“Gordon, this is Hazel,” Wes said. “She asked to be the flower girl.”
“There’s no aisle,” Hazel informed me. “So I’m just going to hold them.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, and something about the stubborn tilt of her chin made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t explain.
My associate pastor, Reverend Okonjo, drove over from the church to officiate. He’s a big man with a soft voice, and he stood at the foot of June’s bed with his Bible open as if this were the finest cathedral in the country.
June had made Bettina help her with her lipstick again. She wore a lace bed jacket Wes had brought from home and a fresh scarf, ivory-colored this time. When I took her hand, it was trembling. So was mine.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Okonjo began, and his voice cracked on the second word, and everybody in the room laughed, and that broke whatever tension was left.
