The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,516

said finally, his breathing easier now, “honestly it is. The things I’m seeing, they don’t mean anything. Don’t worry, Rowan. Please. It’s like the images; I’m catching impressions of things that happened long ago, that’s all. Come on, honey, look at me. Kiss me. I love you and this is our day.”

The party moved on vigorously and madly into the evening. The couple finally cut the wedding cake in a tempest of flashing cameras and drunken laughter. Trays of sweets were passed. Urns of coffee were brewing. Mayfairs in long heartfelt conversations with one another had settled in various corners, and onto couches, and gathered in clusters around tables. The rain came down hard outside. The thunder came and went with occasional booming violence. And the bars stayed open, for most of the gathering continued to drink.

Finally, because Rowan and Michael weren’t going to Florida for their honeymoon until the following day, it was decided that Rowan should throw her bouquet from the stairway “now.” Climbing halfway, and staring down at a sea of upturned faces, ranging in both directions and back into the parlor, Rowan closed her eyes and threw the bouquet up in the air. There was a great deal of cordial screaming and even pushing and scuffling. And suddenly beautiful young Clancy Mayfair held up the bouquet, amid shouts of approbation. And Pierce threw his arms around her, obviously declaring to the whole world his particular and selfish delight in her good luck.

Ah, so it’s Pierce and Clancy, is it? thought Rowan quietly, coming back down. And she had not seen it before. She had not even guessed. But there seemed little doubt of it as she watched them slip away. Far off against the second fireplace, Peter stood smiling on, while Randall argued heatedly, it seemed, with Fielding, who had been planted there some time ago in a tapestried chair.

The new band of the evening had just arrived. It began to play a waltz; everyone cheered at the sound of the sweet, old-fashioned music, and someone dimmed the chandeliers until they gave off a soft, rosy light. Older couples rose to dance. Michael at once took Rowan and led her to the middle of the parlor. It was another flawless moment, as rich and tender as the music that carried them along. Soon the room around them was crowded with dancing couples. Beatrice was dancing with Randall. And Aunt Vivian with Aaron. All of the old ones were dancing, and then even the young ones were drawn into it, little Mona with the elderly Peter, and Clancy with Pierce.

If Michael had seen any other awful unwelcome thing, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, his eyes were fixed steadily and devotedly on Rowan.

As nine o’clock sounded, certain Mayfairs were crying, having reached some point of crucial confession or understanding in a conversation with a long-lost cousin; or simply because everybody had drunk too much and danced too long and some people felt they ought to cry. Rowan didn’t exactly know. It just seemed a natural thing for Beatrice as she sat bawling on the couch with Aaron hugging her, and for Gifford, who for hours had been explaining something of seeming importance to a patient and wide-eyed Aunt Viv. Lily had gotten into a loud quarrel with Peter and Randall, deriding them as the “I remember Stella” crowd.

Rita Mae Lonigan was still crying when she left with her husband, Jerry. Amanda Curry, along with Franklin Curry, also made a tearful farewell.

By ten o’clock the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two hundred. Rowan had taken off her white satin high heels. She sat in a wing chair by the first fireplace of the parlor, her long sleeves pushed up, smoking a cigarette, with her feet curled under her, listening to Pierce talk about his last trip to Europe. She could not even recall when or where she had taken off her veil. Maybe Bea had taken it when she and Lily had gone to “prepare the wedding chamber,” whatever that meant. Her feet hurt worse than they did after an eight-hour operation. She was hungry, and only the desserts were left. And the cigarette was making her sick. She stubbed it out.

Michael and the old gray-haired priest from the parish were in fast conversation before the mantel at the other end of the room. The band had moved from Strauss to more recent sentimental favorites. Here and there voices broke out in time with the strains of