ann Ford. But it’s merely a formality—she’s been mine for a long time, and I’ve been hers. We merely sealed the promises we’ve made to each other with a kiss, our first as husband and wife.
We raise our entwined hands in celebration, and the small group cheers and claps. We walk down the aisle, but Hazel turns around at the end, right before we pass the fence into the yard. “Alright, everyone, let’s go to Puss N Boots to party. Mom’s got cake set up, Tayvious made his famous chili, and I’ve got twenty bucks that says me and Joan of Arc can whip any of your asses at pool.”
That’s my Hazel. So wrong, but just right.
