Chapter Fifty
The steaming brew burns a trail of caffeine down his throat, scorching his tongue but warming him against the cool brisk of the barely morning air. The stars have dissolved into the bed of black sky, leaving a hint of the blue that will announce the sun. Leaving the mug to cool off on the railing, Rick continues to pace along the weathered porch, his steps slow and deliberate in an effort to leave space for listening. He shrugs a chill from his shoulders beneath the long sleeves of his red and black button up as his dark jeans rustle softly with each step.
At four-thirty Eastern Daylight Time the farm still sleeps, even Glenn by now after Rick had sent him back to the camper when he'd come out to find his friend dead on his feet and Dale not much better. The Asian man had stumbled off gratefully but the older gent had refused to retire, keeping his post on the back porch until the next shift came on in an hour.
Rick gazes out at the quiet fields lying under a blanket of smoky indigo. He can make out the shape of the windmill and the shadow of the barn as he keeps his slow pace from one corner post to the other. Looking out to the right, he can't see his tree but he knows it is there, waiting patiently for the sun to brush its leaves with morning dew. He'd noticed a scattering of branches strewn about the property from the hurricane, but that tree hadn't given up any of its many limbs. Holding them tightly, it had protected them all from the damaging winds.
Passing the mug he'd left near center stairs, he lifts it to his mouth for another hot sip, and then sets the coffee a few steps further down the railing. Though he is reminded of the long boring hours of working security as a rookie back in his early days, he is enjoying his peaceful surroundings and fresh country air. He feels utterly sanguine, content. Happy. And he gives Erin all the credit for that.
With his right hand resting comfortably on the butt of his holstered gun, his left thumb reaches across his palm to caress the platinum band wrapped around his ring-finger. It seems slightly strange after so many years of not wearing one, but it feels natural and he revels in the solid presence of it and all that it means. It's a bit thicker than his first wedding band, which pleases him greatly. This one feels stronger, strong enough to withstand all the fire in their relationship. And it fits perfectly.
A door hinge awakens behind him and he turns to see Hershel step out onto the porch. "Morning, Rick."
"Not quite, but getting closer," Rick replies with a wry curve of his mouth.
The older man gives him a friendly grin. "Doesn't matter if the sky is still sleeping, Rick. Life on a farm starts before the animals feel the sun on their backs."
"Sounds like a lot of work."
"It is. I hear you and Erin tied the knot last night," Hershel says, changing the subject as he runs his fingers along the beige suspenders hooked into his dark gray trousers. "Congratulations."
"Thank you. Yeah, and we'd like to have another ceremony too, a regular one with Carl and the others."
"I'm sure Erin would like that."
"Maybe in a couple of days. Let things settle first…," Rick pauses, fighting the lump that begins to build in his throat. "After T-Dog and all."
"Understandable."
"We'd like to do it out by your tree out there if that's okay."
"That would be fine. And then I expect you'll be moving on."
"Uh, yeah," Rick replies, trying to keep up with the constantly shifting conversation. "We'll be on our way to Savannah as soon as Duane is on his feet."
"Heading to that Red Cross center everyone was talking about? We heard the rumors too but then Otis ran into some folks who said it didn't exist."
Rick's heart sinks like a sailboat with nothing but a handkerchief flying from its mast. "Really? But maybe they were wrong." He refuses to give up his newfound hope. Not today, not after waking up feeling like they were finally getting back on the right track.
"I don't know but Otis seemed pretty convinced. You could try Daytona," he adds with a pointed look. "I heard they were setting something up over there, too."
Rick meets the man's eyes, wise with age, wary with that knowledge and stubborn to a fault. A lot like Rick himself and he gets the message loud and clear. You can't stay here.
He clears his throat and drops his gaze as he shifts on his feet, striving for an air of modest humility before meeting the man's eyes once again. "It's gonna be some time before Duane will be able to travel." Rick says gently, testing the old farmer.
"I'll give you a pair of crutches," Hershel replies calmly, never breaking eye contact with him. Making his point. "He'll be well enough in a week."
Rick turns his gaze toward the shadowy barn and the shrouded fields beyond it. "Maybe we should stick around, help you run this place. Protect this place."
"That won't be necessary," Hershel says and then steps down from the porch and melts into the charcoal darkness around the side of the house, blowing away Rick's hopes with the force of a hurricane and leaving him alone with the unsettling thought that he will not be able to protect his family from some very damaging winds.
Three days later his thoughts aren't entirely settled but they've taken a reprieve to enjoy the spirit of the occasion. After two days of futile deliberations between Savannah and Daytona and a couple of other coastal towns thrown in, they aren't any closer to deciding their next course of action come the end of the week. Rick had been working hard at Hershel's ear while the others, under his orders, had strived to prove their worth in the most unobtrusive way as possible. They stocked the pantry from a couple of short runs and helped to weed the vegetable garden. They repaired an old tractor and took care of a couple of walkers that had gotten stuck in the mucky mire of a creek running along the western edge of the property. While Carol and Amy were helping in the kitchen, Erin and Kelly were grooming the horses in the barn. They'd cooked and cleaned and took care of a number of handyman issues, but so far nothing has changed. Their host would give them a brief word of thanks and continue on his way as if none of it mattered. Or maybe it mattered too much and that's why he refused to reveal his true appreciation. A guilty conscience has no place in this new society.
Either way, they had four days left to plan, to prepare, and to pray that things would work out. For now, Rick is determined to set it all aside for one night. With his bride at his side, he is able to forget about the pressing matter of their impending homelessness. The conversation is light and the company exceptional, gathered around a small campfire in the clearing between the house and the barn. With Erin curled up on the faded cushion and tucked under his arm, his rooted foot propels the swing to sway gently up and back. To fill in as the obligatory dais, an old canopied garden swing was carried over from behind the house and set next to the woodpile, taking pride of place to hold the bride and groom at their wedding reception.
The wedding ceremony had been officiated by Jesus himself, after Aaron had offered his partner's services, announcing that 'He is a self-proclaimed newly-ordained pastor of the disaster by decree of his locks!' Jesus was happy to help and actually performed a beautiful and touching ceremony.
They were able to relax and enjoy a nice dinner— thanks to Patricia and Carol and Amy and the sacrifice made by two of Hershel's fattest chickens, served on a series of folding tables set edge to edge and hidden beneath white linens to create one long banquet in the front yard – and then gather beneath the majestic oak tree to recite their vows as the sun retreated into a stunning horizon, setting the sky on fire in a blaze of wondrous glory with a mélange of orange, purple and yellow stretching for miles across a sea of radiant crimson.
Otis had strummed a beautiful wedding march as Dale walked Erin down an aisle created by two lengths of rope adorned with a spray of flowers at measured intervals. A long-stemmed single red rose was held gently in her hands. Wearing one of Hershel's white dress shirts tucked into his black jeans, and a black tie with a subtle pattern of paw prints etched into the texture, Rick waited beneath the thick oak branches at the end of the aisle. At his side, his best man Carl stood smiling and proud, after the brief disappointment of having to wear only a plain white tee shirt that matched the sling supporting his left arm. They didn't have a dress shirt small enough for him, but the black bowtie circling his neck went a long way in sprucing him up a bit for the ceremony and he wore it proudly.
Erin was a vision in soft peach; a simple skater dress that Maggie had assured would go well with her russet hair. Held up by thin spaghetti straps, it hugged her chest, cinched her waist and billowed gently down to her knees with a jagged hemline. Her maid of honor, Kelly, wore a sleeveless cranberry number that Eugene couldn't take his eyes from. Nikki rounded out the wedding party as a groomsman, sitting quietly at Carl's side with the sentimental bandana tied loosely around his neck.
Even now, the husky wears the bandana as he sleeps at Daryl's feet, muzzle resting on his big paws and undoubtedly getting baked by the heat of the fire just a few feet away.
Rick tightens his arm around his wife when he hears the soft smack of her lips as she licks sticky marshmallow residue from her fingers. "Good, huh?" he asks with a rhetorical chuckle as he presses a kiss to her hair.
"Mmm," she hums around her pinky.
The S'mores were the best he could ever remember having, though he figures that the occasion itself had helped with enhancing the flavor. The graham crackers were crisp, the marshmallows fresh, and though mini chocolate chips had to pinch hit for the standard chocolate bar, the little morsels added just the right amount of semi-sweetness to burst upon his tongue.
"Do you want another one, honey?" she asks before moving onto another digit.
"No, I'll just nibble on this." He takes her hand and brings it up to his mouth, pulling two fingers inside and swiping his tongue along the soft pads. "Mmm, best wedding cake ever." She laughs softly and the sound is even sweeter than the treat he is sucking from her middle finger.
"Oh, baby, but how I would've loved to shove a piece in your face and totally destroy your tux with the icing."
"Well then I'm glad I didn't meet you before the walkers took over the world," he says, entwining his fingers with hers and lowering their hands to rest against her chest. "This was perfect," he adds tenderly.
"Yes it was," she replies with a smile before turning her chin for a gentle kiss.
She snuggles back into his side and Rick rests his jaw against her crown, gazing across the fire to see his son fighting to keep his eyes open as the conversation continues around him. Carl releases a wide-mouthed yawn and Daryl leans into the boy with a teasing smirk on his face, reminding Rick of an older brother taking full advantage of his sibling's suffering. Carol taps on Daryl's knee with a stern look on her face and he sits back in his seat, a repentant apology etched on his sharp features and aimed right at Carol. Or at the woman's lap anyway. But wait, what's this? Rick continues to watch the scene play out on the other side of the fire pit, curious at the way Beth is now leaning forward from her lawn chair on Carl's other side. Her words are muffled by a conversation going on between Dale and Glenn and Maggie, but her expression and tone seem as if she is trying to get Daryl's attention with a lighthearted joke. What the hell? She is totally defending him! Keeping his focus on the strange love triangle playing out beside the fire, he lowers his chin to Erin's ear. "What's going on with Beth over there?"
"Teenage crush on Daryl," she replies quietly, her matter-of-fact tone implying that it isn't anything to worry about it.
But how can he not? "Shit."
"Don't worry, honey. He only has eyes for Carol. And even then they seem completely naïve. I mean, look at him. He's like a pimple-faced teenager clinging to the bleachers at the senior prom."
"Yeah, and that young lady is gonna eat him alive. And I don't mean as a walker."
"He'd have to notice her first before she got close enough to sink her teeth into him. Don't worry about Daryl, honey."
"Christ, if Hershel finds out." Thank God the old vet had gone inside way before the logs took hold of the kindling and roared to life under the moonlit sky.
"Daryl isn't doing anything wrong," she replies.
"I know. I just feel like we're hanging on by a thread here and one stiff breeze will snap it from all the weight we are tying under it."
"Glenn looks happy at least," she says and he follows her line of sight to the side of the fire where their friend is sitting in a camp chair next to the dark haired sister, their hands linked between the armrests that are separated by only a few inches.
"Thank God," he responds. "Maggie is good for him. And at least they make sense. Well, to us anyway. I'm not sure how Hershel feels about them either." Rick glances up at the house, peering through the darkness to the deep shadows of the side porch. He cannot see whether the space is empty or if there is someone standing within the gloom. He cannot see if the rocking chairs sit silent and alone or if they sway with southern comfort.
He does not see the elderly man that is standing at his bedroom window and looking out at the party gathered around the glowing fire, scowling at the way his eldest daughter is holding hands with the Asian boy, and absolutely glowering at the way his youngest child keeps looking over at the man that carries the crossbow.