The Widow's Club by Dorothy Cannell

in his hand. A sweep of overhanging branches cast shadows in his wake. He seemed to be looking over to the lich-gate.
    “I wish my parents had been here.” Ben drew me close.
    I addressed the buttons on his shirt. “Your mother would have thought her novenas answered when Freddy called a halt to the proceedings.”
    “I wanted them to see that they made a success of me—I’m happy.”
    And I was hungry. Would I always have that deplorable tendency when emotional?
    “Here.” Ben’s fingers closed over mine. When he let go, he was holding my tattered bouquet and I was holding a chocolate rose.
    He wasn’t looking at me; he was smoothing out live petals.
    “Take a bite and tell me how you like it.”
    “Rather rude surely, with all these people watching.”
    “We’ll pass some around when we get home. I made two hundred and ninety-one. One for every day since we met.”
    “Say honeymoons!” cried Dorcas.
    I must have been faint with hunger because the world went all fuzzy round the edges. The wind had dropped and the bells ceased, leaving a vibrating silence.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to save this one and press it in a book?” My voice came up from a mine shaft. I nibbled a leaf off the rose and, eyes on Ben’s chin, handed him the rest.
    “A fraction too much vanilla, do you think?” he asked.
    I could have destroyed his day, his week, his year simply by saying yes.
    My ring flashed between us. We were married. Really and truly married. (Did it matter that I could remember nothing of the words spoken at the altar?) A shiver of wind touched my neck. I smiled for Dorcas, then looked up as I felt a spatter of rain. Somehow Ben’s face got in the way.
    All the laughter had vanished from his eyes, leaving them darker, even more brilliant, and so ardent my breath caught in my throat. I traced a finger through his hair. I loved him. Why shouldn’t he laugh at Freddy’s little prank? I wanted a husband with a sense of humour, didn’t I? And he had been under tremendous emotional strain over his parents, which wasn’t to say they weren’t perfectly lovely peoplein their narrow-minded, bigotted ways. Ben’s dark head bent over mine. The church clock chimed the quarter hour.
    “Two hundred and ninety-one days, one hour and thirty-seven minutes,” I whispered against the delicious warmth of his mouth.
    “Good shot!” bawled Dorcas. “Should get it enlarged. Nice one for Ma and Pa to put out on the piano.”
    “Happy, Ellie?” asked my husband.
    “Blissful!” Our marriage was stronger for having come through the fire. I curved my arms up around Ben’s neck. Jonas came stumping up the steps.
    “Are you two going to stand gawking at each other all afternoon, or are you going to be sociable and drop in on the reception?”
    “Certainly we are.” Reaching out a hand, I helped Jonas up the last step.
    “Good,” he snorted. “Because left alone with the family, I might forget me place and poison one of them.”
    Jonas went to assist Dorcas in packing up her equipment. I took my bouquet from Ben and waved it at Rowland, trying to attract his attention. But at that moment Aunt Astrid, resplendent in a pale mink and a black hat with spotted veiling, accosted him. Poor Rowland, no wonder his shoulders looked so tense. Aunty was directing a gloved paw toward darling daughter Vanessa, artistically posed against a backdrop of tombstones. I snuggled my arm through Ben’s and indulged in momentary smugness. Would mother and daughter never learn that a woman needs more than a stunning figure and flawless face to attract a man of true worth?
    The crowd was beginning to disperse, heading toward the line of cars parked against the railing. Coming through the lich-gate were five or six laughing teenagers, members of St. Anselm’s youth group, I supposed. I had heard they met on Friday afternoons. They must be the reason Rowland kept glancing—
    “Ellie, Bentley—my precious children!” Mrs. Swabucher